The Lightness of Hands

by Jeff Garvin

  “Oh God.” I rushed to him. “Are you okay? Is it your heart?”

  My own heart had seized up.

  Dad gasped, shook his head. “I’m okay. I just—I lost my breath for a second.”

  I covered my face in my hands and slid down the side of the bed to the floor. My shoulders hitched. My breath caught.

  Dad was next to me in a heartbeat, putting his arm around me.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Shh. You’ve been without medication too long, Ellie. It hasn’t had time to build up in your system yet. That’s what this is. That’s all this is.”

  “It’s not,” I said between gasps. “I fuck everything up. The RV. Your career. My friends.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I am like her, Dad!” Now I was shrieking, hysterical. “And I’m going to end up like she did! I know it!”

  He shook me by the shoulders. “Don’t you ever say that!”

  His eyes welled up. He let go of me and slumped back against the bed. The two of us sat there for a long, quiet moment.

  Finally, he spoke. “Did I ever tell you I waited tables in college?”

  I cocked my head. “You did?”

  “I was miserable. But I got free meals and went home with cash in my pocket.” He scrubbed a finger across his mustache. “Today, I came full circle. I applied at the Denny’s on Las Vegas Boulevard.”

  I stared at him.

  “And at Guitar Center, and at a pawnshop on Charleston.”

  Unable to form words, I could only shake my head.

  “I used to think that taking a day job meant giving up on my dreams. Betraying my true calling. Throwing away everything I’d worked so hard for.” He swallowed hard. “But the truth is, I’ve been lucky all these years to make a living doing something I love. Many talented people never get that chance.” His eyes grew dull. “In any case, my time seems to have come to an end.” He smiled, but it was empty.

  “Dad, why are you talking like this? What happened?”

  As his focus dropped to the carpet, the empty smile collapsed.

  “Alan turned me away at the Four Jacks. He said my reputation was . . .” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I begged him, Ellie. I told him how we’ve been living. How I’ve made you live. He . . .”

  The words seemed to dry up. I reached out and took his hand. It was heavy, and the palm was leathery from years of handling coins and cards. It was a magician’s hand.

  Dad let out a bitter laugh; it sounded nothing like him. “He offered to put me in touch with the producer of a reality show. He said our life would make good television.”

  My mouth fell open. “Are you kidding?”

  “No.”

  “What did you say?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I almost punched him in the face. I walked out instead.”

  “You should have punched him.”

  Dad shrugged. “It’s not too late. We could go back.”

  I smiled. He returned it and leaned back against the rickety bed frame.

  “We have to do this, Dad. We have to go after Devereaux’s rig. It’s our only shot.”

  He closed his eyes, set his jaw. “What if we’re caught?”

  “Then we go to prison, and they feed us and give us meds.”

  He shook his head. “I go to prison. You end up in foster care.”

  “In which case, again, we both get food and meds.”

  “Ellie, you need to take this seriously.”

  “I am taking this seriously. I’ve got a week’s worth of pills left, and you’re next.” Dad’s face darkened. “We have no money, no transportation, nowhere to sleep. An old man ready to have a heart attack and a teenager on the verge of a breakdown. We are the worst candidates for homelessness I’ve ever heard of.

  “I’ve thought about this, Dad. I’ve thought about it until my head feels like it’s going to pop. This is our only play. We have nothing left to lose.”

  His eyes drifted out of focus, as if he were staring into the distance at something I couldn’t see.

  “What if it goes wrong?” he whispered. “What if the truck drops, and I . . .”

  Oh God. He wasn’t worried about the grift; he was worried about the show.

  “Then you get paid five thousand dollars for humiliation you’ve already felt.” I took his hand again. “But if it goes right . . .”

  For a moment, I thought he was going to cry, but when he spoke again, his voice was strong and clear.

  “Then we give it all back.”

  “Give what back?”

  “All of it. The props. The money we’ve stolen.” He looked at me. “You’ve kept track?”

  I nodded. “Every cent.”

  He stood, crossed to the window, opened the drapes. I got up and joined him.

  He was staring north, away from the Strip, toward old Vegas. I could just see the top of the California Hotel & Casino and the sparkling Golden Nugget sign. It was like a postcard.

  “My father was an insurance-company actuary,” he said. “He assessed risk for a living.”

  I watched him intently; my grandfather had died before I was born, and Dad talked about him even less often than he talked about my mother.

  “The first time I ever flew in an airplane, he said, ‘Don’t be nervous. You’re two thousand times more likely to die on the way home from the airport.’ Needless to say, I nearly got sick in the taxi.”

  I laughed. He smiled.

  “Later that year, I told him that when I grew up, I was going to be a magician. I’ll never forget what he said. He got an expression on his face like he’d eaten a bad prune. ‘The odds are too high,’ he said. ‘You’ll never make it.’”

  Dad’s face tightened, and suddenly I could see the ten-year-old he had been.

  “That summer he put me to work at his company, filing. ‘A proper job,’ he called it. I hated him. I hated myself.”

  He turned to me, his eyes shining, his mouth drawn downward.

  “I never wanted that life for you, Ellie. Rules. Numbers. Closed doors. I wanted you to be free. To be whatever you wanted. And then, when you asked me to teach you magic . . .” His eyebrows drew together and he shook his head, struggling to speak through the emotion. “You had so much talent, right from the start. And all I could think was that you could do it. You could achieve what I failed to. I would make sure of it.” He turned away to face the window. “But now I realize I’ve done just what my father did. I’ve pushed you into a life you hate. I’m just like he was.”

  “You’re not,” I said. “You’re nothing like him.” Dad looked at me, his face tight with hope and regret. “I don’t hate magic, Dad. I love it. The feeling of being onstage. It’s like flying.” He blinked rapidly, and I put a hand on his arm. “But the crash afterward . . . It’s brutal. It takes me days to recover, but the next morning we’re on the road again. I have no base. No routines.” I swallowed. “The ups and downs are just—”

  He turned toward me suddenly, put his hands on my shoulders. His eyes flashed with hope. “But that’s normal, Ellie! All performers experience that. The highs and the lows, that’s just part—”

  “You’re not listening!” Dad flinched. “It’s not normal. Not for me. My highs and lows are not like yours. They’re vicious. Unbearable. I don’t bounce from happy to sad; I go from invincible to suicidal, then back again. And again. I can’t live like that anymore.”

  He looked away, his face growing paler by the moment.

  “I know you wanted a different life for me, a performer’s life. But I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

  Dad let out a long breath, closed his eyes. “I’m the one who should be sorry.” He looked at me, his eyes wet and fierce. “I’ve been selfish. You take such good care of me—but I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you.” He took me in his arms then, and I hugged him tight. Tighter than I had since I was a little girl.

  When I let go, he turned and placed his hand aga
inst the window. Silhouetted like that against the Vegas skyline, he looked like something from an old cover of Time magazine.

  “All right, then,” he said, turning to face me. “We’ve got work to do.”

  When I got outside, I scanned the parking lot below, but Heather’s Hyundai was nowhere in sight.

  Ripley was gone.

  I pulled out my phone and tapped his contact. It went to voice mail. I called again; same result. A cold fist pushed against my breastbone, and for a moment I thought I might be sick. The things I had said to him. The way I had treated him, after he’d driven across three states to rescue me. I paced the concrete walkway, squinting against the hot red light of the afternoon sun.

  It was times like this when I hated my illness, hated myself—and where was the line between the two? Was there a line? Even when the gray had loosened its grip, even when I was riding high, I did and said terrible things to the people I loved. I’d brought Dad to tears, and I’d driven Ripley away. If that’s who I was off meds, wasn’t that the “real” me? Didn’t that make the medicated, “functional” version of me nothing more than a chemical marionette? Did the illness disfigure my personality—or did the medication build me a false one? I didn’t know which Ellie was real. I just knew I didn’t like her.

  I looked down at my phone and typed out a text to Ripley:

  I’m sick. I’m sorry. Please come back.

  I clicked Send and stared at the screen for I don’t know how long, dreading what I had to do next and trying to gather the courage to do it anyway. Then I opened voice chat, scrolled to the contact I needed, and tapped the Call button.

  It rang three times. Four. I was about to hang up when his face appeared on the screen.

  Liam had cut his hair since I last saw him, and it was now buzzed almost to the skin, making his ears look larger and giving him a goofier, friendlier look. I didn’t want to, but I liked it.

  “Ellie?” he said, leaning toward his camera as if he didn’t believe what his screen was showing him.

  The sound of my name on his lips seemed to cut through my anger. I tried to steady my voice.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “I’m so glad you called. I— How are you?”

  “It’s complicated,” I replied.

  Behind Liam, I saw a Bob Marley poster tacked to the wall and a thick stack of textbooks on top of a minifridge. Was he in someone else’s dorm room? Was it hers?

  “Am I bothering you?” I asked, hating the simpering tone in my voice.

  “Not all at, no. How . . . Is your dad all right? How’s his heart?”

  “He’s fine,” I said, gripping the wrought-iron railing. Small talk was agony.

  “I’m glad,” he said. “Where are you calling from?”

  Liam stood up and moved across the room. In the background I saw a Yankees cap hanging from a closet doorknob and a PlayStation on a dusty TV stand. That seemed more like him.

  “I’m in Las Vegas,” I said.

  “Las Vegas, Nevada?”

  “No, the one in Maine.”

  His face split into a grin, activating his dimple. “Are you always such a smartass?”

  I took in a sharp breath. “I really can’t flirt with you now.”

  His smile evaporated. “No, I get it. I owe you an apology and an explanation.”

  “Just the apology,” I said. “I’m a smart girl. I figured out the rest.”

  “It’s not what you think,” he said. “I’m not a cheater. Kaylee and I were broken up when I met you.”

  Kaylee. I wanted to tear her hair out. I searched the background for evidence of her: a purse on the bed, a sweater on the back of a chair. I found nothing.

  “It’s none of my business,” I said.

  “It is your business. I don’t want you to think I was jerking you around.”

  “Then you probably should have told me about ‘Kaylee’ first, huh?”

  What was I doing? I needed a favor from him—a big one. Yet here I was, antagonizing him. I had to get a grip.

  Liam ran a hand over his buzzed head, and the habit was so familiar, it felt like I’d known him for years.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I should have told you.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because you wouldn’t have gone out with me.”

  “But you don’t know that. You don’t know me.” The words came out as if someone else were speaking them. “We could have just hooked up. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I’m not like that,” Liam said. “And I don’t think you are, either.”

  “Well, I am. I’m not some fragile freak.”

  Liam looked like he was swallowing a giant pill. He cleared his throat.

  “It’s obvious you didn’t call to forgive me. Do you need something? Is there anything I can do?”

  His utter decency made me want to crawl through the phone and wring his neck.

  “I need a truck.” I just blurted it out. Liam didn’t reply. “Your dad’s company has a hub in Vegas. I looked it up.”

  He let out a long sigh and turned away from the camera for a moment, thinking. Probably he was wondering what kind of crazy bitch he’d gotten himself involved with.

  He turned to face me again. “What do you need it for?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  He leaned back in his chair, blew out a breath. “You want me to get you one of my dad’s trucks, but you won’t tell me why?”

  I bit my lip. This was going all wrong—I’d meant to be forgiving, charming, persuasive. I’d meant to get him wrapped around my finger. Instead, I was the woman scorned and he was the put-upon rich kid.

  Liam reached across the desk, maybe for a notepad. “Where will you be going?”

  I cocked my head. Was that a yes?

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Will you be transporting anything illegal?” he asked.

  My shoulders tensed, but I managed to keep my expression neutral. “Like what?”

  “Drugs. Weapons. People. I don’t know.”

  I shook my head. “Nothing like that.” He hadn’t specifically mentioned stolen property; it was a weak excuse, but I clung to it.

  Liam’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press the issue. “I suppose you need a driver, too? Preferably a deaf mute with persistent amnesia?”

  I put a hand over my mouth to stifle a manic giggle. Holy shit. Was he was going to do it?

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head like a man about to do something crazy, and then said, “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I let out a short squeal. “You’ll do it? You’ll actually do it?”

  I pinched my thigh to make myself stop. If I didn’t shut up, I was going to talk him out of it.

  Liam nodded. “I know the night manager there. I was the ring bearer at his wedding. When do you need it?”

  “Tonight,” I said, knowing it was impossible.

  “Jesus.” He glanced at his expensive watch. “Okay. I’m . . . I’ll call you back in an hour.”

  I closed my eyes. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And Ellie? For what it’s worth, Kaylee and I are done. Permanently.”

  “Stop saying her name.”

  “Okay.”

  I took a deep breath. “Say mine again.”

  “Okay. Ellie.”

  Before I said anything else stupid, I disconnected the call. I sat there for a minute, hip bones pressed against the hard railing. Liam was sticking out his neck for me, and I didn’t know why. Maybe he felt guilty. Or maybe he just wanted a story to tell someday when he was stuck at the country club, hiding from his pretty, boring wife while he drank scotch and bullshitted with the other potbellied executives. Maybe Liam was every bit as trapped as I was—just in a much nicer cage.

  But I didn’t have time to sit around feeling sorry for him, or for myself. I had another call to make, and then I needed to get ready.

  Higgins answered on the first ring. “Is it on?” he said
by way of greeting.

  “It’s on,” I replied.

  “Yes!” He sounded like a teenage boy who had just completed a mission in Call of Duty. “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Great. I’m coming.”

  I hesitated. “That . . . might not be the best idea.”

  “I’ve waited a long time for this,” Higgins said. “I’m going to make sure you don’t chicken out or fuck it up.”

  “You don’t want to get involved, Higgins. What if the cops come?”

  Higgins snort-laughed. “You couldn’t count the zeros on the checks I’ve written to the LVMPD Foundation. They won’t touch me.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Dad won’t go for it.”

  “I’ll make it easy: I’m coming or the deal’s off.”

  My hand tightened around the railing. Dad wasn’t going to like this. Hell, I didn’t like it. But what choice did we have?

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll text you the address.”

  CHAPTER 24

  IT WAS TEN THIRTY P.M. when our taxi pulled in to the truck stop. Half a dozen semis stood parked at the pumps, but none of them bore the Miller Logistics logo I’d seen online. I was about to call Liam and ask him where our driver was when my phone rang.

  “Hey,” the low voice on the other end replied. “Look up. Pump number four.”

  I did. A tall man with long red hair raised a hand. He was standing next to an unmarked semi. I glanced at Dad, and we walked toward the truck.

  “Rodney,” the driver said, extending a hand. “I hear we’re picking up some cargo?”

  “That’s correct,” Dad replied.

  “Hop in; we’ve got to do something first.”

  In contrast to the sleeper rig we’d ridden to Phoenix, this cab was spotless and smelled like pine. Rodney pulled out of the truck stop, and we rumbled down a frontage road for a quarter mile before pulling over.

  “I’ll just be a sec,” Rodney said. He grabbed a power drill from the center console and hopped out of the cab.

  Dad let out a long breath.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He ran a finger across his mustache, nodded. I could tell he was having second thoughts. Part of me wanted to draw them out. But the other part knew we needed to shut up and execute the plan.