The Lightness of Hands

by Jeff Garvin

  The last time Dad had rehearsed this illusion, it had been my mother binding his wrists.

  Without being willed to, my hands went back to work, tying his ankles. When I had finished, Dad tested his bonds and smiled.

  “Perfect,” he said. If he had noticed his flub or my reaction, he didn’t show it.

  I opened the door to the old Chevy and helped him climb in. Once he was settled behind the wheel, I closed the door and stepped back.

  Clemente looked up at the catwalk. “Go!”

  With a jolt, the truck lurched into the air.

  “Easy, there,” Dad called out to Clemente.

  “My bad,” shouted one of the stagehands on the catwalk. The truck paused in its ascent, techs muttered over the walkie-talkies, and then Dad was lowered back down.

  “Let’s try that again,” Clemente said.

  The stagehand activated the winch. This time, the truck rose gracefully off the stage. I imagined the spotlight shooting down from the back of the house, painting Dad’s face white, illuminating a cone of stage fog in its path. When the Chevy reached its apex, the crane arm, hidden from the audience by the proscenium, moved the body of the truck until it was suspended over the now-full tank.

  “All right,” Clemente called, crossing downstage. “You ready for the drop?”

  Dad stuck his arm out the window and gave Clemente the okay sign.

  Out of habit or showmanship—I wasn’t sure which—I pulled the lever.

  The truck dropped.

  It hit the surface with a tremendous splash, sending water over the sides of the tank. Clemente shouted to an underling that they would need mops and a pump waiting in the wings—but all my attention was on Dad. Water was gushing into the cab, and I held my breath as he began to work at the ropes that held his wrists.

  The water rose to his chest, then over his head. Now he started to thrash, twisting this way and that inside the truck. I felt my pulse spike—but the next moment, he stopped thrashing and thrust his hands out the window. He was free of his bonds. He’d made it look like a struggle—and even though I knew exactly how he’d shrugged off the rope, I had been caught up in the lie, just like the audience would be tomorrow night. Dad kicked out through the window and swam to the top of the tank.

  It took another half hour to get the winch speed just right for the new finale—but once that was done, Dad crossed downstage, still wet but smiling. The crew applauded.

  “That was perfect,” I said, crossing the planks to join him.

  “Thanks to you,” he replied, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  I tried to look affected by the compliment—it’s how I should have felt. Honored. Inspired. Instead, I felt flat and slightly ill, as if I’d just swallowed a mouthful of paper. I hoped Dad was too caught up in the moment to see through my act.

  “I’ll get you a towel,” I said. As I walked offstage to retrieve one, Clemente started talking with Dad.

  There were no towels waiting in the wings, so I headed toward the dressing rooms. A stack of white towels sat on a plastic cart in the hallway; I grabbed one and jogged back to the stage.

  As I reentered the wings, I heard Clemente call, “That’s it for Dante! He’s back for a full rehearsal at seven p.m. tomorrow!” His voice echoed in the rafters.

  Dad exchanged a few more words with him, then shook his hand and began to walk toward me. He smiled, spreading his arms wide in triumph—but then his smile faltered.

  He paused midstep, put a hand to his chest, and collapsed onto the stage.

  CHAPTER 28

  EVERYTHING HAPPENED AT ONCE.

  I stood paralyzed as Clemente rushed forward and dropped to his knees. He yelled at one of the stagehands, who pulled out his cell phone and made a call. Then he bent over my father and started doing chest compressions. He looked at me—and his eye contact shocked me back into motion.

  I remembered seeing a red defibrillator box on the way in. I bolted through the stage door, yanked the AED from its mount, and rushed back to where my father lay.

  Clemente took the defibrillator from my hands. As soon as he opened the box and pushed the red button, an automated voice began to give instructions, but I didn’t wait.

  “Let me do it!” I said. Clemente stared at me. I grabbed both sides of Dad’s dress shirt and yanked. Buttons flew like popcorn. I pulled up his undershirt and rolled him onto his side. His skin was shockingly pale.

  “It’s okay,” I told him. “You’re going to be okay.”

  Ignoring the quaver in my voice, I took the first adhesive paddle from Clemente and applied it next to Dad’s left shoulder blade, then rolled him on his back again. I placed the second paddle on his chest, over his heart. The automated voice confirmed that the electrodes had been applied correctly, then directed us to stand clear.

  I bit down on my fist.

  The machine beeped three times and then emitted a loud buzz, and Dad’s muscles tensed. His eyes went wide, staring—and then he gasped for breath.

  The strength left my body in a rush, and I sat down hard. I didn’t hear the sirens or feel the footsteps of the paramedics as they crossed the stage, but all at once they were shunting me aside, lifting Dad onto a gurney, calling out his heart rate and blood pressure into their radios. I followed them to the loading dock, and one of them walked up to me.

  “You’re his daughter?”

  I could only nod.

  “You did the right thing.”

  The other paramedic shouted, and he answered before turning back to me.

  “We’re taking him to Hollywood Presbyterian.”

  “Okay,” I said as he climbed into the back of the ambulance and closed the doors. It peeled out from the loading dock, lights flashing, siren blaring. I staggered, and two hands reached out to steady me. They were Grace’s.

  “Is there someone I can call?”

  Forty minutes later, a faded red Prius pulled into the alley. At first I thought it was a crew member coming back from dinner, but then a familiar-looking boy got out. He was tall with broad shoulders and wore a Yankees cap, and I rushed forward and fell into his arms. They were strong, and he held me as if we’d never fought, as if he hadn’t cheated and I hadn’t used him.

  “It’s all right,” Liam said. “It’s going to be okay.”

  There were so many things I wanted to say: thank you; fuck you; I’m scared. But the words locked up in my throat, so I just pushed away and climbed into the Prius’s passenger seat. Liam got in, glanced briefly at me, then handed me his phone.

  “The address is already in there. Just tell me where to turn.”

  He fumbled with the oddly placed gearshift, then backed out of the alley onto Orchid Avenue. He stepped on the gas, and the Prius hummed toward Hollywood Boulevard.

  Other than “go straight” and “turn here,” I said very little. In return, he didn’t ask how I was holding up, or offer a further apology. He just drove, and I was grateful. After a few blocks, it hit me that the car smelled like perfume. I looked down and spotted a handful of hair ties cinched around the gearshift. Liam saw my face and said, “It’s not . . . This is my buddy’s girlfriend’s car.”

  My shoulders relaxed. Jealousy was a pretty ridiculous emotion given the circumstances.

  When we got to the ER, Liam came with me to the desk and stood close as the receptionist calmly told me that yes, my father was here, but no, she didn’t have any further information, and no, I couldn’t see him right now. She told me to take a seat, and that somebody would call my name when there was more to tell.

  Liam guided me to a worn vinyl chair and sat down next to me. When I didn’t do or say anything, he grabbed my small hand with his larger one.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said.

  “Of course,” he replied, shifting in his seat. “So, your dad. Is he . . . ?”

  “He was conscious when the ambulance came.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah.” I picked at a hole in the chair’s uphol
stery. A glance at the clock told me that only four minutes had passed since we’d checked with the nurse.

  Liam shifted in his chair. “I want to talk about something, but I don’t want you to feel obligated if you’re not up to it.”

  “Okay,” I said, dreading another chain of apologies or excuses, but grateful at the prospect of something else to think about.

  Liam seemed to get more uncomfortable. “It’s just . . . You’re the first girl who’s ever called me and asked for an eighteen-wheeler on short notice.”

  I laughed out loud. So loud and for so long that the other people in the ER waiting room must have thought I needed the psych ward. Little did they know.

  When I had calmed down and wiped the tears from my eyes, I told Liam what had happened—from the call from Flynn Bissette to my wrecking the RV. It was strange; even after all the drama between us, I still felt like I could trust Liam. Talking to him was easy, but not effortless like it was with Ripley. Like it had been, I reminded myself. On impulse I checked my phone, but Ripley still hadn’t replied. I thought about calling him to tell him what had happened to Dad but decided against it. He might see it as manipulative, me exploiting yet another crisis to make up for my awful behavior. And maybe he would be right.

  Before I had time to consider it any further, a voice called my name.

  “Elias Dante Jr.?”

  I jumped out of my seat. “Yes?”

  The man standing in the doorway wore a white lab coat—so he was a doctor, not a nurse. I strode across the waiting room to him.

  “I’m Dr. Saroyan, your dad’s cardiologist.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He’s stable,” he said, which wasn’t an answer. “Why don’t you come on back.”

  I turned to Liam.

  “I’ll be right here,” he said.

  Dr. Saroyan led me down the hall into a small office.

  “We’re not going to his room?” I asked.

  “Not right now. Please take a seat.”

  Reluctantly, I did.

  “I understand you operated the defibrillator.”

  “Yeah, I did. Look, tell me what’s going on with my dad.”

  Dr. Saroyan sat and folded his hands on the desk. “Your father had a heart attack.”

  I’d figured out that much on my own, but the news tightened my chest all the same.

  “He needs to undergo a procedure.”

  I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. “Are you putting in another stent?”

  “I’m afraid it’s more serious this time,” Saroyan said. “Your father needs emergency bypass surgery. They’re prepping him now.”

  “How risky is the surgery?”

  “It would be riskier not to do it.”

  I pressed my hands against my numb face. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was only sixteen, and I’d already lost Mom. I couldn’t lose him, too.

  Dr. Saroyan shifted in his seat. “Our cardiac surgeon, Dr. Houts, performs these procedures every week. His success rate is far above the mean.”

  I bit my lip. “We don’t have . . . There’s no insurance.”

  Dr. Saroyan glanced at the door, then leaned toward me. “Patients can’t be turned away for lifesaving treatments. You can work it out later.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “With no complications, three to four hours.”

  I gripped the arms of the chair. “What should I do?”

  “Stay close. The front desk has your cell. You’ll get a text message when we have news.”

  I nodded.

  “Have your friend take you down to the commissary on the first floor.” He gave me a weak smile. “Stay away from the tuna salad.”

  Liam and I ate Froot Loops from single-serving boxes and drank Starbucks coffee from paper cups. I asked him to distract me, so he started telling me about his senior trip to New York. About what it was like to crunch the snow in Central Park and drink whiskey in a speakeasy behind a Laundromat. I tried to nod and smile in all the right places, but the adrenaline from the emergency was waning, leaving me even more exhausted than I’d been before. Liam saw me crashing and insisted that I take a nap. So after two hours with no updates from the doctor, we returned to his buddy’s girlfriend’s Prius, tilted the seats back, and tried to sleep. Despite the maelstrom of thoughts twisting my neurons, I felt my eyes droop. Sleep came more easily in the gray—maybe because it was so much more pleasant than being awake.

  Then my phone chirped, and my eyes shot open: it was a text from the front desk. I scrambled out of the car and ran for the hospital door.

  CHAPTER 29

  THIS TIME IT WAS DR. HOUTS who met me at the receptionist’s desk. When he smiled, I let out a gasp of relief and had to wipe my eyes.

  “Is he okay?” I said, trying to catch my breath.

  Liam caught up and took my hand.

  “The procedure went smoothly,” Dr. Houts said. “Your dad is recovering in the ICU.”

  “When can I see him?”

  He glanced at an expensive watch. It was past midnight. “Go home and get some sleep. Come back around six a.m. He should be awake by then.”

  Liam insisted on staying with me, crashing out on the other bed. I was grateful; I didn’t want to be alone.

  I awoke to Liam’s hand on my shoulder. Orange light poured in through the gauzy hotel curtains, and it took me a moment to remember where I was. I felt drugged. There was a cold burning in my head, and my thoughts were slow.

  “What time is it?” I asked. My mouth tasted like old tires.

  “Seven fifteen.”

  I sat up. “I was supposed to be there at six!”

  “You needed the sleep,” Liam said. “The hospital sent you a text. Your dad just woke up, and he’s asking for you.”

  “Shit. Okay, let’s go.”

  I pulled my hair into a ponytail and brushed my teeth while Liam made us hotel room coffee to go. We were at the hospital by seven forty-five.

  Only family members were allowed in the ICU, so I left Liam in the waiting room and followed the signs down a long second-floor corridor until I reached Dad’s room. Someone had written DANTE, ELIAS on a whiteboard next to the door. Somehow, seeing his name on that whiteboard made everything more real. I dug my nails into my palms and walked into the room.

  Dad lay in bed with his eyes closed. Tubes ran into his nostrils. An IV bag dripped clear liquid into the back of one veiny hand. The sight of all this, the smell of menthol, and the sound of beeping and hissing machines made me feel sick. I never wanted to set foot in a hospital again; how had I ever thought I wanted to be a nurse?

  I crossed to Dad and put my hand on the cold bed rail. His eyes opened, and he covered my hand with his. His skin was almost as pale as the sheet, and the lines on his face seemed deeper in the harsh green light.

  “Daddy,” I said. It came out a whisper.

  He rubbed his paper-dry fingers across my hand. I leaned over and pressed my cheek against his knuckles.

  “How do you feel?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Rule number three,” he said, smiling. “Always keep them guessing.”

  A sound came out of me, half sob and half laugh. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “Clemente did the CPR. He would have done the rest if I’d let him.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He gripped my hand. “When your mom—when she left us . . . Without you, I would have been dead a long time ago.”

  I felt a hot tide rising behind my eyes.

  “Knowing how she suffered . . . I should have seen it. In her, and in you. I should have taken better care of you both.”

  I wanted to throw my arms around him, hug him, but he was too fragile. So instead I clutched his arm and squeezed.

  “I miss her,” I said.

  “I do, too.” His voice was soft and thin.

  “I’m sorry
.” I took a deep breath and let it rattle out of me slowly. “We got so close.”

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “The show. Your comeback.” I glanced at the sheet stretched over his chest, imagining the inflamed incision beneath. The reality of it struck me like a pipe to the head: They had cut him open. They’d cut straight to his heart. I couldn’t think about it anymore or I’d fall apart.

  He started to move, as if he intended to prop himself up on his elbows.

  “Dad, stop.” Gently, I pushed him back down. “You’ll rip your stitches.”

  He grunted in protest but complied. “They use staples now.”

  “You just had a goddamned heart attack. You’re not sitting up until a doctor says it’s okay.”

  “That’s some way to speak to your father.” He made a tutting noise. Sometimes his sense of humor was infuriating. Dad licked his lips, glanced at the bedside table. “Could I have some water?”

  I shook my head. “You’re not allowed to eat or drink anything for the next twenty-four hours. IV nutrients only. But the nurse said I could get you get some ice chips.”

  When I returned from the nurses’ station, he sucked greedily at the ice, then sank back into the pillow. I pulled up a chair and sat down so that our heads were on the same level.

  “Better?”

  “Much.”

  He closed his eyes, and I thought he might fall asleep—but then he spoke, and his voice was stronger and clearer than it had been a moment before.

  “You were right, Ellie. I’m too old, and you need stability.” He opened his eyes. “My performing days are over. Sunny’s Roadhouse was my swan song, and my proudest moment. Because of you.”

  He squeezed my hand, and my heart ached. Dad had always pursued his dream, no matter how many times it danced out of his grasp. Sitting there next to him as hospital monitors beeped and hummed, I realized that it was the chase that drove him. If it had been money or fame he was after, he would have given up years ago.

  “Once I’ve recovered, we’ll settle down for good. We may have to couch-surf for a while, but we’ll land on our feet. We always do.” He smiled, but the expression was manufactured. Plastered on over a thick layer of disappointment. I wanted to share his hope—but even if we did find jobs and a couch to sleep on, we’d have medical bills weighing us down for years. There would be no money for an apartment of our own, no money for college. And with the RV gone and our props destroyed, we couldn’t even make a living doing magic anymore. We were so much worse off than we had been—and he had to know it.