The Lightness of Hands

by Jeff Garvin

  We had switched our usual roles; tonight Dad was the foil, yanking at his solid steel rings in a vain effort to separate them, while I slipped mine apart with ease to whistling and cheers. My pulse climbed higher. I felt light inside, as if a helium balloon were inflating in my chest. When Linking Rings ended, I moved downstage to interact with the audience; now it was time for my kind of magic.

  I started small, approaching the bartender to order a shot, which I had him drink before I vanished the glass by slapping it flat into the bar top. Then I moved into the audience and found the bartender’s watch on the wrist of a woman in the front row. I returned it to the barman, only to find the woman’s iPhone in his back pocket.

  Next came my take on Card to Fruit, barroom style. I had a biker pick a playing card, sign it, and place it securely in his girlfriend’s purse. Then I crossed back to the bar and grabbed a lemon from a bin on the counter. Borrowing a paring knife, I sliced it open and pulled out the biker’s card. I held it up so the audience could see his signature on the back, now wet with lemon juice. There was even a seed stuck to it.

  The cheers were deafening; the audience was with me now, eating out of my hand. My heart beat in my throat as if I’d just sprinted four city blocks. I was high, racing at the speed of light.

  Next, I found a man wearing a Chicago Bears cap. I pulled it off his balding head, reached inside, and extracted the shot glass I had slapped into the bar. Then I took a silk from my pocket and draped it over the glass. I reached down for the fifth of Wild Turkey bourbon I was supposed to produce from under the silk—but as I was bringing it up, it slipped out of my hand and shattered on the tabletop, soaking the guy’s lap in whiskey.

  My face went cold—but Bears Cap was so hammered that he just laughed it off. I laughed along with him; I’d gotten lucky. I shrugged, playing it off like the spill was intentional, and mopped his shirt with the silk handkerchief before making it disappear into my fist.

  It was a huge gaffe—and even though the audience had laughed, I could tell they were uncomfortable now. Embarrassed. I was losing them. The balloon in my chest had become overinflated, and my breath came in short gasps as I made my way back to the stage.

  The lights dimmed, and the slow-motion ricochet beat of Tori Amos’s “Hey Jupiter” began to thump through the speakers. I locked my thumbs together and raised my hands over my head, making the shadow of a bird on the back curtain. When I separated my fingers, a live white dove burst forth and flew in an arc around the audience. They applauded as the bird returned to alight on a perch upstage.

  I remember that first dove; after that, I lost myself in the movement of my arms and the breeze of white wings as I produced dove after dove, until a dozen perched upstage. When the song ended, the applause broke over me like sunshine, like a cold ocean wave. I was trembling, my limbs tingled, and my vision twitched at the edges like the picture on an old TV. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt this way—and yet the sensations were familiar, as if they’d been hiding just beneath my skin, waiting to erupt and take me over. I wanted to feel this way forever.

  The lights dimmed, and distorted guitars grated against a throbbing beat as Dad walked onstage. He approached the trunk I had appeared in at the top of the show and spun it, showing all four sides to the audience. Again he produced the large brass key, this time using it to lock the trunk.

  I invited Work Boots back onstage to inspect the setup. When he was satisfied, he returned to his seat.

  Dad climbed onto the lid holding the top edge of a white Kabuki cloth. He smiled, then raised the cloth over his head, hiding himself from view.

  A moment later, the curtain dropped. The music stopped. Dad was gone.

  Silence fell. And then a pounding came from inside the trunk, so hard it rattled the padlock; Dad had disappeared, then reappeared inside the box.

  I spun the trunk to show it was still closed on all sides. Cheers and applause followed—but this was only the setup. Now I climbed onto the lid and lifted the curtain over my own head. I took a deep breath. I closed my eyes.

  When the curtain dropped a second later, I had vanished, and it was Dad standing on top of the trunk. The crowd in the barroom lost their minds as he stepped down, brandishing the big brass key. He released the padlock and flung open the lid. I emerged once more, arms raised in a triumphant V.

  In that moment, I felt something shift inside me. Was it just the manic side of the bipolar coin taking its turn to face up? It made sense; cycles had been triggered by far less than applause and lights and the smell of bodies and beer. But what if it was something else? Something deeper? It was impossible to separate sense from sickness—and why bother when it felt so good?

  My heart beat at a glorious gallop, like a filly’s hooves pounding down the dandelions in an open field. For a fraction of a second, it seemed to me that everyone in the bar was synchronized. Like migratory birds banking in unison. Like wildflowers turning toward the sun.

  I had done that.

  I glanced at Dad, already feeling the smile that stretched my lips until I felt they might crack open.

  The look on his face. Surprise. Pride.

  We held hands and bowed, and a hundred people sounded like a thousand. I only made it halfway to the door before someone stopped me for a selfie. Then an autograph. Then a circle of people formed around me.

  Dad insisted on loading out the small stuff by himself while I signed half a dozen cocktail napkins, a cell phone case, and some trucker’s biceps. There were wolf whistles, too, and the drunk guy in the Bears cap tried to grab my ass, but his friends pulled him away. I was immune, invincible, thrumming like a tuning fork.

  And then I spotted Liam.

  He was leaning against a high table, smiling that smile of his and shaking his head. As I crossed the room toward him, I thought my heart might crack through my sternum.

  “Ms. Dante,” he said, tipping the brim of an imaginary hat. My knees gave a warning twinge, and I casually reached out to steady myself on a bar stool. Probably it was the heat of the lights and the rush of the performance. Probably.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Our call was weird. I didn’t want to leave things like that. So I Googled and saw that the Uncanny Dante was playing at Sunny’s.” His smiled faded a little. “I almost didn’t come. I figured if you wanted me here, you’d have texted.”

  I bit my lip, trying to form a response.

  “But then I figured what the hell, and I came anyway.”

  I gripped the back of the bar stool a little tighter. “I’m glad you did.”

  Just then, the jackass in the Bears cap staggered toward me yet again. Liam took a step forward and put a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Easy, bro. You look a little pukey.”

  The guy glared at Liam, sized him up, then stumbled out the door.

  My eyes met Liam’s. “My hero.”

  He shrugged. “I’m old-fashioned. It’s a vice.”

  I laughed and held out my trap case. “Carry this for me?”

  He took my case, and then he took my hand. As our palms pressed together, the tingling in my fingertips that had started during the show now spread up my arm.

  Outside, the crowd had thinned, and most of the Harleys and pickups were clearing out. Liam and I set off across the parking lot, bathed in orange light. When we reached the relative darkness of the field where we had parked, my eyes took a moment to adjust—and then I noticed a misshapen shadow lying below the RV’s front door, which stood open. I picked up my pace, and the shadow resolved.

  It was Dad.

  CHAPTER 10

  I DROPPED LIAM’S HAND AND sprinted toward my father.

  He lay on his side, eyes closed.

  “Oh my God!” I fell to my knees and tapped his shoulder hard. “Dad? Are you okay?”

  Nothing.

  Liam caught up and knelt next to me, but I paid him no attention. I placed my hands on Dad’s head and tilted it back to open th
e airway. I put my ear to his mouth. He was breathing.

  “Dad!” I pressed down on his shoulder even harder. “Dad, wake up!”

  Finally, he moaned, and my heart leaped into my throat.

  “Oh my God, Dad. What happened? Are you okay?”

  He blinked rapidly. “How embarrassing,” he said. “I got a little light-headed, and then . . .”

  Liam put a hand on my shoulder. “We should call an ambulance.”

  “No,” Dad said. “That’s not necessary. I only fainted. Probably just dehydrated.” He propped himself up on his elbows as if that proved he was perfectly healthy.

  “He’s right, Dad. We ought to call 911. Your heart.”

  “My heart is fine. See for yourself.” I put two fingers to his neck. He was right; his pulse was strong and regular.

  “Okay,” I said. “But I still think someone should take a look.”

  Liam got to his feet. “There was a guy inside earlier wearing an EMT uniform. Maybe he’s still here. Hang tight for a minute.” He turned and trotted back toward the roadhouse.

  Dad watched him, smiling. “That’s quite a young man you’ve got there,” he said.

  “I haven’t ‘got’ him, Dad.”

  I helped him up and guided him into the RV, my hands shaking. He practically collapsed on the couch, and I struggled to stay calm; he was so pale. I rummaged through the cabinet over the sink and found his prescription bottle. There were only five pills left.

  He swallowed one with a gulp of water from a plastic cup, and then a knock came at the door. Liam entered with a compact man toting a red backpack.

  “This is Kyle,” Liam said. “Will you at least let him take a look?”

  The EMT told us what we expected: that Dad’s pulse and BP were normal. That there was no immediate danger, but we should get him to an ER all the same.

  While Kyle packed up his blood-pressure cuff, Dad gave me a look. I knew what it meant; we’d been to the ER before. They would charge us five grand to run a battery of worthless tests. Then they’d tell us he was all right, but that he ought to see a cardiologist. The cardiologist would charge us another grand to tell us Dad needed to reduce stress, eat better, and take his meds.

  We thanked Kyle, and Liam said he’d wait for me outside. When I turned back to Dad, his eyes were glistening.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said in a choked voice. “I’m more than fine.”

  I sat down, took his hand. “What is it?”

  He smiled. “There are moments as a father when your child . . .” He blinked rapidly. “When your child reveals to you how very extraordinary she has become.”

  My heart seemed to inflate. “I shanked the bottle production. I’m lucky the guy was drunk.”

  Dad waved a hand. “That happens to everyone. You recovered. That’s the thing. Besides . . . the watch, the phone. Brilliant! And the doves, Ellie. The doves . . .” He shook his head. “You were elegant.” He laughed. The sound lit me up from the inside. “Your mother would have been proud.”

  We sat in silence for a minute. Dad’s eyes got wet. Mine did, too. In that moment, I felt more connected than I ever had—to him, to her, to everything. I felt alive.

  Did I feel this way because the meds had finally worn off? Was I, for the first time in a year, experiencing life, pure and unfiltered?

  Was this how she had felt on her good days?

  I wanted to sustain that feeling, to grab it and pull it toward me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, as if I could hold it in my lungs.

  Dad coughed. I opened my eyes and looked down at him.

  “They’re right, you know,” I said. “About seeing a doctor.”

  He patted my hand. “When we get to Las Vegas, I’ll go and see Dr. Shah. She knows me. She’ll give us a break on the fee.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Half an hour later, I was sitting with Liam on an old railroad tie a few yards from the RV. Dad was sleeping, the parking lot had cleared out, and we were alone.

  It was freezing outside, but under my thin hoodie my skin was burning. I moved closer to him until our arms touched and wondered if he could feel the heat. The big neon SUNNY’S ROADHOUSE sign buzzed, then went out, and my body thrummed as if it had absorbed the electricity.

  “Now that it’s over, are you freaking out?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I feel really good, actually.”

  “Well, you deserve to,” Liam said. “You were incredible up there.”

  I didn’t think I could smile any wider. It was like he knew exactly what to say to me.

  “I couldn’t keep my eyes off you,” he went on. “It was like you were—”

  I leaned in and pressed my lips against his.

  He froze for a moment—and then he kissed me back. The warmth in my skin seemed to spread inward, heating me to the core. I put my hands on the sides of his face; his skin was cold by comparison. I inched forward, pressing against him, trying to get closer.

  A second later, he pushed me away.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I just . . . I need a minute.” Liam bowed his head and took a few deep breaths.

  My own breath was coming fast and heavy. I wanted to kiss him again. His Mustang was the last car left in the lot; I had an impulse to lead him across the field and push him into the back seat. I looked at his face. His cheeks were flushed from the cold and the kissing, and his expression was a mixture of want and confusion.

  “Why did you stop?” I asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Not at all. It’s just . . . I feel sort of weird. I mean, your dad just passed out.”

  My insides seemed to shrink; he was right. Less than an hour ago, I thought my dad might be dead—and now all I wanted to do was make out with Liam. Hard. Embarrassment climbed up my throat. What was wrong with me?

  And then it hit me: Of course I felt good. I felt too good. I hadn’t been brilliant onstage, I hadn’t tapped some vein of hidden talent, and this wasn’t a normal postperformance adrenaline high. I was just up.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?” Liam said.

  I stared out at the dark field. This good feeling I had—it was an illusion. A lie. A symptom.

  “Ellie?”

  “I’m . . .” I swallowed the word. I didn’t want to hear it in my own voice. “When I’m up, like I am now, everything feels great. Better than great. It’s like being on a lucky streak. Only I can’t leave the casino with my winnings; I have to keep playing until I lose it all. It’s part of my . . .” Senselessly, I gestured at my head. “Performing triggers it, like taking a drug. But then I crash, and it’s . . .” I pressed my lips together and looked away. I didn’t want him to see my face. “It’s what killed my mom.”

  I still hadn’t said the words. Bipolar. Suicide. I expected Liam to ask for an explanation. But he just said, “I’m sorry,” and put his arm around me.

  He was too perfect. Something had to be wrong with him.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I was a kid when it happened.”

  Liam nodded, then just sat there with me for a minute, silent, maybe waiting for me to go on, maybe waiting for the right moment to disentangle himself from the crazy girl and escape.

  I blurted, “I’m going to California.”

  Liam raised his eyebrows. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  I stared down at my stage shoes, now covered in dust from the dirt lot. “I guess I thought it would put weird pressure on . . . whatever this . . . on us.”

  “Oh,” he said. In the silence that followed, every doubt I’d ever had about myself seemed to reverberate.

  Then Liam laughed, and I flinched.

  “You are full of surprises,” he said. “On our video call it seemed like you were sort of done with me.”

  “Then why did you come tonight?”

  He shrugged. “In case you weren’t.”

 
; I shook my head. He was so fucking charming; it threw me off balance. What did he see in me? What did I have to offer that he couldn’t get from a university full of California girls?

  “How about this,” he said. “Let’s just talk on the phone. Text. Maybe, if you feel like it, we Skype. Then, when you get to California—totally up to you—maybe you ghost me, or maybe we go get In-N-Out.” He made a gesture like balancing a set of scales.

  I stared at him.

  “Because they don’t have Culver’s in LA,” he said.

  “I’m . . .” The rest of my sentence evaporated off the tip of my tongue. “That sounds nice.”

  “Nice,” he agreed.

  And then he leaned forward and kissed me. This time, the tingles spread way farther than just my arms.

  When we broke off, I asked, “Can I walk you to your car?”

  “Better not,” he replied.

  “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

  From the steps of the RV, I watched him cross the parking lot. Just before he got into his Mustang, he looked back and smiled. Then he got in, started the engine, and drove off.

  I wanted to freeze the moment and put it in a snow globe, preserve it, keep it as an amulet against darker times, something to remind me how good life could be. I wanted so hard to enjoy the feeling of having been kissed, of having a maybe boyfriend, of this normal teenage moment—but I couldn’t. Already I could feel the low rumble of the down approaching like a thunderhead. There would be no normal for me, not really, only a series of low hills and valleys punctuated by an occasional peak like tonight. Was that worth living for?

  Right now, it was.

  My heart was pounding when I got back into the RV, the scent of sandalwood still sharp in my nostrils. I tasted adrenaline like pennies against my back teeth. I needed to do something. Run a marathon. Burn down a cornfield.

  The props. I could secure the props.

  My mind was cranking now, already going to work on the problem. It was only nine p.m. in Las Vegas; Higgins would be up. I pulled on a beanie, went back outside, and tapped the number Ripley had sent me. Higgins answered on the first ring.