The Lightness of Hands

by Jeff Garvin

  Inside, I was beaming, but I shook my head. “I’m not cut out for it.”

  He shrugged. “Well, I think you’re crazy.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  Rico gave me a quizzical smile. “In any case, I think you persuaded Higgins. What’s next?”

  “We go to LA,” I said. “It’s up to Dad now.”

  Before the words were even out of my mouth, I felt myself slowing down, as if someone had shot me with a tranquilizer dart. The high of performing was draining away, and the weight of what we had to do next settled on me like that lead X-ray vest. I could no longer feel my pulse throbbing in my throat. My nerves had ceased to buzz. The world began to dim as if I were seeing it through a tinted window.

  No, no, no. It was happening too fast. I needed another day. I needed another week.

  Rico glanced over his shoulder. “I’d better get back in there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take care of yourself, okay?”

  “I will,” I said.

  But I wasn’t sure I could.

  By the time I got to the truck, Rodney was behind the wheel. I climbed in next to Dad.

  “Change of plans?” Rodney said.

  “Yeah,” I replied, my voice once again reverting to that flat, robotic tone. “Can you drop us off on Fremont? We’re staying at the Uptowner.”

  “The hell you are,” Higgins said.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “I have like nine bedrooms.”

  Higgins rode shotgun, gushing the whole way about how amazing Devereaux was, and how he had been flying, really flying. I stared out the window, turning away from the lights of Vegas and the false hope they transmitted. Now that the grift was over, I felt empty. Numb. I knew we’d gotten a better outcome than we could have hoped for, but still I felt only a vague sense of indifference. The hardest part was still ahead, and there were so many ways we could fail. I should have been worried, maybe even desperate—but that way was blocked.

  People think depression is the same as sadness, a blue gauze that descends to tint the world a shade darker. But in truth, it’s like a snowfall of ash, obscuring the color and the taste of everything.

  Rodney pulled his rig up to the gates, and Higgins leaned forward.

  “You got a card?” he asked.

  Rodney frowned. “I’m a truck driver, man. We don’t have cards.”

  “Oh.” Higgins rifled through his pockets, pulled out a crinkled receipt, and jotted something on the back. “That’s my cell. Be here tomorrow at . . .” He looked at my dad. “Nine? Jesus, that’s early. Okay, be here at nine. And bring some guys. I’m not loading that shit.”

  Rodney said, “Not loading what shit?”

  Higgins smiled. “I have an old Chevy pickup and a big Plexiglas tank that need to get to LA fast.”

  CHAPTER 27

  ELLA, ELLA, EH, EH, EH . . .

  I awoke with the song playing on a loop in my mind. My head hurt, a dull, insomniac ache, despite the fact that I’d slept hard. For a moment, I wondered why I couldn’t feel the thrum of the RV’s diesel engine beneath me—and then I remembered where I was and what had happened last night. The headache and the song and the disorientation—they were all symptoms of a postshow crash. Or, in this case, a postgrift crash.

  Shielding my eyes against the harsh desert sunlight blasting in through the window, I got up, stretched, and stepped into the cavernous shower. I let the scalding water pound down on me for as long as I could stand it, then dried off and dressed.

  I found Dad in Higgins’s kitchen, sipping coffee and writing in his journal. He looked up as I walked in.

  “Good morning!” he said. His cheer hurt my head.

  “Morning.”

  I poured myself a cup while Dad launched into a soliloquy about the flaw of the original Truck Drop, and how this new version was going to blow the original away. I tried to look commiserating—but he saw through it.

  “You’re coming down,” he said.

  “The meds will kick in soon.”

  Dad reached for my hand. “You’ve done so much, Ellie. I’ll take it from here. And when we get that check, we’ll get you a refill.”

  “On yours, too, okay?”

  “Pharmaceuticals all around!”

  He threw up his hands as if tossing confetti or pills into the air. I couldn’t help smiling.

  “There she is,” he said.

  A few minutes later, Dad and Higgins went out to clear a path to the old Chevy so Rodney’s crew could get to it. I stayed in the kitchen, sipping coffee I couldn’t taste, tracing the ring of steam it left on the countertop. I should have felt excited about the performance to come; it would be by far the most important of our lives. And while part of me insisted that my apathy was just my sickness rearing its head, another part knew for a fact that it wasn’t. That I deserved to be unhappy because of the people I’d damaged along the way. I’d used Liam, I’d nearly gotten Rico fired, and I’d said the worst possible things to Ripley. I pulled out my phone and stared at its cracked display. Ripley had never responded to my text. I unlocked the screen and typed out a new message.

  I don’t blame you for ghosting me, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I’m sorry for what I said to you in Las Vegas. It wasn’t true. You didn’t desert anyone. You spend so much time taking care of everyone else—Jude, your dad, me—that you just needed to take care of yourself for once. They’re lucky to have you, Ripley. And so was I. You made me feel like I wasn’t alone. Like I wasn’t crazy. You saved my life, and for that, I’ll always be grateful. I love you.

  I clicked Send and pocketed my phone.

  Once everything was loaded into the semi, Rodney went inside to raid the fridge for a Pepsi, leaving Dad and me standing awkwardly at the gate with Higgins.

  “Well,” Higgins said, squinting at the southern horizon, “you guys better get out of here before traffic starts to suck.”

  “Thank you, Jif,” Dad said. “For everything.”

  Higgins flapped a hand. “Don’t get mushy. I’ll see you guys in a couple of days.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You’re coming to LA?”

  Higgins laughed. “After all this, you think I’d miss it?”

  Rodney emerged from the house with an armful of soda cans, and we crawled into the cab. He fired up the engine—its diesel rumble was comforting—and drove through the gate. In the side-view mirror, I watched Higgins disappear as we turned onto Lake Mead Boulevard and drove out of sight.

  Traffic on the 15 did suck, and it took us ninety minutes just to reach Primm. I spent the time on my laptop going over the schedule. We were supposed to load in at three p.m., and if Waze was right, we were barely going to make it. Our tech run-through was tonight, full dress was tomorrow, and the show went live Wednesday night—just over forty-eight hours away. The last eight days had passed at a crawl, but now I was free-falling, gaining speed, the ground rushing up to meet me.

  An hour after we crossed the California state line, I heard the ding of a new text message and began frantically searching the back seat for my phone. It was Ripley. It had to be. He had finally responded.

  Only he hadn’t. The message was from Liam.

  Liam: Everything work out ok?

  Me: Yes.

  I paused with my thumb over the Send arrow. Then, somewhat reluctantly, I added:

  Me: Thank you.

  Liam: I have a confession.

  Me: Okay.

  The little dots bounced, then stopped. Bounced, then stopped.

  If heaven and hell exist, then purgatory is filled with those little dots.

  Liam: I did the truck thing so you would forgive me.

  The ghost of a smile turned up the corner of my mouth, then evaporated.

  Me: I have a confession too

  Liam: What?

  I blew out a breath. I often felt like words erupted from my mouth without my consent; now it was happening with my thumbs.

  Me: I asked you to do
the truck thing because I knew you wanted forgiveness.

  Me: Do you think I’m manipulative?

  Liam: Maybe. But I probably deserve it.

  Liam: Do you forgive me?

  I typed a few words, then deleted them. Let him suffer the bouncing dots for a minute, see how he liked it.

  Me: I want to.

  I waited for two solid minutes, but he didn’t reply. Maybe someone had called him. Maybe his phone had died.

  Maybe he’d written me off.

  Suddenly, I wished I hadn’t sent that last message. The first time I’d made myself vulnerable to him, I had been more or less stable. If he took advantage of me while I was on my way down, I wasn’t sure I could recover.

  Traffic came to a dead halt just south of Baker, and I started to worry that we were going to miss the rehearsal. I thought of calling Grace to tell her we’d been delayed—but I was terrified that she would tell Flynn and he would drop us from the show. It was an irrational fear, but reason didn’t have much sway when I was on the downslope.

  By the time we made a pit stop in Barstow, we were two hours behind schedule, and I had bitten my nails to the quick. Dad took forever in the bathroom at the Taco Bell; I was about to ask Rodney to check on him when he finally emerged, looking seasick.

  “Everything all right?” I asked.

  “Not sure breakfast agreed with me,” he said, grimacing.

  Two hours later, when we finally merged onto the westbound 210 freeway, I took a deep breath and called Grace.

  “Grace Wu, how can I help you?” She said it rapidly and with no inflection. In the background, I heard clanking metal and loud voices.

  “Hi, Grace. It’s Ellie Dante.”

  “Where are you?”

  The tension in her voice was contagious, and I felt my shoulders tighten.

  “We hit a snag with our equipment,” I said. “We’re an hour away.”

  “You’re going to be late for load-in.”

  I closed my eyes. I couldn’t overreact. I had to stay calm.

  “Head straight to the Dolby,” she said. “We’ll make it work.”

  As we shot past the 57 freeway, I saw a billboard for Park Hills Hyundai and realized I was passing within a few miles of Ripley’s house. I took a photo of the sign and texted it to him—maybe my proximity would move him. Then I shoved my phone back into my bag and stared out the window.

  It was five p.m. when we finally arrived. We were two hours late, so Rodney let us out while he backed the truck up to the loading dock. My bottom lip was raw from nervous chewing, my legs and neck stiff from seven hours on the road. Dad looked even older than usual, his skin ashen, his hair rumpled; he insisted he just needed to splash some water on his face. While he went off in search of a restroom, I went into the theater to find Grace.

  Backstage areas are usually disappointing: Instead of red carpet, the floor is scarred concrete. Where you’d expect chandeliers, the ceiling is decorated with tangled wires and ugly ducts. There are no glamorous celebrities in tuxes and gowns, just crusty stage crew in black Dickies. I had seen it all. At least, I thought I had—but backstage at the Dolby was different. The walls were black and sleek and covered with flat-screen monitors showing every angle of the stage. The managers had lecterns on wheels, and the stagehands drove Segways. Even their clipboards were iPads. And I did, in fact, see celebrities. Cynthia Sixx walked right past me, her tower of curly hair even taller than it looked on TV. I saw Tommy Takai come out of a dressing room wearing a baseball cap and a silver-sequined blazer. He nodded at me as he walked by.

  Suddenly, it hit me: I was here. I had arrived. Magic didn’t get bigger than this. Last week we’d played for fifty people at a bar. In two days, we would play for millions. I had to shake myself back to reality. We were late, and I needed to check in.

  When I spotted Grace, I knew immediately that it was her: dark hair, late twenties, Starbucks in one hand, iPad in the other, talking rapidly into her headset. As I approached, she held up the index finger on her Starbucks hand in a hold on gesture.

  “I need it here tonight,” she said into the headset. “Make it thirty minutes.” The call apparently ended, because she let out a frustrated sigh and turned to me. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Ellie Dante,” I said.

  “Oh my goodness! It’s great to meet you.” She made a helpless gesture with her full hands. “When does your gear arrive?”

  “It’s here,” I said. “We came in the same truck.”

  “That sounds awful.” She turned her focus to her tablet. “I’ll get a crew down here to unload it. Hold this for me?” She handed me her coffee and swiped at her iPad. “We’ve got you at the Magic Castle Hotel. Go check in, drop your bags, be back here in an hour.” Her phone rang. She answered it, grabbed her coffee, and rushed off. I turned to head back to the truck, then paused midstep.

  I was standing under the giant roll-up door that looked out onto the Dolby Theatre stage. It was wide and black and big enough to park a 747 on, but that wasn’t what stole my breath.

  Beyond the proscenium gaped a cavernous auditorium. I found myself pulled center stage, where I stared out at three thousand red velvet seats starting in the orchestra and rising three balconies high to a domed ceiling. The hair on my arms stood up, and I felt blood surge through my veins, warm and fast. I visualized a packed house, a hot spotlight, the glimmer of sequins on my costume. The hush of the audience, the rush of adrenaline—and then a forklift beeped behind me, and the fantasy popped like a soap bubble. I felt an almost physical sensation of whiplash as I came back to reality.

  It was this coming down, this caustic deceleration, that made it impossible for me to continue performing. It was too much for me; it was just too much.

  Feeling heavier than I had before, I turned and fled the stage.

  At the hotel, Dad urged me to eat something, but I wasn’t interested in food. I watched him fix his tie in the mirror. He looked pasty and exhausted.

  “I’m fine,” he said, reacting to my look. “Just a little woozy from being cramped up in the cab of that rig.” He smoothed out his lapels.

  “It’s just tech, Dad. You don’t have to dress up.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You think there won’t be cameras? This is Flynn & Kellar we’re talking about.”

  He was right. I frowned at my jeans and T-shirt, then grabbed my bag and pulled out my little black dress. I hadn’t washed it since before Phoenix, but it would have to do. I set up the hotel’s ironing board but paused before turning on the iron. Suddenly, dread flooded my chest.

  “What is it?” Dad crossed the room and put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Nothing,” I said, switching on the iron and straightening my dress on the board.

  “There’s no space for secrets, Ellie,” he said. “Not now.”

  I stared at the damask-patterned carpet. “What if we’re not ready? We’ve had no rehearsal. What if—”

  He stroked my hair with one of his big hands. “I was doing escapes twenty years before you were born. And you’re even readier than I am.”

  I looked at his face. He radiated confidence. I wished I could feel it.

  The theater was only two blocks from our hotel, but they sent a car anyway—a limo. After spending the last year riding around in a torn-up RV and the back seats of big rigs, it felt strange and luxurious to slide around on a leather seat.

  Grace met us at the stage door and ushered us into the wings, where a tall man in a black turtleneck greeted us.

  “Frankie Clemente,” he said, shaking Dad’s hand. “I’m the stage manager. Big fan.”

  “You’re too kind,” Dad said.

  “Your equipment is onstage. This isn’t a dress rehearsal; we’ll be stopping and starting. We want to run through all the big tech moments to make sure everything’s working.”

  Dad nodded, and Clemente turned to me.

  “You must be Ellie. Would you like to watch your dad from the wings?”

&
nbsp; That’s when I became aware of the cameraman standing six feet away. His lens was pointed at us.

  “Actually,” Dad said, putting a hand on my shoulder, “she’s in the act.”

  The cameraman smiled and took a step closer to capture the warm, fuzzy father-daughter moment. It would probably make for good television, but it made me feel sick.

  The tank had been placed center stage, and a hose roughly the diameter of a telephone pole was filling it with water at an alarming rate. Downstage stood the 1947 Cape Maroon Chevrolet pickup, stage lights gleaming on the polished hood like little suns. While Dad went over the suspension setup with Clemente, I gravitated toward the prop lever.

  It was like something out of a steampunk novel: a tarnished bronze-painted shaft jutting up from a pair of brass sprockets the size of hubcaps. I grasped the handle—and even though I knew it was a prop, part of me expected to feel cold, smooth metal against my skin. Instead, my palm rustled against the hollow fiberglass bulb, finding a jagged seam where the mold had come together. I pulled the lever—but instead of hearing the satisfying metallic click that would project through the PA tomorrow night, I heard only a clumsy, plastic scrape. This was how magic felt when I was low: like a cheap lie, like a toy sword with no edge. My disappointment was ludicrous and vivid.

  I practiced with the handle a few times, willing my muscles to simulate the resistance of real gears so it would play for the audience. It was a joyless effort; I was going through the motions but feeling no excitement, no anticipation. Feeling not much of anything, really.

  When the truck was hooked up to the suspension rig, Dad called me over. He handed me a hank of cotton rope and held up his wrists. Ignoring the hovering cameraman, I bound Dad’s hands with a clunky, amateurish knot; unless Dad picked a sailor from the audience by mistake, that’s what he’d be facing on show night. I yanked hard on the ends of the rope—Dad would insist his volunteer do the same.

  “Oof,” he said, laughing. “You’re cutting off my circulation, Cora.”

  At the sound of my mother’s name, my hands seized up. It was as if my chest had been plunged into icy water; I felt heaviness seeping into my body like an injection of mercury.