Chapter Fourteen
Backstage, I’m one scene away from the shrill whistle that will call Liesl von Trapp forth for her debut on the remodeled Leopold Opera House stage.
Somewhere, likely near the back, my mom is watching, probably keeping a mental list of every perceived fault in the performance, if only to assuage her boredom.
Energy is high, zinging through the atmosphere so thickly that it’s almost a tangible thing, at least backstage.
It’s a packed house, and the audience seems very responsive so far, which makes our job as performers much easier.
Still, I’m sure Mom will find something someone is doing wrong, even though the only role she’s ever played in a theatrical production is as a chauffeur, driving me to and from rehearsals and performances before I got my license.
In my stomach, butterflies multiply, and some grow claws as they always do this close to taking the stage. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders like the good little von Trapp child that I am about to become, and . . .
A faint waft of cinnamon cracks through the competing scents of hot lights, lingering sawdust, and set paint.
As gentle fingers graze the inside of my forearm, sliding down to lace with mine in that sweet, now-familiar Noah-way, a friendlier, heart-shaped butterfly joins its stage-born brothers and sisters.
I turn a smile up at him, but I can feel its wobble.
His gaze is warm. Centering. I take a deep breath in . . . and out.
Who knew cinnamon had such calming properties?
Noah squeezes my hand. “You’ve got this, Madeleine Faith.”
I tiptoe-lean to place a well-blotted kiss on his freshly shaven, set-sprayed jaw then double check to make sure no lipstick was left behind. “Thanks.”
Noah stays beside me, silent, his hand in mine. About two minutes before my entrance, he gives my hand a squeeze and releases it.
“Break a leg, Liesl,” he whispers, reminding me of the mental shift I need to make, and then presses a tender but bolstering kiss to my hair—which can’t be pleasant, because the makeup crew practically shellacked it with hairspray.
“Right back atcha, Rolf.” He won’t go on for a bit yet, but I’m saying it now anyway.
He gives me a little wink and backs away, giving me room to pass by him on my way to my entrance point, stage left.
At the interior edge of the curtain, I bounce a few times on the balls of my feet and do a neck roll left, then right. It’s almost time for my entrance.
Right on cue, my jaw tightens and my mouth dries, a familiar sensation that generally follows the appearance of those illusory butterflies.
But I don’t fear this particular incarnation of stage fright.
I welcome the feeling now, because I suddenly remember that those butterflies are working on my behalf.
They’re simply condensing the magic, safeguarding it .
. . until the moment when I step into the lights and they give it back to me.
It’s an incomparable thrill, this pre-performance high. I feel like I could faint or cry or throw up or laugh hysterically or spontaneously combust, but . . . wow! I love this feeling. It’s such a rush!
This. This is what I want. This is how I want to live. This is . . . me, being fully, unequivocally alive.
The whistle shrills. Captain von Trapp, calling his children to meet the new governess.
I.
Am.
Liesl.
I’m beaming as I take the stage for the curtain call.
My body is buzzing, like the moths darting through illuminated dust motes under the stage lights.
I curtsey . . . and swoop to the side, joining the other von Trapp children who came on together before me, to make room for Captain von Trapp and then Maria.
After the final bows, the houselights come up, and we exit the stage to line up and greet the audience in the lobby.
Standing between Dr. Miller—we’re offstage now, so he’s not my “Father” anymore—and the boy who plays Friedrich von Trapp, I smile at the audience members as they file through. But there’s one person who does not file through as expected. She beelines for me.
Mom.
She offers me a plastic-wrapped mixed bouquet and one of the most disingenuous smiles I’ve seen since Kaitlyn Roscoe introduced herself to me.
About a million degrees of heat travel up my neck as I take the flowers, seeing she has a program in her other hand.
The program that lists “Liesl” as being played by Madeleine Faith Prescott.
“Thanks for coming, Mom. And for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome . . . Madeleine.”
Uh-oh.
I flinch as her jaw twitches and eyes narrow. I’m a little surprised the corners of her fake smile don’t crack under the weight of that ice.
“The building is not quite as fancy as I expected from your description, but it is a surprisingly extravagant facility for this size of a community.”
I swallow. “Did you enjoy the show?”
“It was fine. The nuns were a little shrill at times but . . . not terrible. It was nice enough, overall. Good job.”
High praise indeed, from the formidable Janet Prescott, C.P.A.
“Thank you.”
“You’ll be home by midnight?”
I nod. “Of course.”
“Okay, then. It’s been a long day. Be careful driving home.”
“You, too.”
She exits without speaking to any of my castmates, not that I expected her to. When she’s gone, the tension in my shoulders loosens with the knowledge that she won’t be coming to either of the other two performances this weekend.
Until I remember she still has that program . . . and that I’ll need to tread lightly tomorrow to wipe the “Madeleine” part of it from her mind.
Saturday’s matinee experiences a few bumps, as I’ve learned is often the case with the second performance of such a limited run.
When one of the nuns forgets her entrance and slips on stage late, it’s no big deal, but when Gretl, the youngest von Trapp child, forgets to deliver a pivotal line and has to be prompted, it’s a breath-stealing twenty seconds or so—eternity, when you’re on stage.
Finally, she delivers the line, and as it must, the show goes on.
Afterward, Grandma Maddie filters down the line of performers in the lobby. Unlike Mom, she starts at the top of the receiving line and works her way down, giving out “Nice job” and “Well done” accolades as she goes.
“Madeleine Faith!” She exclaims and wraps me in a giant hug. “You were superb! Oh, my! Simply perfection.” She turns to Dr. Miller, ignoring the fact that he’s talking to someone else. “This is my granddaughter, you know. Isn’t she wonderful?”
“She is,” he says, smiling at me first and then Grandma. “We’re very glad Madeleine decided to join us this year.”
“Thanks, Dr. Miller.” I was anxious around him at first, knowing his daughter had been vying for the same role, but he’s actually a very kind man and not at all what I expected after experiencing Leopold Loyalty firsthand on audition day.
“Madeleine is my namesake,” Grandma continues. “But she’s the one who’s going to make our name famous. This girl is going to be the toast of Broadway someday. Mark my words.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Dr. Miller says, offering both of us another genuine smile before turning to greet the next person in line.
“Sorry I didn’t make it to opening night,” Grandma says, “but since your mother was coming, I thought it might be better if I . . .” She shrugs.
I get it. And she’s right. Especially considering the way my name reads in the program.
“But I’ll be back tonight!” Grandma gives me another breath-stealing hug. “Oh, honey. You were just wonderful. Wonderful! Ack! I’m holding up the line. See you tonight, sweetie!”
As promised, she returns a few hours later for the evening performance, which turns out to be, at least in my opinion, the best of the three. At the curtain call, when I notice the person sitting beside her, my already-wide smile enters cheek-aching territory.
“Ryan!” In the lobby, I step into my brother’s hug. “I didn’t know you were coming!”
“I wanted to surprise you.” He gives me an extra squeeze and steps back.
“That was awesome, Faith. Really. Great show.” He leans in.
“And I don’t think I’m biased by saying you were the best part.
This musical theatre thing you’ve got going on?
It’s good.” His eyes are warm, his gaze serious.
Honest. “You’re really, really good, Faith.
You belong up there, on the stage. Don’t let anybody tell you differently. Got it?”
There’s no question as to whom his “anybody” refers. “Got it.”
Ryan’s words soak into places of my brain that feel parched and make them float.
He’s always been a wonderful big brother, but his responsibilities rarely give him time to come visit these days.
I miss him. The fact that he would come to Leopold, for me, makes my day.
Especially considering the cold shoulder he’ll likely receive from Mom for coming with Grandma Maddie.
Or not. The parameters for cold-shouldering have always been markedly different for the non-artsy, not-named-after-their-grandmother Prescott children.