After the news of Louise’s death, the mood at circus camp changes.
It’s less noisy; everyone is more serious. But as Suzanne tells us on Monday morning, the show has to go on. She gestures to the flag outside—it will fly at half-mast all week. “Those of us who knew Louise will never forget her. But she’d want all of you to keep training, to keep doing your best, to keep trying to make a life in the circus.”
In the afternoon, we try out the German wheel—two interconnected metal wheels that are bigger than any of us. Usually, I’d be excited. Today, I’m…well, a little afraid. If those wheels fell on one of us…I stop myself. I’m beginning to think like my dad.
“I get dizzy just looking at that contraption,” Guillaume says.
“Put one finger on the tip of your nose, like this”—I demonstrate for Guillaume—“and stare at a fixed point.”
Hana is still carting around that library book about circus history. She flips to the page about the German wheel and reads from it, slowly, enunciating every word. “The German wheel was invented by Otto Feick, a railroad maker, who was imprisoned in the 1920s in Germany, but many people believe the German wheel originated long before then as an instrument of torture. Oh my.” Hana slams the book shut.
“Torture? Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” Leo asks with a laugh.
Everyone laughs except Genevieve and me. I don’t think it’s only because we’re still upset about Louise’s death. I think it’s also because we both feel Leo was playing with us. Maybe that’s what happens when you feel disappointed by someone who is funny—his jokes stop working on you.
The acrobatics coach shows us how to step into the German wheel and how to use the footboards and handgrips. “This is a heavy piece of equipment, and it accelerates quickly,” he warns. “So you need to know how to keep it stable. Also, make sure your shoelaces are tightly tied—you don’t want them catching on the apparatus.”
Catching on the apparatus. Already I’m picturing that happening—the shoelace coming loose, the German wheel falling, the performer trying to pull his leg out of the way but not being able to. Stop it, I tell myself. Concentrate on the lesson.
The coach gestures for us to give him some room, and then, because we ask him to show us something fancy, he demonstrates an advanced move: the spiral. He leans into the wheel until it’s hovering over the floor. It’s hard to tell where his body ends and the German wheel begins. The two swirl so quickly, it’s like watching a dropped coin spin to the ground. When he’s done, the coach steps out of the wheel as if he’s stepping off the bus. How can he not be dizzy?
Anastasia is the first to try the wheel. The coach wants her to get into something called the stride stand position. “Stand tall,” he tells her, though he doesn’t have to because Anastasia always stands tall. Standing tall must be a Bershov family trait. “Straight legs! Toes over the edge of the footboards!” The coach nods at Anastasia, then turns to the rest of us. “See how her body is centered inside the wheel.”
We won’t be doing any spirals today—the first lesson is just getting into proper position, then rocking the wheel from side to side. It doesn’t take long before the sweat is dripping down Anastasia’s cheeks.
Suzanne walks into the gym carrying a folded-up sheet of paper. She and the coach exchange a quick look. Like Terence, Suzanne has also begun to look older to me since we got the news of Louise’s death. “Anastasia,” Suzanne says, “I need to speak with you, please. Privately.”
Anastasia must sense something is wrong. She inhales sharply and follows Suzanne out of the gym.
We all turn to watch, even though we know it would be more polite to give Anastasia some privacy. Suzanne closes the gym doors behind her. She doesn’t want us to hear whatever it is she’s come to talk to Anastasia about.
Only seconds later, Anastasia cries out—just once, but loudly.
Oh no, I think. More bad news.
Genevieve, Hana and I are up on our feet. The acrobatics coach extends his arm like a traffic cop. I can see from his face that he’s trying to decide whether to let us go to Anastasia.
But we’re already going. We don’t have to ask Anastasia what has happened because as soon as she sees us, her face crumples and she whispers, “My father had a heart attack. I’m going home.”
Anastasia goes upstairs to pack. She is leaving for Moscow tonight.
“But she won’t be here for the end-of-camp show,” Genevieve says.
“For a girl,” Hana tells Genevieve, “her father is the most important man.”
* * *
Later, after Anastasia has said a tearful goodbye to all of us, my cell phone rings. “Hi, Mom,” I say. “What’s up?”
But it isn’t my mom. It’s my dad. “Dad, why are you call—” I stop myself when I realize how that must sound. “Hey, Dad, how’re things in Vancouver?”
I know from the way he says my name that he’s heard about the aerialist who died. He’s probably going to tell me to take the next plane home.
“I just read on the Internet about the young woman with Cirque Viva who fell to her death,” Dad says.
“I’m not coming home.” Even though there are thirty-one hundred miles between us, I can feel my body bracing for a fight. Probably because I’m so used to fighting with my dad. “They think a carabiner broke. It was a freak accident.”
“That isn’t why I’m calling.”
It takes me a moment to register what my dad just said. “It isn’t?”
“No, it isn’t. Your mom is out at Pilates and, well…I just wanted to know how you were doing. How you were taking the news of…what happened.” I know Dad is trying to avoid saying the words fell and death again.
I feel my shoulders relax. “I’m okay, I guess. A lot of people here knew the woman who died. Louise. She went to MCC. My climbing coach, Terence—he trained with her. They’re flying the flag across the street at half-mast.” I’m babbling. And I haven’t answered my dad’s question. “I guess the news hasn’t really sunk in yet.”
“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” Dad says.
“I’m always careful.” I don’t mean for the words to come out sounding sharp, but they do.
I could apologize for my tone, but changing the subject is easier. “This other girl at camp, Anastasia, she’s flying home to Moscow tonight. Her father had a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. Is he going to be all right?”
“They don’t know yet.”
I nearly tell him Anastasia is from a famous Russian circus family, but I stop myself. Dad won’t think it’s cool the way I do.
I can hear the TV in the background. “You watching baseball?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I should probably get off the phone.” This may be the longest conversation I’ve had with my dad all year.
“Mandy.” The way he says my name sounds different than it did before. “The aerialist’s death… it’s bringing up a lot of stuff for me. Memories of your grandfather’s death. I think that’s why I needed to know how you were doing—how you were handling the news.”
“Like I said, it hasn’t really sunk in. Was it like that for you too?” It’s the first time I’ve ever pictured my dad as a teenager.
Instead of answering my question, Dad does something that takes me by surprise. He tells me a part of the story I’ve never heard before. “Your grandmother was too upset to go to the morgue to identify the body. So I had to go instead.”
There’s a lump forming in my throat. “Oh, Dad,” I say. “That’s so sad. And you were just a kid, right?”
I know my dad must be remembering—picturing the scene at the morgue. “I was fifteen,” he says. “The same age as you are now. Just tell me you’ll be careful.”
“We already had this conversation.”
When I hang up, I feel relieved the call is over—and irritated with my dad. Why does he have to keep dumping all his worry on me?
It isn’t until later that I wish I hadn’t snapped at him.