The expressions on the other women told Rebecca they saw it the same way as Leslie. And if she didn’t do it, they looked as if they were about one step away from spearing and roasting her right there. Reluctantly, she came to her aching feet.
“Splendid! Now hold the stick like this,” Moira instructed her, indicating she should hold it to her chest. “Feel the power it gives you.”
Rebecca didn’t feel anything but the exhaustion and hunger that were making her dizzy.
“Now—some among you have never had the opportunity to speak. Others among you may speak and feel you are not heard. But not here, ladies. Everyone will hold the talking stick. And when you hold it in your hands, you will have the power to envision the course of your future. Your Transformation Partners will assist you by helping you to look beyond your current boundaries. And we’re ready to help you find your vision, Rebecca.”
“Oooh-kaaay,” Rebecca responded uncertainly.
“Why don’t you begin by telling us a little bit about yourself?” Moira suggested. “What brought you to the Transformation Strategy Seminar Series?”
“Oh . . .” Rebecca could feel the heat begin to creep up her neck. “Umm, my sisters gave it to me as a gift—”
“Could you go back a little further, love? To the beginning?”
“The beginning?”
“Of your life.”
“Oh God—now?”
“What year were you born?” Eloise, an ad agency executive, called out.
Rebecca sighed, looked up at the purple dusk sky. “Okay. I was born in 1972, in Dallas. I have two sisters, one older and one younger.”
“What did your parents do then?” Melanie, the quiet one, asked.
“Ah, well . . . Dad was in the freight business when I was little. And then he started his own company, and we moved to Houston.” She paused there, not knowing what else to say. Mom and Dad fought all the time? She mistook Bud’s teenaged lust for love? There was a hole in her that was so big that she didn’t know how to fill it up?
“Hurry!” Leslie shouted.
“Was your family rich or poor?” Moira asked helpfully.
That was a little personal, but okay, as she was feeling a little dizzy, she was willing to skip over mortified indignation and go right to will do anything for food. “Well . . . we were poor when I was little. And then my father started his own freight transport company in Houston, and it got really big, and now . . . well, now, my family is, umm . . . wealthy.”
“Wait . . . are you Rebecca Lear as in Lear Transport?” asked Melanie, who used to be the quiet one and had, remarkably, developed a definite Texas accent. Rebecca nodded sheepishly. Several sucked in their breath; apparently they had heard of LTI.
“I know you!” Melanie exclaimed excitedly. “I thought you looked familiar! You’re one of the Lear girls! Y’all used to be in the Houston papers all the time when I was growing up. Hey, wait a minute!” she cried again, pushing up to her knees in her delight as recognition washed over her. “Weren’t you the one who was Miss Texas?”
Oh, no, please no . . . Rebecca had really hoped at the end of this seminar she would have transformed right out of that old tiara. “Well, actually—”
“Jesus, what are you doing here?” Melanie the Chatterbox continued, her smile fading. “Your life is perfect!” She looked at the other women and announced, “We’re starving for someone who has a perfect life.”
“No, I don’t!” Rebecca irritably shot back. She was sick to death of everyone thinking that beauty queen somehow equaled perfection. “Just because someone has a little money and a beauty queen title does not make her or her life perfect, trust me.”
“Then why are you here?” Moira asked cheerfully.
“Because!” she cried, confused.
“Your sisters seemed to think you needed help transforming,” Moira, all atwitter, reminded her. “Why? What is it that you need? Hold that stick and let it come, Rebecca. See what you are moving past, see where you are heading! Why are you here?”
Rebecca closed her eyes, tried to see, even tapped the stick against her forehead to try and knock the vision loose before she died of hunger. “Because I just went through a divorce,” she admitted.
“And you thought, after the divorce, you needed to be transformed because . . . you were not a good wife?” Moira prompted.
“No, of course not!” Rebecca said instantly, feeling suddenly and terribly self-conscious. She was not the sort of person to wear her emotions or her problems openly. Actually, she wasn’t the sort to wear them at all and usually pretended they just didn’t exist.
“Then were you a good wife?”
“Yes!” She was, wasn’t she? At least in the beginning?
“Then what is it, Rebecca?” Moira asked, coming to her feet, her broad, smiling face peering closely at her. And as Rebecca struggled to find an acceptable answer, Moira clasped her hands, began to slowly walk around her in a circle. “What. Do. YOU. WANT?”