The Lightness of Hands

by Jeff Garvin

I tried to think of something to say that might pull him out of his misery. I was no good at comfort; I was usually the one being comforted.

  “Where would you go? If money wasn’t an issue. If you had your pick.”

  “MIT.” He said it like he was pronouncing the name of someone who had just died. “La Sorbonne. University of Fucking Jupiter. It doesn’t matter; I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be stuck on the shitty side of Park Hills until I die.”

  We sat in silence for a few seconds, and then Ripley shook his head like a wet dog.

  “So, that’s self-pity. Huh. I can see the appeal.”

  I laughed. Ripley downed the rest of his soda and crushed the can in his hand, making a mad wrestler face.

  “Where do you get all that energy?”

  “Meth. Just kidding. Good genes? HA!” He cracked another soda. “Okay, we haven’t talked about you in like seven minutes. I’m starting get uncomfortable. Can I ask you something?”

  “Only if it’s superficial.”

  He made a game-show-buzzer sound. “Errrrnt! Not happening.”

  “Fine.” I rolled my eyes, and then Ripley’s expression turned serious.

  “Are you going to tell your dad?”

  “Tell him what?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “About your . . . suicide attempt.”

  “No,” I said, all humor draining from my body. “No way.”

  “Okay. I get it.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Is it because of your mom?”

  I broke eye contact.

  “You never talk about it.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Yeah, but maybe you should. If not with me, with someone. Keeping that kind of thing inside . . . can break you. I’ve seen it.”

  Reluctantly, I nodded. Ripley’s family had self-destructed, and as a result, he hated secrets. He tried to respect my boundaries, but I knew it was hard for him when I held things back. He knew my mom had died by suicide—I’d told him ages ago—but I’d never told him how. I had never told anyone; I hadn’t wanted to say it out loud.

  But maybe Ripley was right. Maybe keeping it inside was breaking me. Before I could form the words in my mind, I felt them creeping up my throat like hot bile.

  “She drowned herself in the bathtub,” I said. “Dad and I were in the other room. Ten feet away.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Ellie.”

  A drop of water fell from my hair to land on my thigh, cold and slick.

  “I’ve been so angry at her for so long,” I said. “I thought she chose death over us. Over me. But now, I don’t think she chose at all. I think she was just unlucky. Her sickness won.”

  Ripley replied, his voice strong and clear. “And you can’t afford to underestimate yours anymore.”

  I bit my lip. “No. I can’t.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  I couldn’t speak, so I just nodded.

  Ripley sat up and cleared his throat dramatically. “Now, on to more important business: my VIP tickets for this show you’re in. I’m going to need a limo, too, considering my current transportation situation.”

  I laughed, he laughed, and then we fell into a perfectly comfortable silence. He sipped his soda. I scarfed a donut.

  “Can you stay on with me for a while? Until I fall asleep?”

  “It is my duty as a Huffnabler.”

  I plugged in my phone, put it on speaker, and laid my head against the pillow.

  CHAPTER 32

  I STOOD ON THE BALCONY, sipping coffee and breathing in the morning air. On the street below, I could see shards of black plastic and the twisted white cord of the hotel’s hair dryer, the only evidence of how close I had come.

  I texted Ripley: Thank you.

  I wasn’t due at the theater until two, so I decided to get dressed and go check on my dad. I called Grace, and she sent a car to pick me up.

  Dad was sitting up in bed when I walked in. He was still wired and tubed all to hell, but looking significantly less pale.

  “There she is.” He muted the TV and brightened as I pulled up a chair.

  “Since you can’t eat solid food yet, I brought you a raw organic smoothie. It has kale.”

  “Such decadence!”

  I sat down and looked him over. “How are you feeling?”

  “My chest still hurts, but I have a button to manage the pain. And I got a sponge bath.”

  “Dad. Ew.” I pulled the wrapper off the straw and set the smoothie on his tray. As I did, he frowned, probably noticing the purple bags under my red eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

  I had planned to break the news slowly, but it clearly wasn’t go to happen that way. I decided to head him off before he could ask any more uncomfortable questions about my state of mind.

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  If he looked concerned before, now he seemed panicked. “What is it, Ellie? What’s wrong?”

  I licked my lips. “I went to see Flynn yesterday, and—”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you let me finish?” He looked scolded, but he nodded. “He’s going to let me do the Truck Drop.”

  Dad frowned and tilted his head. “He what?”

  “I’m doing the show, Dad. Tonight. In your place.”

  I watched as his confusion melted into disbelief. “You . . . you are?”

  “I am.”

  His mouth opened and closed. “But I thought you didn’t want to perform anymore. I thought you were worried about—”

  “I am worried,” I said. “But it’s just one show. And I have you and Ripley and Liam to catch me if I fall.”

  Slowly, a wide, bright smile broke across his face.

  “Oh, Ellie. This is wonderful!”

  He opened his arms, and I leaned in and let him hug me harder than he probably should have.

  “I’m so . . . ,” he began, but his voice gave out.

  “I know,” I said. And he hugged me tighter.

  Dr. Saroyan chose that moment to walk in.

  “Good morning,” he said, striding up to the bed and tapping his tablet as we broke off our hug. “Your father has been performing for the nurses.”

  “Flirting, you mean.”

  “Now, now,” Dad said. “I’m respectful.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “So, Doc,” Dad went on, “are you going to let me out of this place, or do I need to stage an escape?”

  Dr. Saroyan gave him a half-amused smile. “I need to run a few more tests, but if they come back the way I want them to, you’ll be out by tomorrow afternoon. Friday at the latest.”

  Which meant he’d miss the show. Dad tried to hide his disappointment, but I could tell his smile was forced. I had inherited it from him.

  “Any way you can speed that up?”

  Dr. Saroyan looked up from his tablet. “Mr. Dante, a second heart attack at your age is serious business. I’m not releasing you until I know we’re out of the woods.”

  Dad’s face fell. “It’s just . . .” He looked at me, and the light came back into his eyes. “Did you know my daughter is going to be on live national television this very evening?”

  Dr. Saroyan turned to me. “Is that right?”

  Dad beamed. “On Flynn & Kellar’s Live Magic Retrospective.” When Dr. Saroyan didn’t immediately respond, Dad’s smile faded. “Which is why I need to be out of here by, oh, say, five thirty.”

  Dr. Saroyan shook his head. “That’s not going to happen, Mr. Dante. However”—he tapped on the tablet—“if you behave, I can arrange for you to watch it on the big screen in the doctors’ lounge. What would you say to that?”

  Dad sighed. “It’ll have to do.” He looked at me again, and his disappointment seemed to melt away.

  Dr. Saroyan checked Dad’s monitors, listened to his heart, and left. When the door had closed behind him, Dad reached over the bed rail and took my hand. His grip was stronger than it had been yesterday.<
br />
  “You are going to be amazing, Ellie. You’ll do it better than I could have.”

  I knew my heart should’ve swelled when he said that, that I should have felt love and confidence—but that way was blocked. I returned his smile anyway and hoped he was too excited to notice the cracks.

  “Now,” Dad said, rubbing his hand together. “Have you practiced getting tied? You’ve really got to tense up to create that gap, or—”

  “Dad. I’m freaked out enough as it is. Please don’t coach me right now.”

  He opened his mouth to do just that, then shut it and nodded. “Of course. You don’t need it; you’ll be amazing.”

  He contained himself for about ninety seconds before launching into a tirade of advice.

  I smiled and let him.

  Anything can trigger a cycle: a close call on the highway, a text from the wrong person, the adrenaline rush of a performance. There’s no logic to it; good news can prompt a downswing, and stress is just as likely to set off a hypomanic episode. Sometimes the effects are fatal; someone jumps out of a window, thinking they can fly. Other times they’re spectacular, like a standing ovation.

  Sometimes the timing is catastrophic. And sometimes it’s perfect.

  I sat down and faced the mirror. The sequins of my green bodysuit sparkled, reminding me of Tinker Bell in flight, but from the neck up, I looked like hell. I plucked a brush from my toolbox and started applying concealer to the matched set of purple luggage under my eyes. An image popped into my mind of actual snakeskin suitcases clinging to my lower lids. A goofy smile played across my face, and I let out a giggle. By the time I was putting final touches on my eyebrows, the giggles had escalated. I tilted my head back and blinked rapidly, trying to prevent my mascara from running; I hadn’t been able to afford the waterproof kind for months. Then I remembered that an hour from now I would be literally submerged in water, rendering all this careful preening totally worthless. This struck me as hilarious, and I began to cackle outright.

  In two minutes, the curtain was going up on the show of my life, and I was ascending rapidly into full-blown hypomania.

  I paced the dressing room, taking deep breaths; if I didn’t get a grip, I would be out of control by the time I hit the stage. But if I could keep the energy bottled up, I could use it in my performance. Eventually, I was able to bring the laughter back down to a giggle.

  I had some time to kill—I was performing in the second-to-last slot—so I turned on the TV in the corner of my dressing room and hopped up on the makeup counter to watch. On-screen, a housewife in a pastel cardigan frolicked in a field of dandelions while a soothing voice detailed the horrific side effects of whatever medication was being advertised. The image faded to black, and the next shot looked down from high above a packed auditorium.

  “Live from the Dolby Theatre in Hollywood, California—it’s Flynn & Kellar’s Live Magic Retrospective!” The audience applauded, and the announcer started naming off acts, some of them old burnouts like my dad, others more contemporary. “Featuring performances by . . . Chris Gongora! Cynthia Sixx! Dane Madigan!” The crowd applauded for each name. “Tommy Takai! And introducing Elias Dante Jr.!”

  At the sound of my name, a flight of butterflies did a collective somersault in my stomach. I remembered that night in Mishawaka, lying inside the trunk, listening to Dad’s footsteps on the plywood stage. The sound of the latch popping. The smell of spilled whiskey and cheap cigarettes. The bright lights blinding me as the lid swung open. The cheers of fifty drunken Hoosiers as I rose up with my arms raised in a V.

  The dressing room around me seemed to brighten and resolve, as if my vision had been buffering but was finally going high-def.

  Tommy Takai opened the show, producing no fewer than fifty doves as the William Tell overture pounded through the TV speakers. The audience seemed unimpressed, but I loved it—the guy was flawless. Next, Cynthia Sixx trotted out her old 1980s pyro schtick. I knew she had been a trailblazer for women in magic, but her act looked like something from a Def Leppard video, and I could barely stand to watch. Dane Madigan, on the other hand, was hilarious and brilliant—and when he pulled his volunteer’s iPhone out of a glass bowl of lime Jell-O, I laughed out loud. It was the best take on Card to Fruit I’d ever seen.

  I couldn’t watch Chris Gongora. I’d seen him once, back when Rico was consulting for him, and he was just too good. If I watched his act, I would be intimidated and lose my nerve. The moment his opening music started, I turned off the TV and went out into the corridor to pace.

  I stopped in my tracks as the door closed behind me, the hiss of the pneumatic hinge like a loud whisper in the concrete hall. Kellar stood six feet away, talking on a tiny, antiquated flip phone. He looked up when I came through the door, and I realized it was the first time I’d ever heard his voice. Silence was Kellar’s trademark; the man hadn’t said a word in public for almost forty years. I turned to walk back into my dressing room—but then I heard the flip phone snap shut.

  “Ms. Dante,” he said.

  I turned. “Hi.”

  “I’m Kellar.” He approached and stuck out his hand.

  I shook it. “I know. My dad took me to see you when I was ten.”

  He squinted. “Did we do the Bullet Catch?”

  “Yeah,” I said, remembering. “Everyone was quiet before Flynn pulled the trigger, but I totally shrieked. You shot me this look from the stage, and the whole audience cracked up.”

  “That was you?”

  I laughed—as if he would remember something like that six years later. “Yeah, that was me.”

  Kellar smiled, put his hands in his pockets, and rocked back on his heels. There was something childlike about him. “Listen, I heard about your father, and I just wanted say I think it’s very brave what you’re doing.”

  “Or crazy,” I said.

  He shrugged. “You say tomato.”

  “Thanks for letting me do it.”

  He waved away my comment as if allowing the unknown daughter of a washed-up magician to perform on live TV was no big deal.

  “You know,” he said, “I was watching the night your dad did the first Truck Drop.”

  “You were?”

  He nodded. “Broke my heart. But, you know, the road to fame is paved with the corpses of magicians far better than Flynn and me.” He shrugged. “You’ve got to find a way to live, onstage and off.”

  “Yeah.”

  He rocked on his heels again. “I’m stalling,” he said. “I can’t watch Gongora. He’s too good.”

  “Right?”

  He laughed.

  Just then, a voice called from the end of the corridor.

  “Ms. Dante? You’re up.”

  In my midsection, those butterflies flapped up a hurricane.

  “Don’t suck,” Kellar said.

  I smiled. “I’ll try not to.”

  I took a deep breath, turned, and walked down the corridor toward the stage.

  When I met him in the wings, Clemente frowned and barked into his headset.

  “Makeup, I need somebody stage left, stat.” Then, to me: “You’re sweating. No, don’t touch—let the pros handle it.”

  Sometimes during an upswing, I perspired uncontrollably. It was murder on makeup.

  While a girl in a black apron powdered me down like a donut, the wardrobe assistant arrived to aggressively check and double-check all the snaps and closures on my outfit.

  There was a burst of orange light from the stage—Gongora’s finale—and then an explosion of cheers and applause. As he passed me on his way offstage, he smiled and wished me luck. I don’t remember how I responded. I was already in the zone.

  Ella, ella, eh, eh, eh . . .

  The next two minutes lasted an hour as the network cut to commercial, and then Flynn Bissette took the stage to a crush of applause. He motioned for the audience to be quiet.

  “More than any magician on this stage tonight, our next performer deserves your respect and attentio
n, and I’ll tell you why. A decade ago, the Uncanny Dante took a big risk on live television. But instead of succeeding and cementing his legacy, he failed—and ruined his career.” Flynn crossed downstage. “We magicians love to forget performers like Dante. We love to forget, because each of us knows we’re only one mistake away from ending up just like him.”

  I was riveted—and I could tell by the silence in the auditorium that the audience was, too.

  “I offered Dante a chance at redemption. I invited him to come here tonight and re-create the illusion that failed so spectacularly ten years ago. Unfortunately, he’s not here with us tonight. Two days ago, he suffered a severe heart attack, right here on this stage.” An ohh reverberated through the auditorium. “But I spoke to him on the phone this morning, and there’s something he wanted me to tell you.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Flynn had talked to my dad?

  “Dante told me that, at first, he didn’t want to come on our show. That he hadn’t even received my invitation until a few days ago. His daughter—who manages his career, helps design his act, and assists him onstage—accepted the invitation on his behalf, but didn’t tell him. She tricked him into coming to Hollywood. Dante’s daughter knew he needed a second chance, but she also knew he would refuse the opportunity when it came.”

  I could feel each bead of sweat as it evaporated off my rapidly warming scalp.

  “When Dante had his heart attack, Kellar and I set about rescheduling the show to work around his absence—not an easy task in the eleventh hour. But then a young woman showed up and saved our asses.” Laughter in the audience. “Tonight, it is my privilege to present our youngest performer. But before she takes the stage, let’s watch the performance that, a decade ago, almost ended her father’s career.”

  As Flynn walked offstage, the lights went out, and a giant projection screen descended from the rafters.

  Clemente leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “Places,” he said.

  Shielded by the huge screen, I walked onto the stage.

  CHAPTER 33

  I WATCHED MY FATHER’S FAILURE play out on a cineplex-sized projection screen. And though I was hidden from their view, I felt three thousand pairs of eyes on me, watching me watch him. I was out of my body, head buzzing, nerves crackling. I took in every sound, every image dancing on-screen—but I remembered only flashes: