Ghosted (13 page)

“We’ll have to scan your hands.”

“Naturally.”

“Oh, and here,” he said, moving to the other side of the glass. “An intercom—in case you want to talk to someone. But remember …”

“It’s on the QT,” said Mason.

Chaz just grinned.

Back on the other side of the wall, Chaz turned the scatterhouse lights on. Mason stood looking at the mirror. There was no hint, nothing to suggest that anything lay behind it. The glass appeared
bolted to the wall. On this side, the intercom was in the ceiling, with the hand scanner—practically invisible—at knee level behind the bar.

“There’s a sensor,” said Chaz. “As soon as you’re through the door, it closes. That’s another reason I told you: something goes hinky and I get stuck in there, no one would ever know.”

“So you’re saying if that happens, the Cave is mine?”

“Very funny.” Chaz brought the lights back down. “If it’s been a while and you haven’t seen me, you know where to look. I figure that place could turn into hell pretty fast.”

“Most places can,” said Mason. “Let’s drink to it.”

“Right,” said Chaz and reached for a bottle. “Demons with demons.”

It was something Tenner used to say.

Mason spent hours going over all the bad things Sissy had been through, most of them pertaining in one way or another to her body. He didn’t doubt she was clinically depressed and hated
her life every single day, and so she was suicidal. Fine. He was supposed to do his job and write her a letter. That was the deal.

But he couldn’t see her doing it.

There were all sorts of people he could imagine killing themselves. He just had to look out the window to see madmen covered in scabs, limping hookers, junkies with half-shaved heads—all shouting out loud to die. It wasn’t hard to imagine them diving into traffic, ripping themselves to ribbons with a steak knife, jumping off whatever they could, shouting the whole way down.

But Sissy?

He pictured her at home, at night, in an apartment her father paid for. Alone. In pain. Utterly alone. Sad beyond belief.

But then what …?

It had been one of his stipulations:
I don’t want to know how
. But now he did. He wanted to see it. Thought maybe it would help him write. What a strange fucking thing to think.

    
15. There never was a time I liked to play with guns.

16. My parents were too loving.

“How do you plan to do it?”

They were back under fluorescence, in clouds of fry oil and steam: Mason’s penance.

“Do what?”

“Kill yourself.”

“Oh my, Mr. Shakespeare! What if somebody hears?”

“What happened to Mr. Hemingway?”

“Slipped while cleaning his shotgun. And anyway, I thought you didn’t want to know about that.”

“You’re smart enough to write your own letter, Sissy.”

“But then you wouldn’t get paid.”

“I’ll give you back the money.”

“Hara-kiri.”

“What’s that …?”

“Ceremonial gutting of the self.”

“Are you serious? You really want to commit hara-kiri?”

“Commit
is such a great word, don’t you think?”

“Look, Sissy. I’m at your service. I really am. I’m just trying to figure it out. You understand how that’s important, right?”

“Right. Okay. So I’m going to commit to committing hara-kiri. Have you read
Shogun?”

“You’re in a hell of a mood today, aren’t you?”

“Just upping the dose, Mr. Dante—or was that his first name? You really think I’ve got this far without knowing my meds?”

“So you’re stoned is all?”

“No more than you.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it. I’m going to plunge a large blade into my chest, pull it down, turn the handle, push it left then draw it all the way to the right. After that, my stomach will spill out, along with some other gut-type things. I figure I’ll need a real long blade to get to all of that. What do
you
think, Dr. Faustus?”

“He’s a fictional character, Sissy.”

“And what are you, Mason D?”

“So, you’re a writer?” Dr. Francis was looking at his file again. “You going to write me into one of your stories?”

“Uh …”

Did it say it on his T-shirt or something?
I want you to be my character
.

“Just don’t use my name, okay?” She smiled, like it was a joke.

“You got it.”

“Seriously, though. What you need to do right now is focus on yourself.”

Mason looked at her. A wavy tendril of brownish blonde hair had broken loose from the tuck behind her ear. It brought to mind a highway sign, a squiggly arrow. He imagined her looking into the reflection of her own eyes in the morning, trying to seem
older. Her throat was smooth, freckles on her collarbone—but there
was
age, if you looked closely, in the tautness of her narrow shoulders. “I’ll try,” he said.

“What kind of things do you write?”

“You know … got a novel I’m working on. Like everybody else … Oh yeah, and I wrote a poem the other day!”

“You seem happy about that.”

“No, just amused.”

“It’s a funny poem?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh.”

“But it was funny writing it. I hate poetry.”

“I see. Do you enjoy writing, though?”

“When I’m high, I do.”

“Do you always write high?”

“Pretty much—that and drunk.”

“What if you weren’t?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if you wrote sober?”

“I don’t know …”

“Well, let’s try.”

Mason looked warily at the doctor.

“Do you use a computer?”

“Yeah … for the most part.”

“Okay, so you’ll do it by hand. I’d like you to start a notebook.”

“I’ve already got one.”

“Do you write in it sober?”

“Not particularly … No.”

“Okay then, let’s try this again. I’d like you to start a
new
notebook. We’ll call it ‘The Book of Sobriety.’”

“That’s a terrible title.”

“So come up with a different one—you’re the writer. Anyway, what I want you to do is this: every way you usually write, you’ll do it differently. So instead of typing, you’ll write by hand. If you write at night, you’ll write in the day. I want you to change where you sit, what music you listen to, everything you can think of. And, most importantly, when you write in that notebook, I want you to do it sober.”

“I don’t know,” said Mason. “I really hate journals.”

“Did I say the word journal?”

“Nope.” They looked at each other. “So what do I write?”

“What did you write in your other notebook?”

“Notes.”

Dr. Francis just looked at him.

“On my novel, mostly. On the novel in progress.”

“So not that,” she said. “For now, I’ll give you a topic, and you’ll write me a little something. Okay? Don’t worry about how good it is, or how well-crafted, or whatever. It just has to be sober.”

“Should be a real page-turner.”

The doctor waited.

“Okay,” said Mason. “What’s my first assignment?”

“Your first memory,” said Dr. Francis. “You can make it a poem if you want. Maybe even a funny one.”

    
17. I’m scared of people knowing things about me.

18. If I were a tree I’d be a cut-down tree.

It was a thing of beauty, this Cave. Mason wondered if he should have told the doctor about it. If he was even partially serious about detox or rehab or harm reduction, or whatever the hell they were setting out to do, having this place a hundred yards away from his door was going to be an issue. But even with doctor-patient confidentiality it felt wrong to say anything. Like a betrayal. And anyway, there was a good chance she already knew about the place, it being right across the street. Most of these people were probably her patients.

A duo of well-dressed lawyers had abandoned the nine-ball game to messily grope each other, pissing off the punks who’d been trying to get some trash talk going. A large Métis man in a trench coat was looming over the SpongeBob pinball machine, attempting to beat high score while snorting a series of lines off the flashing Plexiglas. Vlad the DJ put the needle to “Baby’s on Fire” and Kristen—the cute, slutty bartender—sang along as she cracked a Bud for Christian, the petite Haitian stripper.

The poker table was full—a blue, green and black monster in the centre of the felt, tumbling stacks, cards snapping, thick lines of coke on metal discs, cigarette packs, forearms with fresh tattoos still leaking blood, a card burning then turning to the river.

In all corners the shadows were full: skids, capos, trannies, nannies, boxers, traders, waiters, goths, hookers, dealers, doctors, DJs, addicts, assholes, punks, bikers, cabbies, teachers, dancers, drunks, dilettantes, dentists and debt collectors—Chaz’s patrons, getting blasted in the early morning.

A thing of beauty, just beneath the earth’s crust: Plato’s good old Cave.

“Here,” said Mason. He put the manila envelope on the orange tabletop. “You can go ahead and read it.”

“I’ll do it when I’m alone,” said Sissy.

Warren said something like that
.

“There’s a few options here….” said Mason. “One of them’s a poem.”

“A poem?”

“Kind of a response to ‘Circe and the Stallion.’”

“I’m not sure how I feel about an homage….”

“It’s more a
fuck you.”

Sissy nodded. “Your eyes look weird,” she said.

It seemed like Mason was about to say something. But then he didn’t.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, then got up and left.

    
19. People will never change.

20. I would rather be a bird than a businessman.

Two loud and skinny prostitutes push through the open door. Sissy gets up and follows them to the counter. She orders two bacon burgers, medium fries and a milkshake.

Sitting back down she unwraps one of the burgers. A few large bites, and her eyes are glistening—with tears or fluorescence, it’s hard to tell. She opens the envelope and starts to read.