Ghosted - A Novel Part 31

"Just listen," he says, and presses Play.

Scratch, scratch. Piano and guitar. The steady backbeat ...

She is smiling, and when the song is over he kisses her.

He looks into her eyes. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

She pushes him away with her hollow right hand. "That's mean," she says.

"Why?"

"I don't really know."

"You don't know why it's mean or you don't know what you want to be."

"Both."

"Same here." He tries to kiss her again.

"It's embarra.s.sing," she says.

"What is?"

"When I was a kid I wanted to be an actress."

"Why is that embarra.s.sing?"

"Because." She tries to turn away, but her body makes it difficult. "I never got to grow out of it. I was a kid who wanted to be an actress and then suddenly I was paralyzed." She looks straight at him. "So now all I ever wanted to be was a stupid actress."

"You still could be," says Mason.

"It's easier to act like a cripple than the other way around. Show me how to act like I'm walking?"

"It's not about that ..."

"You're not even getting it. It's a stupid thing to want to be."

"Like being a writer?"

"You don't want to be a writer, Mason. Admit it." She grins at him. "You want to be a cowboy."

"f.u.c.k you," he says, and starts to smile.

"f.u.c.k me," she says and pulls him in. They kiss each other deeply. It's been so long since he felt like this-it starts to make him high. He tugs at her hair. The air is thick-it tastes like them but somehow sweet. He runs his tongue down the left side of her neck-the side that can feel-over her breast to her rough left nipple. She begins to gasp, then stops. "I want to feel you everywhere."

"How?" says Mason. He tugs on her hair, her mouth opens wider.

As he gazes in, she snaps her teeth. "First," she says. "You'll have to hurt me. Do you think you can do that?"

"I ... I don't know."

She slides her right hand in between his legs, and breathes into his ear. "I think you can," she says.

"Tell me what to do."

"Go and get your belt."

Scratch, scratch. Piano and guitar. That strong, steady backbeat.

She is on her front, quaking in the half-light. There are welts across her back and a.s.s, a film of beading sweat. He presses hard against her, leaning over, his mouth near her neck. He whispers, "Steady."

She tries to breathe it back to him. It sounds like steam. He rises once more, drawing the leather strap from the centre of her shoulders, down her spine, over her a.s.s and between her legs. He lifts his arm, the belt snaking, catching her as it flicks into the air. Her breath catches-belt folded, the buckle in his hand, he strikes downwards again. Left side, then right. Left side, then right. She writhes underneath him, nerves firing beneath her skin. He's inside her, and can see the same stars. Left side, then right. Left side, then right-until she feels them both the same, ecstasy and pain.

And by the time they finally come, their bodies are long gone.

69.

It is a strange sort of purgatory: watching it all-the drinking and drugging, the cards and dancing, the fighting and laughing-through a one-way mirror, surrounded by paintings of imminent death, las.h.i.+ng the woman he loves, "Fire Lake" playing over and over and over ...

All he'd have to do, of course, is roll through the wall. He'd have all the booze and c.o.ke he could want-and get some smack for w.i.l.l.y. But he is through the withdrawal now, and chooses not to give in. This act of free will makes the torture complete, almost sacred. w.i.l.l.y loves and hates him for it.

Mason considers some makes.h.i.+ft curtains. He could put the paintings over the window, the other way around.

Those f.u.c.king paintings.

They're f.u.c.ked up, sure, but also beautiful. He leaves them as they are. He thinks he knows where they came from-but not how they came to be here here. He'll have to ask Chaz about that-about a lot of things.

It's been weird watching Chaz on the other side, going about his business, but he's still not ready to see him, to sit down and talk. For now he's faced enough. And eventually the Cave beyond the cave, like a TV left on too long, no longer holds his attention. The hollowing out becomes everything, the dream of filling up.

At noon each day there's a delivery-food, meds and Gatorade-left out on the bar. Soon even w.i.l.l.y is able to eat. He ma.s.sages her legs, gives her painkillers and Valium. She won't detox fully this way, but neither will the pain hit full capacity. Then one day there is something else: a small cup with a screw-top lid and a label reading, Methadone 100mg Methadone 100mg.

For a moment he thinks of not showing it to w.i.l.l.y.

But when he does, her face transforms. "Oh G.o.d," she says, and just like that he gives up on a world without narcotics-at least for her. It makes him feel separate from her, which is simply f.u.c.king terrifying. He thinks of life beyond this cave, and trying to live it without any drugs. The thought is too painful, which makes him feel like her again, so then he holds on to that.

And w.i.l.l.y holds the cup.

"But what if I take it," she says. "And tomorrow there's nothing?"

"She wouldn't do that to us," says Mason.

"Okay," says w.i.l.l.y. And her smile comes back, full of life and thirst.

Mason unscrews the cap. He takes a whiff. It is mixed with juice, so they can't inject it, and the smell surprises him.

"Sports Day," he says.

"What?"

"It's that weird juice they used to have at McDonald's, and on Sports Day, too. Remember?"

"I wasn't big on Sports Day."

"But you had the juice, right? Here, try some ..." He holds it to her lips, tilting the bottle carefully. She sips, and sips, then drinks it down. He wipes her lips, and kisses her.

"Sports Day!" says w.i.l.l.y.

"I hated it, too," says Mason, then wishes he hadn't. There is no way the potato sack race was as tiresome for him as for ten-year-old w.i.l.l.y, watching from her wheelchair-nothing to do but suck weird orange juice from a straw, the science teacher holding a Fudgsicle for her to lick, her chin streaked brown and orange while the other kids yelped and shrieked.

"f.u.c.k it," says w.i.l.l.y. "We got the juice!"

63. My hands can do things without me knowing.

64. There is nothing that can't be broken.

The next day there is no lunch. Not even a Gatorade.

They wait until after one p.m. Then Mason begins to get dressed.

w.i.l.l.y looks scared. "What if something happened?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. What if you don't come back?"

"I'm coming back," he says.

"But what if you don't? How do I even get out of here?"

"The left one gets you out," he says, pointing at her hands, trying to make it sound funny.

"That's f.u.c.king great!" says w.i.l.l.y. "My only way out is a hand I can't move!"

"You can lift it with your right," says Mason then stops, and kisses her. "I'll be right back. I promise."

70.

Mason emerged from the Cave, into the blinding light. He inhaled deeply, holding the air in his lungs, taking a step as he let it out. The man with the invisible kite was on the far median, where the southbound streetcar stopped, keeping tension on the invisible string.

Mason walked to the corner. The world was unbelievable and finally real. The air was cool, the sun s.h.i.+ning. The traffic made him feel like he was inside something enormous. He held himself together, breathed, and waited for the light to change.

When he'd crossed Spadina, his body and soul wanted to keep on walking, down the street, through the neighbourhood, just to take a walk-but he thought of w.i.l.l.y and turned into MHAD, through the sliding doors.

He took the elevator to the sixth floor. The waiting room was empty, the door open.

"He has arisen," said the doctor, as Mason walked into her office.

He looked at her. "Why did you do that?" he said.

"I figured you needed some air."

He held her gaze.

"I needed to get your attention," she said.

"What about w.i.l.l.y?"

"She'll be good on the methadone." She motioned for him to sit down. "I think it's the best thing for her."

"Why are you doing this?"

"What exactly?" Dr. Francis leaned forward. "Risking my job just to get you straight?"

Mason took a seat.

"I need you better," she said. "To help me fix the mess you've made."

"Which one?"

There was a file on her desk. She opened it. "Setya Kateva."

"Excuse me?"

"Seth. That's his real name. It's Finnish."

"So that's it?" said Mason. "He's a self-hating Finn."

"I wouldn't say he's a self-hating anything, not without progesterone." She looked at Mason. "We've got to get him back. And soon."

Mason saw Soon dropping beneath the railing, that bird swooping into frame. He shook it off. "He's still out there?" he said. "Isn't it time to call the cops?"

She closed the file. "He wouldn't be out there if you hadn't attacked him. Just him being in that bar was a breach of his ..."

"Hey!" said Mason "It was you you he was trying to blackmail. And he threatened w.i.l.l.y's life!" he was trying to blackmail. And he threatened w.i.l.l.y's life!"

The doctor sat back in her chair. "All right," she said. "But is that really why you attacked him?"