Midsummer Nights

Chapter 1

May

I did this to myself, but I’m going to blame Shakespeare. I’m going to blame the intersection of art and commerce. I blame both Broadway and Hollywood. I could blame my parents, or my ex, or my boss. I’m also inclined to blame Batman. But however you spin it, I did it. I burned my life down.

If I were an optimist, I would describe my present hell with platitudes. Something like, “Everything you think you know needs to fall apart, and then the clarity comes.”

That is such bullshit.

I am not an optimist. Instead, I declare the universe to be a wily bitch, an impish fairy who hands you the wrong potion, expecting you to drink it, then watches gleefully as you spiral.

However you look at it, mine is a predicament of epic proportions. Borderline Shakespearean.

It starts with a phone call. As per my nightly routine, I am two glasses of midrange Malbec deep, googling my enemies (perfectly pleasant actresses who are younger and thinner than me), and avoiding learning my lines for yet another terrible scene I am supposed to shoot tomorrow on the terrible TV show I am on.

My phone blares. My parents. I use the most aggressive ringtone I could find for them (trumpet fanfare) to signify their intrusions, which, blessedly, are down to monthly calls that they bray through until I pretend I have a timer going off in the kitchen and we all hang up in relief.

My parents share a cell phone, the most obvious sign of their total codependency.

I let it ring thrice while I throw back the rest of my wine.

I instinctively straighten my shoulders and smooth my hair.

They only recently discovered FaceTime and view it as an occasion I should be presentable for.

“Parents,” I say, masking the anxiety that always swells at the first notes of their ringtone. Their faces pop up, both of them hovering over the phone like Narcissus over his riverbed.

“Darling!” coos my mother, as though this call is a lovely surprise, even though she called me. “How are you, sweet love?” She wants something. She frowns. “You look tired.”

“I’m very well, Mother, thank you.” I prop the phone against the wine bottle and continue my doomscroll on my laptop as though the two agonies will somehow cancel each other out.

“It’s raining,” says my father savagely. His brows pinch as he scowls outside. My father hates rain. Weather reports are his love language.

“What’s up?” I’d like to hurry this along; I’m terribly busy googling.

“Well, darling, we have a bit of a quandary.” My mother pauses, hoping, I’m sure, to stir my curiosity, but I’m only half listening. “It’s about the Season.”

The Season. For the last thirty years, my parents have run a theater company in North Lake, Ontario, the small town they moved us to when I was five. Life has always tended to revolve around the Season.

“What about it?”

“It’s doomed,” my father says.

“It’s not doomed,” my mother cuts in. “It’s just . . .”

“Fucked,” says my dad.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“It’s a casting thing.”

“Just say it, Mom.”

“Goodness! Manners, Miranda.”

“Our lead actress bailed,” my father says, clearly irritated by whatever scene my mother is setting up. “Our headliner.”

Tempest Theatre’s success has always ridden on the novelty of its framework.

Each season, they do three shows: a Shakespeare, a drama, and a comedy.

They source professional actors from all over the country, from the Stratford Festival, from Toronto, and because they have some pretty fancy donors, they can hire a select few for the whole season.

Each year, there are a couple of big names headlining, and the real catch is that the rest of the cast and crew are locals.

That is, amateurs. It’s Broadway-meets-your-basic-ninth-grade-drama-class, but it works.

It engages the community, and though I am loath to admit it, they put on great shows.

“Okay?” I still don’t see how this is about me. “Who was it?”

“We aren’t supposed to say,” says my mother.

“Genevieve Chen,” barks my father.

“Wow. You guys got her? She’s kind of a big deal!”

“Genevieve Chen is going to Broadway,” my mother wails. “We lost her!”

My father clears his throat. “Miranda.”

I know where this is going. “Father . . .”

“We need your help.”

I have no special fondness for my parents beyond requisite familial pleasantries.

They have not offered me a role in almost fifteen years, and it’s clear I am a last resort.

I resent their assumption that I am even free, even though my TV show, Listings, happens to wrap in a week, and I will have three months off between seasons.

Still, a summer in my hometown holds no appeal.

“I wish I could.” I don’t.

My mother presses on. “So, it’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

Something sparks inside me. I press it down.

“You would be Helena.”

“Titania,” I say, despite having no intention of pursuing this.

“Dear heart, it’s not up for negotiation.”

“Is it cast yet?” I ask.

“Well, not entirely.”

“I would want Titania,” I say.

“Titania has been cast.”

“Who?”

My father clears his throat.

“Me,” my mother purrs.

Of course. “I’m too old to play Helena.”

“You’re thirty-four. The lovers can be any age!” my mother says.

“You look younger from a distance,” my father adds.

“I don’t want to play Helena,” I say. “She’s so whiny and pathetic. I get that you’re in a bind, but there’s nothing in this for me.”

“There is funding. You would be well paid,” says my mother.

“Okay,” I say. “But, hey, who are the other headliners?” There are always three. I’m obviously not going to do this, but I’m curious.

“Well, Arthur, of course,” my mother starts, and my dad grunts. Arthur Crew comes most summers, his Toronto theater schedule all but dried up these days. He’s a Tempest Theatre staple, people love him, and I have a feeling that, career-wise, it’s the highlight of his year.

“Okay, Arthur. Who else?”

There’s a long pause.

“Well, who is it?”

They smile at each other. “Theo.”

And there it is. They know they’ve got me.

Something stirs in my chest. It’s almost too good to be true.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” my father continues. “Since you and Theo have worked together? A lot of time has passed.”

“Yes,” I say, “it’s been a long time.” They don’t know how often I check his Instagram, or how I have Google Alerts set up in his name.

I assume they know that they are playing with fire here.

This is fairly juicy casting, especially in our hometown, and here’s the clincher for all of us: We know that if Miranda Belmont and Theo Raye are together onstage again, the show will sell out.

Of course, I won’t do it.

My parents hang up, my mother sulking, my father grumbling. It’s fine. I have an acting career that is so much bigger than hometown Shakespeare. I owe them nothing. I don’t need them.