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