Chapter Forty-One
Over the last few months, I have experiencedsome moments of sheer terror. Like when the doctors delivered my father’s diagnosis, when my father died, and when we left the only home we had ever known in pursuit of another. Now, as I pace around backstage in full makeup, I add another moment of sheer terror to my list.
“We go on in one! One minute! One minute, people!” Mr. Roland shouts.
He’s experienced enough uncertainty and anxiety over this musical—first with me quitting and then with the understudy disappearing on opening night, only to show up with me minutes before the show starts. He conducted an intense and brief interrogation when he saw me in the opening scene costume.
“Can you do this? Do you remember everything?” When I confidently answered yes, he was more than happy to put me on.
Now, madness ensues backstage. The crew is running around, ensuring things are in place. There are too many voices coming from too many directions. Someone is complaining about their wardrobe, while another is rehearsing their lines aloud. Mr. Roland is giving people both directions and threats. The commotion makes me more nervous. I draw in a deep breath and blow it out.
“Hey,” Cole says, giving me a roguish smile. He’s already in character, looking the part of a millionaire playboy with his aviator sunglasses and fitted suit.
During one of the early rehearsals, Mr. Roland explained that Cole needed to give off a “Chuck Bass level of smugness.” I say he’s doing exactly that.
“You look good,” I tell him.
“So do you. You’re gonna do great.”
“Thanks.” I force a smile and remind myself I’ll be onstage alone for three minutes before he joins me. Three minutes. That’s not bad. I can do that.
“Okay,” Mr. Roland speaks into the microphone attached to his headset. “Let’s go.”
The curtains part slowly. The backdrop of New York City is stunning. The audience doesn’t make a sound. The music starts. I know exactly what I’m supposed to do—the lines, the moves, the song. Before Mr. Roland nudges me forward, I grip the suitcase and march onstage.
The lights are bright, blinding. Were they this bright during rehearsals? Maybe. There’s no time to debate about it right now. I have to deliver my first line.
“Wow,” I say. “Finally. I’m here. New York City.” My voice is small and shaky. Even with my microphone, it likely didn’t travel to the back of the theater. The music starts before I can dwell on my mistake. I’m supposed to sing now, but my throat tightens up. Even when I open my mouth, nothing comes out.
I scan the audience fervently. I’m unsure what I’m searching for until it hits me.
My dad.
He isn’t here. And his leather watch around my wrist, the one I begged Mr. Roland to let me wear during the musical, isn’t enough to make him seem present. I want to close my eyes and picture him in the audience, smiling proudly at me. I thought I had broken this habit. But no. For the biggest performance of my life, I need my dad. And if I can’t close my eyes throughout the show and picture him, then I can’t sing.
With the suitcase still in my hand, I turn around and rush backstage. Mr. Roland calls after me, but I don’t stop running until I’m in my dressing room. I shut the door and sit in front of the mirror. Tears fill my eyes. I’m an idiot. I really thought I could do it, but standing in front of that audience without seeing him was more overwhelming than expected. I sigh, and my face falls into my hands. When the door creaks open, I look up.
I expect to see Mr. Roland’s scowling face. It’s an utter shock when my mother’s face appears instead. I sit upright and frown.
“Mommy?”
She enters the room and closes the door.
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, I came to see a musical. My very first, by the way. What I did not expect to see was my daughter running off the stage. With the way you spoke at home, frankly more confident than I have ever heard you speak in your life, I thought you would get up there and put on a real show, eh?” She searches my eyes. “What happened?”
I shrug. “You won’t understand.”
“Ah. Okay.” She drags a chair, pulls it next to me, and sits. “Then help me understand.”
I watch her hesitantly.
“Ah-ah. Speak na,” she urges. “Talk.”
I huff. “He isn’t here. Daddy. I can’t do it without him. Before, he was always there—in the audience. But now he isn’t.”
“And so you can’t sing?”
I shake my head. “He should be here.”
“But he isn’t. And I wish I could tell you he’s watching over us or he’s here in spirit, but I don’t know that.” She rolls her eyes. “Besides, it is a little cliché. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah. A little,” I mumble while looking at my fidgeting fingers.
“Enore. Lare.” She takes my hands in hers. “Think about what your father left behind—what he gave you, what he gave us before he passed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, he gave me two beautiful daughters. A lifetime of wonderful memories. And one of the greatest loves I have ever felt. What did he give you?”
I sort through my memories of him, and the answer is clear. “He gave me a lot of things,” I say. “Including confidence. In my gift. Every time he told me I was a great singer, every time he was the first to stand and clap after my solos in church, every time he told me I sounded better than the singers on the radio, he gave me confidence.”
“Then hold on to what he gave you. That’s how you hold on to him. That’s how you keep him here.”
I nod and tears come down my cheeks. My mother extends her arms and holds me tight. More tears fall, but not just from me.
“Just because I didn’t say you were a great singer or stand on my feet after each of your solos or say you sounded better than the singers on the radio doesn’t mean I didn’t think you were exceptional.” She pulls back and wipes my wet cheeks, then hers. “I saw it too—that very special thing inside you. It scared me.”
“Scared you?”
She nods. “It seemed unsafe, unpredictable. I wanted to protect you—to make sure your future was secure. Being a doctor or even a lawyer would have provided that.”
“Either of those options would make me miserable.”
“Yes.”
I’m shocked she agrees.
“You know, the main reason your father wanted us to come to America was for you and Esosa. He said you both could be absolutely anything here. He used to rant about all the possibilities. He dreamed big dreams for you both, much bigger than I could ever conceive. Fear always limited me. I’ve always wanted to play things safe.”
I study her. “Are you still afraid?”
Is fear one of the reasons she wants us to return to Nigeria?
Her eyes wander as she thinks; when they settle on me, she smiles. “Yes. I’m still a little afraid. But I just realized your father left me with something else.”
“What?”
“His boldness. His audacity. Esosa has a lot of it.”
We both laugh.
“Yeah,” I say. “She does. I don’t have much of it.”
“Of course you do.” Her voice is stern as she takes my hands and prompts me to stand. “You are his daughter. You have the very best of him.” She holds my face between her hands. “He would be so proud of you.”
“Really? You think so?”
“I am positive.” She kisses my forehead. “Oya.” She opens the door and gestures for me to step out. “Go. That your Mr. Roland is acting like a chicken with its head cut off.”
I laugh, and just before stepping through the door, I hug her. “Thank you, Mommy.”
She strokes my cheek when I step back. “I am too,” she says. “Proud of you.”
When I rushed offstage and into the dressing room, I expected someone to come in and urge me to come out—either Mr. Roland with force or Davi with sweet words. In the movie Tall Girl 2, Jodi, the lead in the school musical, has an anxiety attack and runs to the dressing room before the show starts. The person who encourages her to get onstage is Kimmy, her understudy and nemesis.
In my case, another intervention from Ara seemed more likely. I never, in a million years, thought my mom would be in the dressing room, encouraging me to perform. But I’m glad she showed up. Because I think she’s the only person who could have given me exactly what I needed to go onstage and give a performance worth a standing ovation.