The Lightness of Hands

by Jeff Garvin

  “Are you going to resort to bump-and-grabs again, or . . . ?”

  “I jacked eighty gallons of diesel and a wallet. Does that count?”

  “Holy crap! I’d say so. Are you still keeping track?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me know if you need me to hack in and delete any security-camera footage.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

  “You’re the best friend ever,” I said.

  “It is known,” he replied, deadpan. I felt an impulse to laugh, but it died before it got out.

  There was a coin-operated carousel in front of the shopping cart return. I threw my leg over a seahorse and sat down on the hard plastic saddle.

  “I met a boy,” I said.

  “Ugh. Please don’t make me listen to your romantic bullshit.”

  I laughed and told him anyway—the vodka, the asking me out, the sexual tension.

  “I don’t understand being attracted to someone for having a facial flaw and large arms.”

  “You don’t understand being attracted to someone, period.”

  “Don’t oppress me.”

  “Don’t be a snowflake.”

  “I can feel attraction, you know. Pretty people are like art. I like art. But you don’t see me racing into a museum to fuck a painting.”

  This time, the laugh did make it out. I apologized for being insensitive about his asexuality, and Ripley apologized for mocking my attraction to Liam. We moved on, blathering about random stuff, anything but our parents and the sad state of our lives. Part of me wanted to tell him about my decline, about being out of meds—but he was already down, and I didn’t want to drag him deeper.

  Besides my dad and my doctor, Ripley was the only person in the world who knew my diagnosis. According to my psychiatrist, I had bipolar II. Or Bipolar 2: The Sequel! as Ripley liked to call it. Lots of famous people had it: Carrie Fisher, Mariah Carey, Winston Churchill. But that was no comfort to me. Those people had done something with their lives, whereas I was standing outside a Walmart in Fort Wayne, Indiana, talking with my only friend on a four-year-old prepaid phone.

  Like everything eventually did, my conversation with Ripley began to bottom out. A security guard came around and asked me to leave. I said goodbye to Ripley, trudged back to the RV, and fell dead asleep.

  I was brushing my teeth when the irritating warble of my ringtone sounded. I rinsed my mouth and grabbed my phone: it was the prankster. I decided to answer.

  “Stop. Calling. Me.” I hadn’t used my voice yet, and it came out like a croak.

  “Don’t hang up, Ms. Dante.”

  I frowned. This wasn’t the caller from yesterday; it was a man with a deep, strangely familiar voice. I glanced down the aisle; Dad wasn’t here. He’d probably gone into Walmart for something.

  “Who is this?”

  “Flynn Bissette.”

  I sat down hard and all the blood rushed to my head.

  “I’m a busy guy, and I’m calling you personally. Don’t screw this up.” When I didn’t reply, he continued. “Kellar and I are producing a magic retrospective for NBC. We’re projecting ten million viewers. I just had somebody drop out—and we shoot live in Hollywood in ten days. I want Dante for the show.”

  A moment ago I’d been barely awake; now my heart was pounding so hard, I thought it might leap out of my mouth.

  Before Dad’s career imploded, he had been a consultant to some of the biggest names in magic. Siegfried & Roy. Ricky Jay. Lance Burton. Maybe one of those guys wanted Dad to help them behind the scenes.

  I tried to sound calmer than I was. “Who needs the consult?”

  “Consult? No. I want him on the show. I want him to re-create the Truck Drop.”

  My mouth went dry.

  Dad hadn’t escaped anything more complex than thumb cuffs since his appearance on Late Night with Craig Rogan. He had attempted the Truck Drop only once—the night he burned his career to the ground.

  “Why?” I said. “I mean, why him?”

  “Fair question,” Flynn said. “Dante failed—but he failed big. I admire his chutzpah. I want to give him a second chance.”

  I frowned. Something Flynn had said tripped an alarm in my head, or maybe a memory. It put me on edge.

  “Maybe you just want to make money off his humiliation,” I said, not quite believing I was speaking this way to Flynn Effing Bissette. “People love to watch has-beens fall on their asses.”

  “That’s true,” Flynn said. “But they also love a comeback story.”

  I got up and walked to the accordion door. Dad was still gone, but he could walk in at any moment. I needed time to think. I needed to stall.

  “I met you once,” I blurted.

  “Is that right?”

  “I was ten. My dad took me to see your show at the Havana. I pulled a silk daisy out of your pocket, and you signed the nine of hearts for me and wrote ‘fail big’ on the face.”

  He laughed. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry.” At least he was being honest. “Listen, Ms. Dante—how do I get a yes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What does he want? Alpacas in his dressing room? A bowl of green M&M’s? What?”

  I bit my lip. What we really needed was money.

  As if reading my mind, Flynn said, “I’ll pay him five thousand dollars to show up, and five thousand more if he pulls it off.”

  I sat down hard on the bed.

  “Ms. Dante, you’re killing me. All right, ten thousand more if he pulls it off. That’s fifteen grand for a successful performance. Final offer.”

  Fifteen. Thousand. Dollars. That was more than we’d made in the last year. That was rent. That was meds. That was rescue.

  “How long do I have to consider it?”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  My pulse pounded in my wrists, my temples, my face. I thought about last night, about how Dad had commanded that yard full of rich wedding guests, drawing their focus away from one another and onto the stage. He still had it. He was wasted on weddings and corporate Christmas parties; he belonged on a national stage.

  But another failure might kill him. The first one had probably killed my mother, and it had certainly torn our family apart. We couldn’t afford to take that risk again.

  But could we afford not to take it?

  It didn’t matter anyway, because there was no way Dad would say yes. Absolutely no way.

  Flynn cleared his throat. “What’s it going to be?”

  I took a deep breath. “We’re in.”

  CHAPTER 5

  WHEN I HEARD THE CLICK of the RV’s door opening, a fist seemed to squeeze my heart. What had I just agreed to? And how was I going to tell Dad? As he mounted the steps, I covered my face in a fake yawn, trying to hide the mixture of fear and excitement I felt. Dad was going to be on national TV again. He had a shot at a comeback.

  He was going to be so pissed.

  “Good morning,” he said, setting two coffees in the cup holders. He held up a McDonald’s bag, his face drawn tight in a forced smile—but when he saw me, his expression changed. “What’s the matter?”

  “I just . . . had a weird dream,” I said, my heart pounding, my brain scrambling for some way to break the news. “I’m still waking up from it, I guess.”

  He squinted, and I couldn’t tell if he looked concerned or suspicious.

  We sat down in the captain’s chairs and ate our Egg McMuffins in silence. Dad finished his first.

  “We need to rest up and figure out our next plan of action,” he said. “There’s a KOA in Bluffton. We have enough. We’ll spend the night there.”

  If Walmarts were my second home, KOAs were the motels I stayed in during business trips. They had washing machines, showers, and—most important—free Wi-Fi. Once we got there, I would figure out the right way to tell Dad about the Flynn & Kellar show. I would have to.

  We arrived just after eleven a.m. Dad looked surpr
ised when I offered him the first shower, but he grabbed his duffel bag and marched off all the same. I fired up my laptop, and as soon as it connected to the KOA_BLUFF Wi-Fi network, my whole body sagged with relief. It was good to be connected again.

  While Dad was at the showers, I opened the email from Grace Wu and electronically signed the attached contract. As soon as I clicked Send, I felt a rush of anxiety. We were committed now; we had a direction. But I had no idea how we were going to pull it off.

  I put it out of my mind for the moment, logged into my school site, and started cranking through my US History exam. When I finally clicked Submit forty-five minutes later, I figured I’d earned a B, which would count as a C since I had taken it a day late. I’d have to bust my ass to bring my average back up.

  Dad came in once, saw me working, and announced he was going for a long walk. I brewed a pot of coffee and slogged through a chapter of the Joads crossing the Dust Bowl in a beat-up wagon. I found their plight disturbingly relatable.

  As soon as I stopped reading, I could feel my internal machinery begin to grind to a halt. The coffee and the opportunity to work had triggered a brief high, but now I was sliding downward again. Schoolwork suddenly seemed a waste of time, like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. What good was a 3.0 GPA if I ended up homeless? I needed to focus on getting money while I still could. The taping was in ten days, two thousand miles away in Hollywood. The two hundred dollars we had left wouldn’t even get us to St. Louis. And if we did somehow make it to LA, we’d need our props—the truck and the tank.

  I opened a spreadsheet and did some rough calculations: all in, the trip and the props would cost us at least five thousand dollars. And even if we won the lottery, how would I persuade Dad to do the show?

  The answer came back: You won’t.

  You can’t.

  The weight of hopelessness bore down on me, that lead X-ray vest heavy on my chest. For a moment I couldn’t catch my breath.

  Why had I said yes to Flynn? What had I been thinking?

  I pictured how Dad would look when I told him. His eyes going dark. His face tightening like a fist.

  I stood up and paced the aisle. In only a few more days, the effects of my medication would wear off completely. I had to set things in motion now, while I still had the capacity. I couldn’t let the whirlpool pull me under. Not yet.

  Desperate for distraction, I turned toward the pantry. I opened the bungeed door wide enough to grab the jar of fancy peanut butter, took a knife from the drawer, and sat down at the table again. I unscrewed the lid and began to stir, my mind spiraling like the peanut butter in the jar.

  Food, diesel, props. Food, diesel, props. Ella, Ella, eh, eh, eh . . .

  The song was back, signaling my further descent into the gray. Ella, ella . . .

  I’d been an idiot to waste six dollars on fancy peanut butter. I should have gone for the cheap stuff. Ella, Ella . . . The cheap stuff. Peanut butter. Eh, eh, eh . . . The thoughts echoed in my mind, on a loop like the song lyrics. I looked down at the jar in my hand—and an idea struck me. A name.

  A bubble of hope bloomed in my chest. The name. It was a long shot—he was a long shot—and Dad would absolutely lose his shit when he found out. But still, there was a chance. Maybe the only chance we had.

  I texted Ripley and quickly filled him in on the last eight hours. His reaction was about what I expected.

  Ripley: FLYNN AND FUCKING KELLAR?!

  Me: I know. It’s huge. 10 million viewers.

  Ripley: WHAT?!? He’s going to do it, right?

  Me: I haven’t told him yet.

  Ripley: YOU HAVEN’T TOLD HIM?

  Me: It’s complicated.

  Ripley: Where are they shooting?

  I started to reply, then hesitated. Ripley lived only an hour away from LA, in a conservative town he had nicknamed Dark Hills. At the moment, we lived two time zones apart, so it was easy to justify never meeting in person. But if I told him I was going to be practically in his backyard, he might want to break our pact.

  And the truth was, I didn’t want him to see me in person. Especially not when I was sliding toward a total meltdown. But what could I do, lie? All he’d have to do was Google the show. I had no choice. I typed out my reply.

  Me: LA

  The three dots bounced for a long time, and I chewed my lip vigorously. I guessed he was writing and then deleting responses. Finally:

  Ripley: When?

  Me: 10 days.

  Ripley: COWBOY JESUS RIDING A DINOSAUR BITMOJI!

  My prehistoric phone couldn’t get Bitmoji, so Ripley had to describe them to me. It was pitiful.

  Me: I know.

  Ripley: Is any part of you excited? I mean, this is everything!

  I closed my eyes and squeezed the phone in both hands. I couldn’t think about that right now.

  Me: I need to focus on getting us there.

  Ripley: Right. Sorry.

  Me: I need a favor.

  Ripley: I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.

  Me: Please be serious with me right now. Can you find someone for me? On the internet?

  Ripley: Of course I can. Who?

  I took a shower, hoping the warm water would ease my unquiet mind. But the water was cold, and as I stood there under the weak spray, I felt more pathetic than ever. I stepped out, dried off, and moved to the sink.

  The warped steel plate that served as a mirror distorted my reflection, so I looked down instead and ran the faucet till the basin was full. Then I shut off the tap, emptied my lungs, and thrust my head under surface.

  It was dark and cold and blessedly still.

  When I got back to the RV, Dad was seated at the table, reading something in his ancient leather-bound journal. He’d had it as long as I could remember, but he never let me see inside.

  Dad closed the journal and looked up at me. “While you were out, that young man from the party called.”

  I noticed my phone sitting in front of him on the table, and my stomach gave a wild lurch.

  “When?”

  Dad glanced down at the dead watch on his wrist. “I’m not sure. A few minutes ago.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked for you, and I told him you’d return his call at your earliest convenience.”

  “You’re sure it was him?”

  Dad smiled. “Liam Miller, brother of the bride. Quite sure.”

  Holy shit. He’d actually called. My face felt freshly sunburned as I walked down the aisle to grab my phone. But before I could, Dad covered it with his hand.

  “I think it’s wonderful you’re making friends.”

  “He’s not a friend, Dad. He’s just . . . I know him from Eastside.”

  “Well, I still think it’s wonderful. Are you going to—”

  “Thank you,” I said, peeling his hand back and snatching the phone. I thought I saw him smile as I moved past him and shut the accordion door.

  I lay down on the bed and stared at Liam’s number on the screen. He had called, even after the way I’d called him out on his bullshit. Even after I had sort of burned him in front of those girls when he asked for my cell. It didn’t make sense. Was he playing some kind of head game on me? Why?

  And even if he was genuinely interested, I didn’t have time to go on a date. I had props to acquire and gigs to book. I had to take care of my dad. Plus I was hopelessly awkward around people my own age—especially boys. Hadn’t I proven that last night?

  And yet the thought of escaping the RV and getting away from Dad, even if only for a few hours, was like the last ray of sunlight before an approaching storm. Liam had been earnest, even charming. And he had kept up with my “caustic wit,” as Ripley put it. But more than that, he seemed genuinely interested in me. He didn’t treat me like an alien. And if I was being totally honest, I was attracted to him. Stupidly attracted.

  Plus, if everything went as planned—if Dad and I drove to LA and did the Truck Drop on national TV
—I might never come back to Indiana. I might never see him again. So what did I have to lose?

  I tapped his number and held my breath. The phone rang.

  “Hello?” Liam answered. His voice was like warm syrup.

  “Hi.”

  “Ellie. You called back.”

  “You didn’t think I would?”

  “No.”

  For a moment, each of us waited for the other to speak.

  Then he said, “Panic! at the Disco is playing in Chicago tonight. Come with me.”

  My stomach lurched again. Liam Miller wanted to take me to a concert? In Chicago?

  “That’s three hours away,” I said.

  “I’ll have you home by two a.m. Three at the latest.”

  I glanced toward the accordion door. “You realize I have a father, right?”

  “I’m great with parents.” He paused. “Do you not like Panic! at the Disco? Oh God, you’re not a country fan, are you?”

  “Not unless you count Mellencamp.”

  “Mellencamp, country? That’s blasphemy.”

  I laughed. He laughed.

  “So wait,” he said. “Are you turning me down?”

  I bit my lip. “No. I just . . . Could we do something . . . simpler?”

  “What, like Culver’s and a movie?”

  I smiled. “Actually, that sounds great.”

  He laughed again. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve found myself a keeper! When can I pick you up? And where?”

  CHAPTER 6

  I OWNED ONE DRESS, a little black one, and a single pair of heels that had belonged to my mother and that increased my height to a respectable five five. Since Liam was at least six feet tall, I would probably only come up to his shoulder, but at least I wouldn’t look like a hobbit.

  I wanted to wait for him on a bench at the entrance to the KOA, but Dad insisted that Liam knock on the RV door and pick me up “like a proper gentleman.” I was annoyed—but it was also weirdly nice to have him act like a regular father for once. In any case, it meant I had to spend the afternoon cleaning the RV top to bottom with all the windows open to air out it out. Then I took another shower and spent an embarrassing amount of time getting ready.

  My hair was a tangled mess, so I took the bottle of baby oil from my bedside table, poured some into my hand, and began to work it in; I’d run out of conditioner weeks ago. The beauty blogs recommended avocado or olive oil as substitutes, but I couldn’t afford them, either. A fresh crop of obsessive thoughts took root: Would I smell like a baby? Would he notice? I grabbed a brush and began to work out the tangles. I was rough with myself; each tug on my scalp brought a pang of satisfaction and comfort. Each was proof that I was still here, and that I could still feel. Self-harm for squeamish girls.