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.
“Don’t worry,” I said. I sounded ridiculous, a teenager telling her sixty-four-year-old father