Ghosted - A Novel Part 22

"Why'd you do that?" said w.i.l.l.y.

"What?"

"Why'd you wave at that woman?"

"She's my addictions doctor," said Mason. He expected her to ask why his addictions doctor was standing out on the sidewalk, glaring at them across the nine lanes of Spadina, but she didn't. "She takes her job seriously," he said and coughed out a laugh.

w.i.l.l.y said nothing. He pushed her the fifty feet down to his building then in through the door. It closed behind them. He sat down on the stairs facing her and took out a baggie of c.o.ke. He was getting better at the climb-but still, after such a long night, he could do with the extra energy. At this point it was a matter of safety. He did a line then lifted her out of the wheelchair and onto his back. Where moments before he'd felt hollow, weak, troubled, he was now unstoppable-moving up the stairs strong and focused. The hit lasted as long as it needed to. He got her up both flights-into the apartment, into the bed-and then he collapsed, his back against the three-step ladder.

w.i.l.l.y touched his head-the most generous sort of touch, from a hand that felt nothing. "I know her," she said.

"What?"

"Dr. Francis. I know her."

"How?"

"She worked at St. Vincent's. It's a women's shelter I used to go to."

Mason breathed in. His body felt hollow. He was cras.h.i.+ng now. It never got easier-more predictable, mundane, but never easier. That said, it was better like this: cras.h.i.+ng with w.i.l.l.y's hand on his head, better than doing it alone.

"If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone?"

He breathed out. "Of course," he said.

"She risked her medical licence for me. Even jail time, probably. You know when Bethany sold my wheelchair?"

Mason grunted.

"Things got out of control. We'd been squatting in a room on the edge of Regent Park and Bethany took off. When Dr. Francis found me I was totally bugging out. She should have just taken me to emergency like that-let me suffer through it-but I was begging her, I was so messed up. So you know what she did?"

Mason held his breath.

"She went to the park and scored some smack."

He let it out. "f.u.c.k," he said.

"She shot me up-right there in that room. And then she called the ambulance."

"How'd she even know where to find you?"

"That's Dr. Francis," said w.i.l.l.y. "She can do stuff like that."

"Then I guess I'm in good hands." Mason climbed the three stairs and crawled into bed.

Birds stood on the skylight, chirping.

48.

Dr. Francis looked at him like she had through the traffic-clear eyes blazing out of such a young face. He s.h.i.+fted in his chair.

"I didn't really write this week," he said, lifting up 'The Book of Sobriety.' "Wasn't really sober that much. And you didn't-"

"Leave her alone," said Dr. Francis.

"Excuse me?"

"w.i.l.l.y. I'm warning you to leave her alone."

"Me? You're warning me? I'm the one who got her away from that b.i.t.c.h...."

The doctor leaned forward. "So you saved her, did you?"

"No, I just think I can help."

"What, fix her? Don't you think you have enough cripples in your life, Mason? Enough broken things? Why don't you try fixing yourself?"

"She's my friend," said Mason.

The doctor stood. "Okay," she said, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Then you have one chance: explain to me why your friends keep dying. Or else you leave her alone."

"Excuse me?"

"Stop saying that!" said Dr. Francis. "You sound like such a p.u.s.s.y!" She took a breath, then sat back down and took his file in her hand. "By your own summation you have very few close friends. In the six weeks since you arrived here in your underwear, three of them have killed themselves. How do you explain that?"

"I never said any of that!"

"Actually, you did," said Dr. Francis. "You probably don't remember, but on your initial intake-when you came here in your underwear-one of the reasons you gave for your distress was this." She opened the file. "You said a close friend of yours had just committed suicide. It's right here in your file. Then there was Sissy, or Circe, or whatever you'd like to call her," she flipped some pages. "And then last week ..."

"So people die!" said Mason.

Dr. Francis closed the file. "If you don't have a better answer, I'm going to have to intervene."

Mason stood up. "What happened to confidentiality?"

"There is none," said Dr. Francis. "Not if I think you might harm yourself or someone else."

Mason was at the door now. "Then we may as well let everyone hear!" he said, throwing it open. He turned back, glaring at Dr. Francis. "But before you go threatening me, you should know w.i.l.l.y told me what you did! So don't accuse me of endangering people-or trying to save them. Take a look at yourself, Doc!" trying to save them. Take a look at yourself, Doc!"

Then he strode out into the waiting room. There was only one person there-a man in a hat, who looked slightly surprised. Mason nodded to him and carried on into the hallway where he punched the arrow pointing down.

43. In my dreams I'm often falling.

44. I'd rather build a bridge than write a song.

49.

There were times when it was like he was watching himself from outside of his body, or at least his consciousness-when he couldn't stop doing lines, making bad calls, digging a hole for himself, digging and digging. And the part of him watching didn't do a thing to stop him. Maybe it used to, long ago, but now all it did was watch. It knew he was too drunk, too high and losing too much. It knew w.i.l.l.y was trying to talk to him, that she felt sick and sad and didn't want to be here, watching him dig. But even if it wanted to, it just couldn't stop him.

"I want to go home," said w.i.l.l.y.

"Then go home," said Mason.

"Please. You're not going to win."

He did a line and he played the next hand. She said something else, but he tuned her out. He could see himself doing it.

"Do you want me to go?" he heard her say.

"I don't want you to do anything because of me. I can't take care of you. I can't fix you. I can't even help you."

"I don't want you to help me. I just want you."

He watched himself drink a beer, all the way down. Call two hundred dollars. Do another line. "Well, you can't have me," he said.

And then she was gone.

And he couldn't even see himself any more.

Notes on the Novel in ProgressIt's all about point of view.As long as his POV is engaging, we'll forgive the character's flaws.Bulls.h.i.+t.So what makes for empathy?Struggle. Hopes and dreams. The collision of a painful personal past with an overwhelming present. Honesty. Humour.What's so funny about peace, love and empathy?f.u.c.k you.Possible t.i.tle:f.u.c.k You, Too

50.

"What are you doing?"

He opened his eyes. He was on the floor near his bed. Chaz was sitting in a chair, looking down at him. Mason groaned.

"Why'd you treat her like that?"

"w.i.l.l.y?"

"Yeah, w.i.l.l.y."

"It's complicated."

"That's bulls.h.i.+t."

"I can't take care of her, all right?"

"All right," said Chaz. "And I can't take care of you." He stood up. "That floor you're lying on costs nine hundred dollars a month." He stepped over Mason and walked out the door.

Eventually Mason got up. He drank three gla.s.ses of water, took a long shower, got dressed again and drank more water. He looked out the window at the MHAD building, then turned on the laptop. He had one email.

To: [email protected]: [email protected]: A Matter of Great Importance

I believe that you can help me. Please get back to me as soon as possible.

S. Handyman Mason didn't get back to him as soon as possible. He was sick of people who wanted to kill themselves, or thought they did, or just wanted attention, and he didn't want to think about it any more. His first inclination was to delete the message and to take his ad off that f.u.c.king website. But that seemed like a lot of work. So, instead, he made himself some coffee in his new coffee-maker, and sat down on the couch to drink it. Then eventually, despite himself and his hangover, he started to think.

He thought of Warren, Sissy and Soon, of w.i.l.l.y and even Sarah. He felt nauseous, hollow, and his brain was barely working. But he glugged his coffee and kept on thinking-of the things he'd done and the things he'd wanted, and the things he'd wanted to do. He barely felt, but he felt like sobbing. And then, like the stupidest kind of protagonist, he let himself think of redemption.

THE B BOOK OF S SOBRIETY C CONFESSIONForgive me, doctor, for not being sober. That is my first confession.The word "inspire" means, literally, "to breathe life into." I stole that from a person who's most likely dead now. That is my second.I have done the opposite of inspire. I've stolen breath away.Fourteen swallows. One horse. A few human beings.And how did this happen?I used to be a writer, and I needed inspiration. I searched the world for it, did all sorts of things, both good and bad, but couldn't always find the natural stuff. I started using the chemical kind, until eventually that's all I had.I confess to using unnatural inspiration.One day a man asked me to write something for him-a love letter. He paid me well, I did my best, and then he killed himself-leaving the letter as a suicide note. The idea confused me, upset me, angered me-and then it inspired me.I decided to advertise my skills. (I confess to poor judgment.) Like the man in fake love, my next client was a dishevelment of lines, blank s.p.a.ces, discomfort, sadness-a bit-part in her own story. Huge yet deflated, she wanted me to fill her in, and she was willing to pay. (I confess to being an unexemplary gambler.) And so I did. I tried to breathe life into her-to make her more real-so there'd be something for her to leave behind.I confess to remorse.I confess to being a p.u.s.s.y.The next one had to trick me, but it wasn't hard to do. He just told me what I wanted to hear-that it was about art rather than death, the trick of creativity. So I signed on for fraud, and got suicide just the same. This f.u.c.king writing is a deadly pursuit.Is that good enough for you, doctor? Or do you need to know about w.i.l.l.y?I confess: I like her for dishonourable reasons. I like her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and her mouth and her proclivity for drugs. And I'm sure you're right-I like that she's broken more than I am, the idea that I could fix her. And maybe I can't save her, but I wasn't going to hurt her.I confess that I miss her-and all the dishonourable things we did together.I confess that I'm a derelict.That I spent my best years in narcissistic wandering.That glory meant more to me than goodness-and maybe still does.That my hunger controls my heart.That I am self-indulgent, self-destructive and my own worst narrator.That I said things I shouldn't have said, wrote things I shouldn't have written.That I let the world get smaller.And forgot to look out for people.But I want you to know I plan to do better.To be what I should have been.I just hope it's not too late.To: [email protected]: : Urgent

To the Poet Jonathan Follow,There is a matter both urgent and delicate that I need to discuss with you. It pertains to the well-being of your immediate family. I tracked your address down off an Internet site that may not be reliable. I hope this message has found the appropriate reader. I'm sorry if it alarms you. Please contact me as soon as possible.

Sincerely, Mason D

51.

He got off the streetcar at Prince and Mill, counted six doors down from the corner, and there it was: Tony's Happy Daze Bar and Beer.

You think that's funny, wait until you see the place.

It didn't look that funny-at least not from the outside. The windows were blacked out with torn reflecting plastic, peeling at the corners. The word c.u.n.t c.u.n.t (or maybe (or maybe Cant) Cant) was scrawled across the bottom of the door, as if some misogynist (or possibly an illiterate philosophy major) had reached out with a spray paint can while pa.s.sing out on the sidewalk. He opened the door to the smell of fried rice and empty kegs. was scrawled across the bottom of the door, as if some misogynist (or possibly an illiterate philosophy major) had reached out with a spray paint can while pa.s.sing out on the sidewalk. He opened the door to the smell of fried rice and empty kegs.

At first glance, the inside wasn't very funny either. The floor was covered with dirty orange carpet and, in some parts, squares of cardboard framed with duct tape. The fluorescence had been mercifully lessened by the demise of several tubes. A pale green glow shone over a pool table in the back and s.h.i.+mmering lights from a large fish tank illuminated the wall. There were a few shoddy tables. Directly in front of the door stood an elaborate mahogany coat rack. I guess that's sort of funny I guess that's sort of funny, thought Mason, stepping awkwardly around it.