Ghosted (11 page)

The critics had loathed it, but Sissy loved the poem. She’d read it over and over, imagining herself on the back of that horse. She begged her father for riding lessons, and finally he relented.

On her thirteenth birthday her father drove her out of the city, down gravel roads, to an enclave of paddocks and stables surrounded by elm trees. “It was Utopia,” she said. Standing in wood chips with six other girls, she waited on the horses. The woman who’d told them to wait was barely a woman—only seventeen or so—but she was the coolest, most beautiful person Sissy had ever seen in real life. Before she pulled it into a ponytail, her straight, dark hair touched the waist of her riding pants. Her dark eyes were like cool coal, and the coil of rope swung down from her shoulder into her hand as she turned towards the stables.
I want to be her
, thought Sissy. And for a moment she didn’t think at all about the other girls standing in the wood chips, the normal skinny six of them.

She didn’t even give them much thought later that night, as she lay sobbing on the rug at the foot of her bed. She was accustomed to their sort of derision, and it was nothing compared to the shame she felt in the lovely face of the coal-eyed cowgirl.
She
was the kind who could save a wild stallion from a sinking ship, make it to shore still breathing, stand up and meet his dark horse eyes with hers, mount him bareback and gallop o’er the glistening sand. Whereas Sissy was the kind who couldn’t even hoist her fat, round self onto a saddled, half-asleep nag. She’d tried, again and again, kicking and kicking her monster legs … and by the time the horse lady had managed to get a shoulder under Sissy’s large butt to help hoist her up, the Normal Six were already laughing. Then she was on top of the old nag named Venus, tears welling in her eyes, reaching hopelessly for the reins.

“Here they are,” said the horse lady. Her hands grasped Sissy’s and Sissy began to sob, thirteen years old, already slumped on the back of her dreams.

The file was thick—full of all those answers he’d given. Mason could guess, more or less, what was on the first page:

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” said Mason, a half-smile on his face.

The young doctor looked up from the file. “How are your tonsils?”

“Oh,” said Mason. “They’re okay. Thanks.”

She turned back to the file.

Mason looked around. There was indirect light coming through the window. If one were to look out, across Spadina, one could see Mason’s apartment building. He made a mental note to close his curtains.

The office was sparse. A few books, a framed picture of a girl
with pigtails, some bottles and pill containers. On the wall was a diploma, a poster from the 1970s advertising cod liver oil (You
are my sunshine!)
, and a laminated sign: NO NUTS ALLOWED!

Mason laughed.

The doctor looked up.

“Is that a joke?” he said, pointing to the sign.

“No. I’m allergic to nuts.”

“Oh.”

She turned back to his file.

“So what would happen … if like, I brought a bag of chestnuts in here?”

She put down the file and looked at him.

“Just asking …”

She sighed. “I carry an EpiPen at all times, but I’d rather not have to use it. So please refrain from bringing bags of any kinds of nuts in here. Do you think you can manage that?”

“Yes.” Mason looked down at his lap.

The doctor picked up the file.

“It says here you came to book an assessment in nothing but your underwear.”

“But I did book one.”

“True.”

“It’s actually a chimpanzee, you know?

“What?”

“On the pamphlet you gave me—‘Get the monkey off your back’. It’s actually a chimpanzee.”

“Yes, I know.”

She had a knack for making him feel stupid, but for some reason Mason liked talking to her.

“I thought you worked at that other place.”

“The other place where I was working?”

“Uh-huh.”

She closed the file and pushed back her chair. “Let’s start over,” she said. “Mr. Dubisee, I’m Dr. Francis. I am a family doctor, but I am also an addictions counsellor. The model we use here at MHAD is one of harm reduction. Do you know what that means?”

“I think so.”

“There are various kinds of help I can offer you, depending on what your goals are. What are your goals?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“Okay. Well you did take the step to come here—so that’s something. Tell you what: I’ll present you with some possibilities. How about that?” Mason nodded. She leaned forward and opened his file. “Based on your history and level of use I could recommend you for a medical detox.” Mason swallowed. “It generally takes between five and ten days, during which time you would be in our care, under constant surveillance. It can be a difficult process, but highly effective. Unfortunately spaces are limited and we couldn’t find you a bed, if you were interested, for at least another month.”

“Oh,” said Mason.

“One thing I would not recommend is that you quit cold turkey—at least not the alcohol. The cocaine, you can walk out of here and never touch it again and, physically at least, you should be fine. The alcohol is another matter. People die from stopping all at once. If you choose to go on the list for detox, I could find someone to counsel you until a place comes available. Does that interest you?”

“What about you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Could you counsel me?”

“Well, we can see about that. For now I need to know if you’re interested in a medical detox.”

“I think so.”

“Well, all right then. We’ll get you on the list, and how about you come in next week for a session, okay?”

“With you?”

“We’ll see.”

“What about the statements?”

“Excuse me?”

“From the questionnaire. Socrates #4.”

Dr. Francis just stared.

“The guy who did the assessment said that if I came back you’d give me some more Socratic statements.”

She looked down at his file. “That’s what this note is about?”

Mason nodded.

“You’re kidding? I’m used to people trying to negotiate for drugs….”

“I’ve
got
drugs.”

That looked almost like a smile on her lips.

“What do you want them for?” she asked.

“They’re funny.”

She took off her glasses. She
was
smiling. “Okay, Mr. Dubisee. If you don’t mind sitting in the waiting room, I’ll get you fourteen Socratic statements. That’s two per day. Come back next week and we’ll see about a refill.”

“Can you make them random?”

“That’s how they come,” said Dr. Francis.

On the bench at the bottom of the hill, sporting an orange coat made round by her girth, Sissy looked like a giant gourd displayed in a farmers’ market. Mason waved as he approached, then felt foolish for it—even more so when she waved back.

“You look nice,” he said, sitting down next to her.

“You look kind of like hell.”

“Thanks.”

“Tell me about the guy.”

“What guy?”

“The one you wrote the letters for.”

“I’m not sure….”

“You can tell the next one about me.”

That creeped him right out, and to fend off the feeling he told her about Warren coming to his hotdog stand.

“You sell hotdogs?”

“Not as many as I should … but yeah.” He told her about Warren’s proposition, but left out the love letter part.

“So did he do it?” asked Sissy.

“Yeah. He did.”

Mason expected her to ask how, but instead she said, “Did you like him?”

He looked down. There were three small daisies between his feet. He felt exhausted and queasy.

“Forget it,” said Sissy. “You don’t have to answer that.”

    
11. It matters to me what other people think.

12. Potable water often tastes salty.

As far as Mason could figure it, Sissy wanted her suicide note to accomplish three things: to surprise people with the good things she’d done, to shock them with the bad and to make them feel shame for how poorly they’d treated her.

Listening to her, it occurred to him that the good things she’d done were not much better than what he might put on a list of his own, and the bad ones nowhere near as bad. Her maltreatment by the populace, however, was a whole other story. Or rather, it was the story he had to figure out how to write. It was subtle, brutal and seemingly unending—a string of scenes like the one she’d first described to him: young Sissy sobbing on the back of Venus, the Normal Six laughing with their mouths open.

“But don’t write about that,” she said, without offering a reason. In fact, each time Mason mentioned some story she’d told him, she said the same thing: “But don’t write about that.” It reminded him of the more frustrating magazine assignments he’d been given: great sources who’d suddenly remember that this was going to be published, then start stammering and contradicting themselves. It seemed Sissy didn’t want to give any individual tormentor the credit. And neither was she interested in figuring out the cause and effect—the tricky equation of her misery. She wanted those who read her note to experience awe and responsibility and a guilty pain. She wanted her memory and her act to burn on people like a never-healing wound.