Ghosted - A Novel Part 43

Okay, then.

If that's the way it's going to be ...

While Mason drives to our certain death, we'll tell you something he "forgets." His father rode a motorcycle, too. In fact Mason's dad and Tenner used to ride together, and drink together, too. Joe Dubisee was a neighbourhood hero-the only knockabout guy without a blue-collar job. He told stories for a living. Didn't make much, but everyone loved him. At family picnics he walked on his hands while reciting e. e. c.u.mmings. He ripped phone books in half and sang along to everything. Johnnie Walker Joe, one of the last real men.

As Mason speeds through the streets, a fog is descending. It rolls across the city and up around his neck-as if downtown is drowning and all he can do is tread water. Then he finds a new gear, in both himself and the Norton. He kicks it faster and the motor roars. Illuminated in the headlight, the thick air streams around the bike-an X-wing flying through strafing fire. He bears down, lowering his head against the rush, and hurtles onward-the street lights suns in another galaxy.

When he turned thirty, Joe Dubisee ran his first marathon. After five hours he'd smoked four cigarettes and was somehow still running. After six hours it was more like a limp, and his animal brain had taken over. A cop on a motorcyle came up alongside him. He said they were opening the streets again-he'd have to move to the sidewalk. Johnnie Walker Joe growled and gave him the finger. It is hard to control a motorcycle with one good leg and one good arm while overdosing on methadone, especially in the fog.

And it's a strange sensation: the chemicals shutting you down, slowing your heart rate, your breathing, your circulation, even as the darkening world speeds past you, faster and faster. You are pulled in two directions: downward by gravity, narcosis and death; forward by velocity, necessity and death. The ride and the drugs are the fastest route to both. So you keep on going.

After six and a half hours Joe crossed the finish line. The front of the paper the next day was a photo not of the winner but of the loser-flanked by two dozen motorcycle cops, his arms held high in victory. Five months later he killed himself.

That's not what happened.

Five months later he drove his motorcycle off a cliff.

There's more to it than that.

Five months later his oversensitive little boy got scared at a sleepover and called his drunken daddy to come and pick him up.

That is not what happened!

Either way, Joe Dubisee killed himself on a motorcycle and now his unimaginative son is doing the same.

That's not what's f.u.c.king happening....

An unexpected turn. The back tire slips out, and now the ground is gone. That slow flying, the endless skid, the airborne descent. Mason feels the wind through his hair. "Oh G.o.d," he thinks. "I was trying to do something!" It takes that long before he lands.

88.

For the first time in years, Mason landed well. Relatively Relatively, that is. He came down on the same side that was. .h.i.t by the streetcar-so that his injuries didn't multiply, just deepened: his shoulder became more separated, his ribs more broken, his ankle more sprained. Despite not wearing a helmet, his head actually fared quite well. He even managed to break his nose-that fourth time lucky, cracking it back in to place.

The immense pain and adrenaline helped stave off the effects of the methadone-so that he didn't pa.s.s out or die. That was coming, of course-just around the corner-and now the bike was unridable. But as Mason's newfound luck would have it, he'd crashed near the Sherbourne Shelter. It took him a moment to get his bearings. He staggered up the street, around the corner, into the alley-and then he saw it: the glow of a crack pipe through the fog.

Mason called out, "Hey Wilf!"

"Who's that?"

He staggered towards them. "Hey Wilf! Hey guys!"

"Stop yer yammering!"

"Who the h.e.l.l is that?"

"It's me," said Mason. "Frannie's friend. I need some crack."

They flipped a lighter to take a look.

It might have been the arm hanging four inches too low, or the blood-spattered hospital duds tucked into his cowboy boots, or just the look in Mason's eyes-whatever it was they all agreed: the man needed some crack.

With each toke Mason grew stronger. And although the fog remained, the life-crus.h.i.+ng darkness started to lift. His heartbeat, barely a waltz, began to quicken. His lungs expanded with cocaine breath. Blood rushed through his veins-from head to heart to liver to legs. And then he was off.

It was kind kind of like running: the way a smoking, drinking marathoner who'd hit the wall four hours ago or a drugged-up madman with half a working body might do it, and the pain kept Mason somewhat straight. It was hard to tell in the fog, but it felt like he was getting somewhere. of like running: the way a smoking, drinking marathoner who'd hit the wall four hours ago or a drugged-up madman with half a working body might do it, and the pain kept Mason somewhat straight. It was hard to tell in the fog, but it felt like he was getting somewhere.

Then finally he could see it: the finish line. There were floodlights on the banner: The Saving Grace-Completion July 11 The Saving Grace-Completion July 11.

Just one more night to jump.

Go f.u.c.k yourself.

Mason hit the barrier-Closed for Opening-and he tumbled to the pavement.

It was pure will that got him to his feet again-the fog so thick he couldn't see the ground. Out onto the bridge, it felt like he was stumbling through the air. After a while he saw a light ahead, then a giant lamp-the beams refracting in the fog, bouncing off the taut metal wires.

Mason pushed on, into the dark mist. Then after a while he saw another light. For the longest time it got no brighter, until finally he was upon it-staggering into the translucent glow. On one side, the centre bal.u.s.trade, the crosses and wires-on the other, a breach in the barrier, no Saving Grace-the fog alight, swirling around the profile of a woman.

She couldn't be sure he was real, even though he spoke: "Please come down from there?"

The voice was both hoa.r.s.e and ethereal-words wrenched from a body.

"No," she said.

He limped towards her through the fog, a ghostly apparition. "She's dead."

It was unclear just who he meant, but that his heart and soul had finally broken.

"I know," said the doctor, because either way it was true.

"You may as well come down. You're not going to jump." He stepped towards her. "If you were, you would have done it by now. Instead of waiting for someone ..."

"Ha!" She fixed him with her grey eyes, her hair s.h.i.+mmering as it waved. "You think I was waiting for you? You get things wrong all the time, Mason." She turned her head. "I was just hoping the fog would lift, so I could see. But I guess I've got to go." She lifted her leg over the railing.

"I know what happened," said Mason. "She's on the list: 'Rebecca Lapin. 16 years old. Victim of a savage childhood rape ...' 'Rebecca Lapin. 16 years old. Victim of a savage childhood rape ...' Becky the Bunny. She jumped the week that Seth got paroled. Then he was put in your care-the man who raped your sister." Becky the Bunny. She jumped the week that Seth got paroled. Then he was put in your care-the man who raped your sister."

"The man who killed her," said Dr. Francis, once Lapin. "The fates served him up to me."

"How much were you giving him?"

"A triple dose each time." She turned her head and her voice was clear. "I was torturing him to death. He was living in h.e.l.l-until you came along."

"Well, he's back there now. w.i.l.l.y made sure of it."

"I know. I saw."

"So why don't you come on down, Grace?"

"Don't call me that."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I was supposed to be looking after her, but I was talking to my boyfriend on the phone. She was attacked and torn apart. That's sort of my fault-wouldn't you say?"

"No." Mason moved towards her.

"One more step and I'm gone."

He stopped.

"You can't do this, Frannie."

"Why's that, Mason? Because I don't have a letter? You can write me one. Just leave it on my desk."

"I wouldn't know what to write."

"No. You wouldn't. But that's not my problem. You're the one who thinks words are so important. Tell me, Mason. What did your father do?"

He said nothing.

"I mean what did he do for a living?"

"He was a writer. He used to tell me stories when I got scared."

"And how did he die?"

"I think you know."

"I think he drove off a cliff, drunk. And you blame yourself, because you were scared and you wanted him to come and get you. And if that's enough to put you on this bridge then I can definitely be here."

"No," said Mason. "You're listening to the ghosts."

"Tell me, then."

He took the cup of methadone from his pocket, popped off the lid and drank it. She watched him.

"My mom was out of town. I think they were fighting. I was staying at Chaz's house. I didn't call my dad-he called me. I don't know where he was, but he was crying. I'd never heard him cry before. He told me he was scared, and he was coming to pick me up."

"So in a way he might have saved you, by driving off that cliff."

"In a way. But you're not saving anyone."

"Nope."

"But you could if you get down from there-dozens, maybe hundreds. You're good at saving people."

"How do you know?"

"I've been listening to the ghosts, too. Sometimes they get it right."

"I think you've got a brain injury, Mason. You should have that checked."

"Just tell me why you're doing it."

"I thought maybe I'd feel better when Seth was gone. But I don't." The fog was lifting now. "I've got patients beat up constantly by the people who should love them. But I worry more when they finally get the courage to leave. That's when they overdose, hang themselves-it happens all the time. Suddenly it's quiet-no one to beat them up but themselves." Behind her, the night sky became a canvas, speckled with stars, the headlights of cars, distant amber windows. "So Seth is gone. The fog is lifting. And now I've got nothing to do."

She turned and rocked forward, lifting her elbows to push with her hands.

"See you, Mason ..."

He lunged towards her. Then suddenly she stopped.

"What the f.u.c.k is that?" she said.

From the heart of the city rose a tower of coloured light. It was flas.h.i.+ng and spinning, illogical and stunning, garish, ridiculous and beautiful-a born-again phoenix, a dis...o...b..ll in its beak.

"It's the CN Tower of Babel!" said Mason.

They stared at it-the doctor on the wall, Mason behind her. "Soon did it, and he didn't even know ..." It was the second tallest free-standing structure in the world: and suddenly it was awesome. The streaming, pulsing lights, every hue known to man, it seemed both random and patterned, controlled, blissful chaos-like watching someone laughing on the surface of the moon.

"Too bad he's dead," said Mason. "He would have liked this."

"I'm still jumping," said the doctor.

Mason didn't look at her. He looked at the tower instead. "If you do, the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds win. Seth is victorious and w.i.l.l.y died for nothing."

"Everyone dies for nothing. That's what dying is."

"f.u.c.k you," said Mason. His knees were shaking now. He was starting to go down.

"You're not talking me out of this, Mason. You're not smart enough." She rose to her feet, turned and looked at him, her body silhouetted against the flas.h.i.+ng night sky, Soon's unknown masterpiece. "You don't have the words. I doubt anyone does."

"I know," said Mason, his legs finally giving out. "I knew that from the start." He dropped to his knees and pulled out his cellphone. "That's what the backup plan is for." He dialed 911.

"Ambulance," he said.

"Call a hea.r.s.e," said Grace.

"It's not for you." He focused on her eyes and spoke into the phone: "Please listen carefully. There is a man in the centre of the Bloor Street Viaduct. No, he is not going to jump. He's injured. He has multiple fractures, but that is not what he will die of. I need your full attention. Thank you. Approximately fifty minutes ago he drank 200 milligrams of methadone. He has no tolerance. In order to delay loss of consciousness he ingested a large amount of crack cocaine. That was approximately half an hour ago. Within the last ten minutes he drank another 100 milligrams of methadone. At the end of this conversation he will inhale a vial of amyl nitrite, which will counteract any remaining stimulant. He will collapse and his breathing will cease. Are you listening? There is a doctor nearby. She has, attached to her belt, a shot of epinephrine. With this and CPR she may be able to keep him alive for a few minutes. I have faith in her-she is a very good doctor. But there are barriers on either side of the bridge. Please tell them to run. He does not want to die."

Mason hung up the phone. Still looking at her, he pulled a small brown bottle from his pocket. He flipped off the cap and held it up.

"See you on the other side," he said, and took a deep breath in.