The Lightness of Hands

by Jeff Garvin

  “Don’t worry,” I said. I sounded ridiculous, a teenager telling her sixty-four-year-old father not to worry as he lay in bed recovering from open-heart surgery. But what else was there to say? “I’ll find a way to pay the bills. Rico said I could get work as an assistant.”

  “Did he now?” Dad muttered, and then his eyes drifted shut. Our brief conversation had exhausted whatever energy he’d managed to summon, and now he really had fallen asleep.

  I watched him for a few minutes, taking comfort each time his chest rose and fell—but I also felt dread sinking into my bones like a deep winter chill. We had hit bottom, and I knew Dad couldn’t save us. It was up to me.

  I knew what I had to do, and it scared me to death.

  Always keep them guessing, Dad had taught me. It had been my favorite of the four rules. Keep them guessing meant I could always deliver a surprise, delighting people with the unexpected, with the unforeseen. But now I had to gather my strength in pursuit of a different rule of magic. The last and most important rule of all:

  The show must go on.

  Liam was waiting for me in the lobby and stood up as I approached.

  “How is he?”

  Liam had dark circles under his eyes and a two-day beard. For the first time, I wondered what he had sacrificed to be here. At the very least, he’d borrowed a car and lost a night of sleep. He’d probably missed classes, too.

  “He’s fine,” I said. I meant it to sound reassuring, but it came out flat, almost bored. At Liam’s confused look, I said, “Sorry. I’m just wiped out.”

  “I can tell. You’re down, huh?”

  I opened my mouth to give a sarcastic response, but I swallowed it instead. He had noticed. And it was no small feat to tell the difference between the shock of witnessing my dad’s heart attack and the onset of a depressive episode.

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “I am.”

  We headed out to the parking lot and got into the Prius, but Liam didn’t start the engine.

  “Listen, Ellie, I know there’s a lot going on right now. And you don’t owe me anything—not even the chance to explain. But please let me tell you what happened. Then you can decide whether you want to date me or murder me in my sleep.”

  I turned away, stared out the window at the vintage Wendy’s sign across the street. I didn’t want to talk about this right now—I was afraid more disappointment might crush me. But I did owe Liam something. For the truck, and for the rescue.

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you.” He gripped the steering wheel. “I met Kaylee at orientation. We went on three dates, and then—”

  “I don’t want details,” I said. “Just skip to the part about why you lied.”

  Liam took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair.

  “We went on three dates—that’s it. But she thought it was something more. So I had to make a big deal out of it and ‘break up’ with her. That was two weeks ago, before I came home for Becca’s wedding.”

  “Right before you asked me out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you ghosted me. Or why she picked up your phone when I texted you in the middle of the night.”

  Liam stared out the windshield for moment. “Can I explain the second part first?”

  “Fine.”

  “I was pledging a fraternity—Pi Kappa Alpha, the one my father insisted I join. Anyway, I was at this rush party, and Kay—she was there. I was doing a stupid drinking game, and I left my jacket hanging over a chair. She must have taken my phone, seen your text, and called you. I was pretty drunk. I didn’t realize what happened until I looked at my call history the next morning.”

  I couldn’t look at him. “Why do these stories always involve ‘I was drunk’?”

  “I’m not proud of it, and I’m not making an excuse.”

  “Okay, fine. But why didn’t you answer my calls or texts for two days after our second ‘date’? You know, the one where you basically asked me to be your girlfriend?”

  Liam let out a long breath and tilted his head back. I had the feeling I wouldn’t like what he was about to say.

  “I just . . . got cold feet.”

  “About what, exactly?” I glared at him. If he was about to wreck me, I wasn’t going to make it easy.

  “About the bipolar thing.”

  I gaped at him. I had never used that word; he must have figured it out on his own.

  I closed my eyes and pressed the heels of my hands against them. I expected to feel something. A stabbing pain in my heart, a rush of breath, a flood of tears. But I just felt empty.

  “You were so different that night at Sunny’s,” he said. “So much more, I don’t know, aggressive? I just got freaked out.”

  “Stop,” I said. “Stop talking.” I couldn’t stand to hear him say how different I was when I was up. How he would have wanted to be with me, if only I weren’t so fucked up.

  “You can hate me,” Liam said, “but I’m going to be honest. It’s who I am.”

  “Except when you’re scared?”

  “I panicked, okay? I Googled, and I read the worst, and I panicked. I never meant to—”

  “What was ‘the worst’?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “What was the worst symptom you read about? Which part did you not want to deal with?”

  Liam’s mouth opened slightly, but I cut him off before he could answer.

  “Was it the depression that freaked you out? Listlessness, bad hygiene, lack of interest in sex? Suicidal thoughts? Because I’ve had all those. I’ve had all those this week.” I savored the look of shock on his face. “Or was it the hypomania? You thought I was aggressive the other night? You haven’t seen shit. I’ve broken promises. Stolen things. Made out with strangers. Driven away my best friend.” His eyes had softened, but I didn’t feel like letting up. “But those are only the extremes. Mostly, I’m just impossible to be around. One minute you’ll think I’m pissed off, and the next you’ll hate that I’m being so needy. You’ll never know what’s going through my head, and when you ask, I won’t tell you. I’ll be up and down and frantic and sedate and you’ll never know whether it’s you or me or the drugs or just my fucking disease. So if you’ve got cold feet now, I suggest you get as far away from me as you can, as fast as you can.”

  And then the words dried up like someone had shut off the faucet. I folded my arms and stared out the window.

  Liam was quiet for a long time, and as the seconds dragged on, I was afraid that I’d succeeded in scaring him off. I was afraid that any moment now, he was going to tell me to get out of the car. That he was going to drive away and I would never see him again. Actually, I was sure that’s what was going to happen—so I beat him to the punch. I opened the car door and had one foot on the pavement before I felt his hand on my arm.

  “I read all that,” he said. “I read it all, okay? And I thought about it.” He sucked in a breath. “But . . . I just like you.”

  I got back in the car, but I couldn’t face him. “Why?”

  Liam reached across me and closed the car door. “Because you understand things about me that I barely understand myself. And the way you look at the world . . . You see things I’ve never noticed my whole life. So, yeah. I like you. All the versions of you. Sad, sarcastic Ellie from the wedding. Inappropriately horny Ellie from the railroad tie. I even like pissed-off, depressed, in-crisis Ellie from the hospital parking lot. I like them all. I like you.” He paused, took a shuddering breath. “I don’t pretend to know how to deal with all your stuff. I don’t think anyone does. But I’m willing to try. So bring it on. Show me the dark shit. I’m right here.”

  Heat swelled behind my eyes, and I was only slightly disgusted to feel a tear streak down my cheek. I sniffled. Liam made no move to comfort me, to touch me in any way. He was so goddamned decent, I did want to murder him. Finally, I looked up. His eyes were blue and wide and seemed to be dreading whatever I was going to say.
/>   “You practiced that speech, didn’t you?”

  Relief showed in every feature on his face. “A little.”

  “You’re so fucking honest.”

  “You’ll hate it, eventually, if you let me stick around.”

  I ran both hands through my hair, tugged. “I already do.”

  Liam smiled.

  “Take me back to the hotel,” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and started the car.

  CHAPTER 30

  AS WE DROVE BACK TO the hotel, the relief I felt from making peace with Liam faded, replaced by a vicious loop of thoughts about what I had to do next. When we pulled into the lot, I wasn’t ready to be on my own again, so I swallowed my pride and asked him to stay with me for a while. We got hot chocolate from the lobby and sat on wicker chairs in the courtyard, looking up at the Hollywood Hills, now green from an autumn rainstorm that had beaten us to California.

  I took a sip and stared into the distance. “Dad’s too sick to perform, so I’m going on in his place.”

  Liam set down his cup. “Are you serious?”

  I nodded. “His surgery’s going to cost like forty grand, and we don’t have insurance. So I don’t have much choice.”

  “Ellie, that’s—”

  “I know. But first I have to persuade Flynn to let me do it.”

  “You think he will?”

  “I don’t know.” I picked at the rim of my cup. “But I have a plan.”

  “This is big.”

  “It’s huge. And I should be terrified. But instead I’m numb.”

  Liam picked up his cup again, then set it back down. “But you know the routine, right?”

  “Backward and forward. I’ve been thinking about it nonstop for ten days.”

  “And you get paid something, even if you fail?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  I smirked, and he rolled his eyes.

  “I just mean you’ve got nothing to lose. There’s no downside.”

  I stared at the clumps of undissolved chocolate powder at the bottom of my cup. “With me, there’s always a downside.”

  “Oh.” There was recognition in his voice, and I believed that he really did get it. I felt a swell of gratitude.

  “Do you remember I told you how my mom died?”

  He nodded.

  “She did it right after what happened on TV.”

  Liam let out a long breath.

  “Dad failed big, and it triggered a cycle, and she never recovered.” My throat tightened. “What if that happens to me? What if I fuck up like he did? What if I get it wrong?”

  I expected Liam to comfort me. To encourage me. To spout platitudes.

  Instead, he said, “I don’t think that’s what you’re scared of. Not really.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because I know you,” he said. Something in his voice told me he believed it. My anger cooled a little.

  “What am I really scared of?”

  He hesitated, as if calculating the cost of what he was about to say.

  “I think you’re afraid of having the best moment of your life, and then facing the comedown. I think you’re scared of what happens if you get it right.”

  I sat there with my jaw tight as a piano wire, glaring at the stupid burbling fountain in the courtyard and hating Liam for being right. After what probably felt like forever to Liam, I turned and looked him right in his stupid perfect blue eyes.

  “I’m not going to apologize for putting you through emotional whiplash. The same way I wouldn’t expect someone in a wheelchair to apologize for wrecking the carpet. I am what I am. I’m better on meds, but I am what I am.”

  Liam met my gaze and said, “Okay.”

  “Okay? You think ‘okay’ covers this?”

  He shrugged. “I am what I am, too. And I didn’t have time to practice this part.”

  Liam had to return the car he’d borrowed, and I had a dress rehearsal to prepare for. He promised he’d be watching tomorrow night. I wanted to ask him to come to the theater, to stay with me backstage—but he had already done enough. As we said goodbye in the lobby, he didn’t try to kiss me or anything. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  I arrived at the Dolby just after twelve noon and surprised Grace at the stage door. She threw her arms around me, her headset digging into my shoulder. Finally, she pushed away, holding me at arm’s length. “How’s your dad? Is he okay?”

  “He will be.”

  “I know your equipment is on loan,” she said, swiping at her iPad, “and you’re going to need it back. We’ve got two more acts to rehearse, and then we can get a crew to load—”

  “Actually,” I interrupted her, “I was hoping to speak with Flynn. Mr. Bissette, I mean.”

  Grace looked up. “About what?”

  I took a breath, trying to relieve the pressure building in my chest. It would be a huge risk for Flynn & Kellar to allow a total unknown with no TV experience to take up three minutes of their live national airtime. But I had to persuade them. I tried to harness my inner grifter. The suburban pickpocket, the diesel-pump distracter. Hot tears began to trickle out of the corners of my eyes; maybe I was better at this than I thought.

  “I just need to speak to him.” My voice cracked in all the right places, and I could tell by the surrender on her face that it had worked. The thing was, the tears were real, and now that they’d started, it was hard to choke them back. This time when Grace hugged me, I leaned into it.

  I heard his laugh before I saw him. Grace and I were striding toward the back of the house when a delighted baritone chuckle drifted in from the lobby. It was like a baby’s laugh, but slowed down by two hundred percent. There was nothing cynical about it; he was just completely tickled by something.

  I steeled myself, then pushed confidently through the double doors—and walked straight into Flynn Bissette.

  “Whoa!” he cried out in surprise.

  I rebounded off his large frame, but he reached out and caught me before I could fall on my ass.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, setting me upright.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m good.” I brushed hair out of my face, tugged down the hem of my dress.

  “You were flying like a bat out of hell. Where were you going?”

  Flynn was even taller than he seemed on TV; I barely went up to his chest.

  “Actually, I was coming to see you.”

  He squinted down at me, and then recognition sparked in his eyes. “Ellie Dante.” He stretched out a big hand, and I shook it. “How’s your dad?”

  “I mean, considering they cut his chest open and stapled it back together, not bad?”

  Flynn laughed, that baritone chuckle again. “You’re all right, kid. He’s lucky to have you. Is the prognosis good?”

  I’d heard that Flynn was friendly and “normal” in person, but I hadn’t really believed it.

  “He’s going to be okay.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He pushed his circular eyeglasses up on his considerable nose. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for him to appear on the show. But don’t worry. More opportunities will come. They always do.”

  I opened my mouth to reply. To say that there wouldn’t be any more opportunities, not for us. To tell him this was it. That it was now or never.

  Flynn gave me a compassionate smile—he was probably used to people turning speechless in his presence—and then he started to move past me down the aisle. Grace followed.

  “Wait!” I yelled. My voice echoed in the auditorium, sounding equal parts desperate and confident. Perfect.

  Flynn stopped, glanced down at his watch, then up at me. “What’s up?”

  I looked out at the stage. Flynn raised his eyebrows impatiently, then started to turn away.

  “I want to do it.” I spat out the words.

  Flynn frowned. “You want to do what?”

  “The Truck Drop,�
�� I said, my voice tremulous. “I want you to let me take his place on the show.”

  Flynn pressed his lips together and scrubbed a finger across them as if stalling for time. As if calculating how to let down an emotionally distressed teenage girl without causing a scene.

  Finally, he asked, “Why?”

  I hadn’t expected the question, and I scrambled to answer it. “Because we need this show, Mr. Bissette. We—”

  “No,” Flynn said, cutting me off. “Not why do you want to. Why should I let you?”

  I blinked. He’d caught me off guard again.

  He took a step toward me. “I know you’re in a tough spot. But this is a multimillion-dollar production. I don’t know you, and I don’t know your magic.”

  “You know the Truck Drop.”

  “That’s not yours,” he said, wagging a finger. “You may have tweaked it, added a twist. But it doesn’t belong to you; it belongs to your father. He earned his place on this show. Whereas I’ve never seen you do anything, let alone something that impressed me. And don’t take this wrong way, but I’m hard to impress.”

  The room seemed to tilt, and I had to grab one of the seats to keep myself upright. I took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye.

  It was now or never.

  “Reach into your back pocket,” I said.

  Flynn frowned.

  “Go ahead.”

  Slowly, with suspicion darkening his features, Flynn reached into his back pocket. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a playing card. A blue Rider Back. He glanced up at me, bewildered.

  “Turn it over,” I said.

  He did—and stared at it for a long moment. Then his face started to change, his mouth widening into a grin. He shook his head and laughed, not a chuckle, but a basso profundo guffaw.