Chapter Text
“Miss Cynthia,” Sister Helen had said as the bell rang, the windows open as the first heat of summer set in that year. Cynthia remembered this conversation all too well—the way the older nun’s eyes had narrowed, the slight tilt of her head. Despite all her best efforts to forget one of the first and only times someone had truly seen right through her, it popped into her head unbidden quite often, even now as a nearly 30 year old woman. “A word, please.”
“Yes, Sister,” Cynthia had replied, quiet, exhausted. She wasn’t the type to get in trouble. She had nearly made it all the way through year eleven with only one B to her name—tenth year choir, and only because her father had failed to get her to their concert on time, which she was too embarrassed to tell her teacher about. She had instead lied that she overslept, and her teacher gave her a failing grade for her final.
Sister Helen sighed as Cynthia slowly walked towards her desk, Cynthia’s mind already coming up with a thousand reasons why her favorite teacher might be upset with her.
“I’m so sorry I was falling asleep during mass earlier, and I know my polo is wrinkled, I—”
Sister Helen held up her hand to silence her, and Cynthia felt her heart drop. “Enough.”
Cynthia nodded, and swallowed hard as hot tears pressed on her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Sister Helen closed her eyes, clearly trying to find the words as Cynthia’s heart pounded in her chest. Surely, there was no way the old nun knew what had happened the night before at the tube station, or all the sleepless nights in the house before that.
“I’ve been worried about you—I’ve prayed for you every morning. You haven’t been yourself, my dear.” Cynthia bit her lip, the force of it threatening to draw blood as she fidgeted with the button on the hem of her uniform jacket’s sleeve. “What is it?”
Cynthia shook her head as if it could clear her tears that were accumulating by the second. “Just—haven’t been sleeping well. I think I’m just tired.”
“Hmm.” It was Sister’s go-to when she knew one of her students was lying. It wasn’t a total lie, Cynthia thought. She hadn’t been sleeping well. Nights had been spent in her younger sister’s room, holding her tight as they listened to horrific sounds coming from downstairs. Harrowing screams, breaking glasses, and slamming doors. Though watching her father disappear on the tube,—possibly forever—had been horrific, she hoped that the house would be quiet now, at least.
“Cynthia. Cynthia,” Sister said, putting a bony hand on Cynthia’s shoulder. “Goodness, child, it’s like you’re not even in there.”
“I’m sorry, Sister.”
“You are awfully sorry today. Sit.”
Cynthia opened her mouth to protest, and Sister’s hand once again came up to silence her.
“I will write a note for your next class, right now, we will talk. Or sit. Or pray. I don’t particularly care. Do you have any preference?”
Cynthia sat on the chair across the desk, maintaining her gaze down at her picked-apart nail beds as she felt Sister’s eyes examining her. A stray tear finally fell, as she quickly moved to wipe at it before Sister could comment.
“I think I’d just like to pray, if that’s okay.” A drop of blood emerged from beside her thumb before she even realized she was clawing at it, and she quickly wiped it away on her plaid skirt as Sister pushed a small box of wooden rosary beads towards her.
“Very well,” Sister sighed. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…”
———
The eyeliner was too dark.
Cynthia stared ahead in the mirror as various hands flew around her face. The room was an absolute blur of brushes and hairspray and steam from where someone was doting on her extravagant golden gown behind her.
She studied the dark eyeliner enveloping her eyes, wondering if it was just the makeup making her look unrecognizable, or if the hundreds of tears that had been shed over the last 24 hours combined with the fact she was about to perform at the Tonys was adding to the effect.
In the corner of the hotel room, her mother sat on her phone, already dressed for the ceremony in a beautifully embroidered silk dress that had been purchased last minute for the occasion. It had been a generous gift from the universe that her mother had been planning to visit this week well before the nominations had even come out.
Cynthia wondered what Dean was doing at that exact moment as someone touched up her nails. She wondered if he had found the time to text that other girl. She wondered about the ugly suit he had been planning on wearing. She wondered how feasible it would be to move to a different city to decrease the chances of ever seeing him again.
She recalled what he had said on the phone yesterday, how she had been worried sick after two days of radio silence after he had stormed out to get on a last minute flight to London.
“You’re selfish, Cynthia, and I can’t do this anymore.”
She had wanted to scream back, to try to put into words how Celie’s pain had seeped into her bones night after night, awakening her own traumas that were just now finally starting to settle. How the loneliness of New York had opened so many old wounds.
Instead, she had stared at the floor, quiet rage rising in her chest as she let his accusation settle around her like a dense fog.
“What do you think of the eyes, love?”
“Oh,” Cynthia said, snapping out of her self-pity as the makeup artist inspected her face. “I like them.” She could feel the muscles in her cheeks smiling even though every fibre of her being wanted to run out of the room. She offered the young man a reassuring smile as her mother beamed at her from her spot across the hotel room.
“Beautiful, Cynthie,” her mother said softly. Cynthia turned her attention back to the mirror, studying herself. Her hair had been freshly shaved and bleached, a platinum blonde set into neat waves against her head. The rest of her makeup wasn’t bad —she was thankful she had finally spoken up to specifically request a Black artist after one too many occasions where her dark skin had been transformed into a muddy red.
But the eyes were driving her crazy. She couldn’t recognize herself, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. She was looking forward to getting through the carpet and the first half of the ceremony so she could wipe her face clean into Celie’s. Maybe then she could find at least a small part of herself to breathe into.
“No tears tonight, okay?” the artist joked as he put the finishing touches on her eyes before setting her face with a spray. “After all the pictures are taken and after you win, but none before that, got it?”
Cynthia let out a small laugh, wondering if he could somehow tell just how prone to tears she was feeling.
The afternoon quickly dissolved into controlled chaos. Someone helped her into her dress while someone else called a driver, while yet another person was making sure arrangements for a dinner reservation later that evening were confirmed. Cynthia wasn’t used to all of the help and commotion—she had flown across the ocean with two large duffel bags and a prayer that her life wouldn’t go to shit, and now here she was, four hours away from performing on her biggest stage yet.
“You okay?” her mother asked quietly, her arm linked through Cynthia’s as they walked out of the hotel and into the car.
“I don’t know,” Cynthia replied with a soft honesty. She scolded herself internally for not speaking up about the eyeliner as the car lurched forward.
Edith sighed, putting her hand over her daughter’s. “You are my daughter—you will be just fine, Nkem.”
When they arrived at Radio City, Cynthia stepped out of the car and into bright lights that felt particularly artificial compared to the gentle late-afternoon sun. There was a pleasant chatter around her, but a heavy silence settled between her ribs as she navigated the carpet, a kind usher offering to show her mother to their seats while she fulfilled her duties as a nominee, posing for cameras and talking to journalists here and there.
Despite the exceedingly nice words people had to say to her on the carpet, Cynthia felt overwhelming relief once she was back seated next to her mother, resting her head against her shoulder as she took in the glowing hues of the theatre.
“Breathe, love,” Edith whispered, pulling herself away to look at her daughter. “Look at you—you’ve worked so hard to be here. I couldn’t be prouder. Don’t let anyone take this night away from you, yes?”
Cynthia nodded, and felt her mother press a kiss to the crown of her head.
“I love you, Mummy.”
The opening number started, and Cynthia found it hard to concentrate on anything but the tumult of horrible thoughts running through her head. She attempted to distract herself by glancing at the other nominees, men and women who seemed so put together, vibrant with calm energy and perfect smiles and natural hair that suited them. People who would speak up when they didn’t like how their makeup looked.
It only cracked open her deep sense of inadequacy.
The fact that she could now say she was a Tony-nominated actress was a small balm to her aching brain and heart. There was no chance of her winning—this had been a big season, and she was grateful for her name to be next to those other women at all. When someone had brought up the concept of bringing The Color Purple overseas to Broadway, Cynthia had thought it was a joke. She was lucky to be here at all.
But all of a sudden, a rush of fear that this might be it flooded her veins. What if this was a fleeting moment in time that would soon just be a memory? Her throat went tight as visions of Dean danced in her head—Dean laughing with a faceless someone as they stood on a cobblestoned South London street corner, his sickeningly charming smile lighting up his face while hers dulled into nothing but shadows.
Cynthia shifted uncomfortably in her seat, glancing towards her mother who remained entranced by whatever was happening on stage.
As performances played out one after another, panic slowly crept through Cynthia’s chest. What the fuck was she doing, about to perform in a little less than an hour? Why had she gone and signed that lease without deciding exactly what she was doing next? Why hadn’t she looked beyond her own cloud to see that something had shifted in Dean? Why had she ever agreed on going to drama school when her academic aptitude could’ve gotten her anywhere? Why was she in New York City? Why, why, why?
“Cynthie.” Edith’s voice broke through her self-loathing haze just as Audra McDonald took the stage to announce Best Leading Actress in a Musical.
Cynthia felt her body begin to go numb and nearly forgot how to breathe as her mother gripped her hand. Terror overtook her head as Audra read off the names and the crowd politely cheered and clapped, the celebration a stark juxtaposition to the way she was feeling that very moment.
Time seemed to stop as Audra opened the envelope. When it was her name she read, Cynthia felt her mother pull her face in, planting firm kisses on her cheek. It felt like a cruel joke, getting recognized on the biggest stage when she felt her most fraudulent.
There was a whole room of people cheering for her, her mother at her side, and somehow she had never felt more alone.
———
The next morning, Cynthia decided to go on a punishing run. While running was a part of her routine, ten miles at a 7:20 pace certainly was not, but she needed something to distract her from the all-encompassing feeling that some version of herself had died this week.
The early morning sun cast long shadows across the pavement as she kept pushing herself forward, the nagging pain in her left ankle that had been bothering her for the better part of the year really starting to make itself known around mile three.
Now at mile seven, somewhere deep in Central Park, the pain had transformed into something sharp and insistent.
Good.
Something to meditate on other than how shittily her brain was treating her.
Her lungs were really beginning to burn with each deep breath, matching the pain in her ankle. Sweat mixed with tears dripped down her lips, hard to distinguish with their similar salty taste.
A Tony Award— her Tony Award—was sitting on her otherwise empty kitchen counter, still in its pristine black box. She couldn’t bear to look at it, even as her mother had quietly admired it at 4am while waiting for her taxi. Edith had hugged her tightly, whispering congratulations and gentle encouragement before climbing into the cab.
The second her door creaked shut, emptiness had hit Cynthia like a harsh wave. She had crawled back into her bed but couldn’t sleep, staring at the ceiling fan until her alarm chimed at 5:30.
Now, her running app buzzed at mile eight as she exited the park, heading south back towards the apartment. A horrible, stabbing pain shot up her ankle as she waited at a light, momentarily sucking the breath out of her chest.
The pain was interrupted by another buzz from her phone, this time an unknown number with TELSEY under it. She quickly hung it up as she began running again, trying to ignore the way something in her left ankle felt like it might snap any second.
Cynthia shoved the phone back into her armband, ignoring her protesting ankle as her phone continued to buzz.
When she would look later, she would find, amongst hundreds of other notifications:
A voicemail from a producer offering a lead role in a new musical (which she deleted).
A voicemail from an executive at Telsey congratulating her on the win and asking if she would consider rethinking her offer for Elphaba (maybe, even if it was only because of her soft spot for that score).
Six frantic texts from her agent worried because she wasn’t responding and there were time-sensitive offers to be looked at (immediately deleted).
Two congratulatory texts from her sister and best friend (both replied to with a single heart emoji).
A voicemail from an unknown number requesting a sit-down interview (deleted).
Several emails from the West End, wanting to set up meetings (left for consideration, depending on where Dean decided to settle).
But for now, she let her phone buzz and buzz and buzz as the buildings of the theater district came into view. Her whole leg was now screaming with each stride, but the physical pain almost felt good as tears freely flowed.
She stumbled through the last block to her apartment building, barely able to put weight down on her foot. The doorman looked at her with a furrowed, concerned brow as she limped past, but she appeased him with a forced smile.
Once inside her apartment, she allowed herself to collapse against the door, sliding down to the new, wooden floor as her phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
Cynthia pulled her knees to her chest, hugging them tight as she pushed her face against them and finally let herself sob deep, shaking cries that jolted her entire body. Just outside her window, New York City continued its relentless pace, completely indifferent to her pain while countless opportunities she’d once dreamed of flooded a phone she couldn’t bear to look at.