Ghosted

by Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall

  “We need to talk,” said Flores.

  Mason kissed Willy, then got up and walked down the hall, Flores trailing him.

  “Must be difficult to look at,” said the detective.

  “She looks peaceful,” said Mason, and led him into a small room with a large pop machine.

  “Did you find Seth?” Mason asked.

  “Not yet. But we will.”

  “He’ll surprise you,” said Mason.

  Detective Flores took a photo out of his pocket and handed it to Mason. Then he started fishing in his other pocket for change. “You know that guy?” he said.

  It was a man with dark skin, wearing a sweater. “He’s vaguely familiar. I think I might have sold him a veggie dog once.”

  The detective walked over to the pop machine. “That,” he said, “is Samuel Batt.” He stooped slightly to peer at the buttons.

  “Who?”

  He made his selection. A kachunk sound came from within.

  “He’s the man who killed Warren Shanter,” said Flores, a root beer in his hand.

  69. Everything dies, baby. That’s a fact.

  70. Everything that dies, someday comes back.

  “Mozambique,” Mason said.

  “He regrets it,” said Flores. “Ten years looking for the man who killed his son. And all he got was remorse.”

  “And Warren …”

  “Just another hopeless romantic, I guess.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “On the one hand, you didn’t assist his suicide. On the other, you came up with that business model all by yourself.”

  Mason looked at the floor.

  “But we got nothing that matches the fat girl. Not yet.”

  Mason nodded. He could see Sissy’s face. He wished he knew her name.

  “I found a fair amount on Soon, though. Did you know he came here as a refugee in 1978 after his family was killed in East Timor? Hacked to bits…. But if, as you say, he hired you for an art project, well, I don’t see a problem—or a body, for that matter.”

  The nurse appeared in the doorway. “Your friend is awake,” she said.

  85

  There were doctors and nurses all over the place now, as well as detectives and policemen. A possible murder victim suddenly awake was an exciting thing. There was a grave intensity in there. Mason did his best not to hear what they were saying.

  Eventually they let him in, and finally they left. He knew they were still out there, watching through the glass—but it didn’t matter. It was just the two of them now.

  “Hey there,” said Willy. Her voice was thin, but she was smiling.

  “Hey,” said Mason. “I love you.”

  “I know.”

  “More than you can know.”

  “All right,” she said. “More than I know. I love you, too.” He sat down and looked at her face. It was bruised, but strong. There was life in her eyes. “You look good.”

  She laughed—a distant eerie sound. “You haven’t really looked.”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Only if you can see what’s there.”

  “What should I look for?” said Mason.

  “Victory …” It seemed she was going to say something else, but then she didn’t.

  Mason leaned forward. He kissed her lips, took hold of the blue sheet, then pulled it back.

  The shock was so severe it was like his windpipe had closed again. He didn’t gag or gasp for air, just couldn’t breathe. The only thought he had was more like an image: a paper snowflake.

  He was trying to make a snowflake.

  But he didn’t fold the paper.

  Somewhere back there, in the land of oxygen, he could hear her voice. “Don’t you see?” she said. “We got the son of a bitch!”

  And now the snowflake was gone—replaced by Willy, half her body carved, so much cut-up meat. “We beat the psycho!” she said, lifting her right arm in victory. And then Mason saw.

  Her arm without a hand.

  “No,” said Willy. “Don’t cry. It’s a good thing….”

  “Look at you,” he said.

  And Willy did. She looked down at herself, then up at Mason. She smiled. “Never did like that half: all function, no feeling. It got what it deserved.”

  She really was happy. Mason could see that, but he felt blown apart, because now he knew. He pulled the sheet back over her. Willy would never leave this room.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she said.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Why don’t you tell me a story?”

  Mason tried to rein in his thoughts. “There once was a little girl …”

  “Not me,” she said. “How about your dad? I’ve got an unhealthy interest in fathers….”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I want a story.” She smiled, and Mason saw that she was doing this for him.

  “Okay …,” Mason thought. “My father almost killed me—”

  “Mine, too,” said Willy and laughed.

  “—on the day that I was born.”

  “Fucking fathers!” said Willy.

  Mason got up from his chair. “He didn’t mean to. It was a hospital room, like this one—except the walls weren’t made of glass.” He glanced out at the people looking in, and limped around to the other side of the bed. “I’d just been born.” He lifted up the sheet and climbed underneath. As soon as his skin touched hers, everything else stopped.

  He felt her body, her death ahead of them. Then everything broke inside him.

  He began to sob, not gradually, but all at once. The world was her voice, the thought of her as a child, her terror, her fall, her half getting up, her wondrous strength and kind crafty eyes, her life before he knew her, her warmth and paralysis, the hum of her butchered body, how she needed him and he needed her, her goodness, how she made him feel, and he finally felt it—the world right next to him, and it was about to be taken away.

  “I love you,” he sobbed.

  “I do know,” said Willy, her voice steady, as he curled against her chest. “Now please, baby, tell me the story. I want to see you on the day you were born.”

  He was tiny. She was everything. His tears flooded down as he spoke. He didn’t have to think of the words. They’d been told so many times, always different—always the same.

  “My father came into the hospital room. He was smiling. They called him Johnnie Walker Joe, but today it was champagne. He held it in his arms like a baby. He tore off the foil and cranked the wire. Aiming the bottle heavenward, he pushed with his thumbs….”

  And as he spoke, Willy grew lighter against him, giving up the ghost.

  When the cork hit the pillow she was gone.

  Mason tried to go with her. He fought with all his might. But those docs and cops, they held him down. And she was left to rise.

  86

  Your friend is awake.

  Your friend is dead.

  You have no friends.

  You have no hope.

  That’s why you are here.

  Where?

  In the QT Room. In the TQ Room. In the white room with black curtains near the station. The station is abandoned, and so are you, my friend. Silver horses run down moonbeams in your dark eyes.

  What?

  It’s a song. You’ve gone crazy—and that’s what crazy people do: they sing. How about “Fire Lake”? You know how it goes, don’t you?

  Yes.

  It was your father’s favourite song. And we’ll tell you something now, because you deserve a break.

  What?

  It’s not about going to hell—unless you want it to be. It’s about facing risk. He said so himself.

  Who?

  Bob Seger of course.

  How…?

  How do we know? The same way we know that Warren gave Carolina one of your letters. The same way we know that Samuel Batt was crying when he struck Warren on the head and pushed him into the lake. The same way we
know who Sissy is. And she’s not the only one who changed her name.

  The same way we know that Soon wanted to help people, but he had no gift for it—except when it came to you. We’ve seen his body floating in the dark river.

  The same way we know that Willy saved your life.

  The same way we know where Seth is—and so does the doctor. In fact, she’s watching him right now.

  The same way we know you, Mason—what you could have been, what you’ve chosen to forget….

  All this we know, and more.

  But how?

  Isn’t it obvious? We are semi-omniscient.

  Like a narrator?

  Like narrators. Like ghosts. Like the ones who tell your story.

  Can you change it?

  We’re not your fucking authors, Mason.

  Well, can you help me?

  Most of us don’t even like you. We could have done a better job. Lived a better life. Had a better story. And now you’ve gone insane.

  The doctor was right—there are far too many of us, stuck in your busted body, your broken brain. You should have listened to her. She has a gift for saving people.

  Can you at least get me out of here?

  A question, Mason: what is the date?

  Just get me the hell out!

  What’s wrong with where you are?

  There’s nothing here!

  This is a place where things tend to get broken.

  Not even a doorknob!

  When the room is empty the story’s over. Why do you think we’re talking to you? There’s nothing left for us to do.

  Can you get me out of here or not?

  Why?

  What do you mean, why?

  What exactly would you do?

  Don’t you know?

  We’re only semi-omniscient.

  Then I guess you’ll have to wait and see. But I’ll let you tell the story.

  The door clicked open.

  87

  Mason stepped out of the room. He limped down the empty hall and came to a bank of elevators. He was on the eleventh floor. He pressed the down button.

  The inside of the elevator was mirrored. He looked at himself, and an unexpected Mason looked back: blue hospital gown, bruised eyes, bare feet. Not exactly inconspicuous. There was a ding as the doors opened.

  He crossed through emergency and made it outside. The sky was growing dark. He turned and looked at the building: Western Hospital. Just eight blocks through Kensington Market to his apartment.

  A skinhead on stilts was chasing small children. A woman was standing on a large rock, playing the trumpet. The statue of Al Waxman had daisy chains around its neck. Dogs were running in circles. No one paid Mason the least bit of attention. He limped past the taco stands, the fishmongers, the cheese shops, all the way to Spadina, then up.

  And there she was, in front of the MHAD building. “I need your help again,” he said. Barbara nodded, tightening her cape.

  It was a bit over the top—like someone purposefully causing a distraction. She jumped and raged and spun her arms and howled—an earthbound, unhinged superhero.

  It took all of security just to get her attention, by which time Mason was in the elevator.

  He got out at the sixth floor. Dr. Francis’s office door was closed. He knocked, and knocked again. It was locked. He stepped back then hurled himself into it. The frame cracked. It felt like his shoulder did, too. He took another run and the door broke, pain shooting up his leg as he crashed to the floor.

  He pulled himself up on the desk, then sat down in the doctor’s chair. He pressed a button on her keyboard and the screen sprang to life—the aerial map of downtown, homed in right here: at College and Spadina. There was nothing now, but Mason saw where the beacon would have been. And the doctor would have been watching it—that pulsing red dot, growing fainter on the screen, until it was gone.

  A question, Mason: what is the date?

  He looked at the corner of the screen: 7:36 p.m. July 10.

  Saving people is a matter of minutes.

  He lifted his head.

  You are my sunshine!

  The diploma was back on the wall.

  “The College of Physicians and Surgeons certifies

  Grace Lapin

  as a member of the college, authorized to engage

  in the practice of medicine”

  NO NUTS ALLOWED!!

  He looked at the screen again, then back at the wall—until finally the words clicked into place.

  This is a place where things tend to get broken.

  There was a soapstone paperweight on her desk. He picked it up, limped around to the small fridge and bashed at the lock until it broke.

  Three cups of Sports Day methadone, 100 milligrams each.

  What are you doing, Mason?

  He pulled a bag out of the trash bin and put them in it. Then he left the building and crossed the street, hopping like an injured idiot, with a death wish and a bag full of methadone.

  Before entering his building he went into the Lucky Save to make one final purchase. Then he dragged himself up the stairs to the door of his apartment. He stopped. He had that feeling—that someone was in there, waiting for him to come home. He opened the door and something flew past his face, then he limped to the centre of the room. A bird was circling near the ceiling. It swooped low then rose again.

  He pulled out the cups of methadone and put them on his desk. Then he found his cowboy boots, wincing as he pulled them on, and his leather jacket. He drank some Jim Beam, then grabbed his cellphone and sat at the desk. Looking out on Spadina through a broken window, he dialled the doctor’s cell. Once. Twice. Nothing. He opened a drawer and pulled out a pad of paper. A pen.

  What the hell are you doing?

  He tried to calm his mind. The bird flew overhead. He crumpled up the paper and threw it, then drank some more Jim Beam. He tried again. And again. Nothing. And nothing. He dialled her number once more, then put the phone in his pocket.

  “He didn’t leave a note.” He opened two of the cups. “Boom and boom,” he said, then drank them both down.

  You’re a fucking idiot!

  He turned around. “For some people, if they live long enough, their regrets turn into skills.”

  So was that long enough?

  Have you even lived?

  The bird swooped as he got to his feet. It looked like a swallow … or maybe a sparrow. He’d never been good at birds.

  He made it across the room and down the stairs. His limp was almost gone. He was in the alley now, and there was Chaz’s motorcyle. Before he got on, he paused for a moment. Beneath his feet was the QT Room, the cave within the Cave—never to be opened. He imagined everything inside it, the story that could be told. Then he got on the bike and hit the throttle.

  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. cummings. 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 fucking 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 God,” 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, that is. He came down on the same side that was hit 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 pass 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.