Chapter 4
My parents started Tempest Theatre long before I was born, back when they still lived in their native England.
They did shows in rented back spaces of London’s independent theaters.
They met at theater school there, and from the get-go, Dad was the director, Mom his leading lady and producer.
They toured with the Royal Shakespeare Company and came to Canada to do a season at the Stratford Festival, the best classical theater company in the country.
They loved Canada and never went back. When I was small, they did a lot of theater in Toronto, individual acting and directing contracts, but always did a summer show with their friends.
They called their company Tempest for the Shakespeare play.
My father, I think, fancied himself a bit the magician, Prospero, wielding storms and making art.
I was born and they named me Miranda, Prospero’s daughter.
Even in name, I came second to the theater.
My mom came from old money and, being the only child, inherited everything when her parents died.
They used her money to move out of the city to North Lake, a small town two hours from Toronto.
They purchased our sprawling Victorian century home and the crumbling theater down the road.
I think they were tired of the whole city thing.
They just wanted to make good theater without all the hassle.
It ended up being easier to do it all themselves in a smaller town, in the theater they owned, where they could choose what they wanted to do.
They started Tempest up right away. It was small at first, just one play.
A couple of their theater friends came from the city for the summer, led by the appeal of living for free in a lakeside town north of cottage country.
They were able to spin it as a professional theater company for the community.
Locals were tickled by the fact that they could do community theater with real professional actors.
The company gained some notoriety and got people interested.
The whole town came out. They drew in some sponsors and some provincial funding, and it grew to what it is now: a major summer event, a centerpiece of our town.
I don’t know anybody from North Lake who hasn’t been involved in the shows or at least gone to see them.
As it happens in small towns, my parents have developed a sort of celebrity that they won’t admit to but secretly love.
At least my mother does. There is a certain romance to it, I suppose—artists in our midst, having these great creative minds walking among us.
It’s surprising what is impressive to some people.
I wish I could’ve resisted out of spite, but the truth is I loved the theater as much as they did.
I remember being very small, perched on the edge of the stage during rehearsal, half in the scene, half out, watching my parents mold these ordinary people, turning it all into a world I could lose myself in.
You forget the guy playing Horatio is really a local paramedic, the guy playing Rosencrantz a pizza deliveryman.
Somehow, they made magic, whatever the materials.
Of course, I would never admit any of this to them.
It is my role as their only child to roll my eyes at them and express my frustration and disdain at every turn.
But the anchor between us all is theater.
It’s more than in my blood. It is my blood.
I am greeted by a small smattering of applause when I enter the rehearsal hall, the black box space at the back of the theater.
It’s been a long time since I was home, a long time since I’ve seen these people.
They are kind to greet me so warmly, considering my last performance here.
The black curtains are open so that daylight shines through, unusual for this room.
I can’t help but feel that it looks wrong with light.
My parents are at their long audition table, and a handful of locals sit nervously against the walls, frantically reading their sides and eager, I suspect, to see me.
The thought is both humbling and off-putting.
I have done hundreds of auditions; my agent sent me out all the time before I got Listings, but they never stop making me want to puke a little bit.
I know that I am already cast, that I have the part.
Everyone knows it. It’s no secret that I am The Talent this time around, albeit to the disappointment of many; Genevieve Chen was quite the get, and according to my parents, everyone was very excited to see her.
I am local and there is a strong sense of community here, and so to that end, I am welcomed with open arms. Or forgiven, at least. Last time I was on their stage, I shit the bed.
There is no way people have forgotten. I know we are all hoping that enough time has gone by that we can put that behind us.
I do catch one or two people giving me the side-eye. I can’t say I blame them.
The stage manager, Sally, gets up to greet me with a hug.
She has worked with my parents for years and has known me since I was a child.
I recognize a few faces from the past. I am glad to see some of them.
You would think I’d feel safe in this room, but the truth is that my parents are the very last people on planet Earth that I would like to audition for.
They are absolutely terrifying. It’s perhaps worse that I have the role already, because now I have to justify that choice.
I have to prove that I am worthy. We all know I am the second choice.
We all know I’m not a sure thing. But here I am, and here I’ll stay to do this thing.
My parents and Sally are sitting at the long table at one end of the room, along with a teenager who eagerly tells me her name is Kate and she is the assistant stage manager.
I smile at her distractedly as I hand my mother my headshot. She looks at it, frowning.
“Is this recent?” she asks.
“What do you mean, ‘is it recent’?” I ask. “It’s me. It’s your daughter’s face.”
“Did you fill out the form?”
“What form?” I ask.
“Everyone has to fill out their form, stating their experience and personal information,” my mother says. I search her expression for any glimpse of irony, but she is merely staring at me with her scarily serious producer face on.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I ask my mother.
“I can’t believe you’re making . . .” I stop.
I look around and remember there are other people in the room, people who got up this morning just so that they could see me fail, again, in front of my parents, and I am serving up a truly interesting scene here.
I pull out my phone and text her my IMDb page. She looks at it and sniffs.
“Not a lot of theater credits,” she says.
“Just show us your monologues,” my dad says roughly.
I try not to roll my eyes. I step back. “Which one do you want first?” I ask.
“Whichever one you’re more comfortable with,” my mother says in a pandering tone that I know she enjoys using on the locals.
I shake her off and launch into my comic monologue, Cecily from The Importance of Being Earnest, one of three or four monologues I always keep in my back pocket. When I finish, I look at my parents’ faces, which are blank. There is no applause, there are no winks.
“Next one,” my dad barks.
And again, I take a breath, and I give him Lady Macbeth.
I sail through it. I know this like the back of my hand.
The words are familiar, like slipping into something comfortable that I am my best true self in.
The beauty of acting. The beauty of escaping whatever garbage bag I really am.
When I am done, the little assistant stage manager begins to applaud, but my father shoots her a sharp look, and she stops.
“We do not clap at auditions,” he mutters. I know she’s going to hear about it later.
“Are we done here?” I ask. The whole thing is so awkward. The whole thing has kind of pissed me off.
The only real reason I’m here at all is because of my name, because of my parents, because they are desperate.
On merit alone, I am a very underwhelming star for their season.
Okay, fine, I didn’t have to come, I chose this, but I’m pissed that my parents are making me audition.
I’m pissed that it never occurred to them to ever hire me or cast me in anything until the eleventh hour, until they were totally desperate, until their leading lady left and they thought, Who would be pathetic and available and still have some appeal?
Oh, our own daughter. I am an afterthought. I have always been their afterthought.
I am filled with fury, and I am filled with fire.
Fine. I’ll do this. I’ll do it, and I will be great.
I will show them what I can do. I will show them who I really am.
I will show my parents I belong here. Theo’s not the only star in this town.
But life and experience have humbled me.
I can’t put my finger exactly on why I’m so agitated—it’s simply a perfect storm.
It’s my parents. It’s Theo. It’s being home.
It’s me going backward instead of forward.
Back at home, my mother is warm and bubbly.
“You did very well, darling,” she says. “Everyone said so, everyone was very proud of you.” I know she’s making this shit up.
I know I did well, and I know I’m better by far than most people who came to audition.
I also know they were expecting a diamond and got raw quartz.
I know I am no Genevieve Chen, and that pisses me off.
My father, as usual, doesn’t say much about my performance, but he nods in agreement at my mother’s false praise.
“We’re going to work on those consonants,” he says. “You need to be hitting them quicker.” I don’t know what to say, and frankly, I am already tired of talking to them, so I go upstairs for a bath.