Ghosted (29 page)

    
“You know what I think?”
says the voice of Chaz.
“It’s not about Sarah at all. She was in the hospital for a while. They thought she might be paralyzed, but it turned out better than that. She’s not going to be in the Olympics or anything, but she can walk. The horse died, but it’s not that either. It’s all about him.”

“How?”
says the doctor.

“You spend your life jumping off little cliffs, but there’s not always someone watching, and then you’re landing badly, and it starts to hurt. Finally, after years of busting yourself up you get to the big cliff—but it’s someone else who goes over. And then everyone pays attention, but now you’re not the hero. Not by a long shot. So then what happens? You start busting yourself up for real.”

Chaz takes a drink, a long slow one. Then his voice is lower.

“Mason’s been going over the edge since the day he didn’t. But it would have happened anyway.”

The doctor speaks:
“What do you mean?”

The song is almost over.

“The swallows, Sarah, Warren going over the edge—they’re all real, but they’re also a story. Without them, there’d be a different story
.
Sooner or later, he’d have found a way to fall. Anti-hero is a lot easier than hero. And if those are the only choices you’ve given yourself …”

The doctor cuts in.
“Is this what you’d tell him, if you were his doctor?”

There is a pause.
“You know what I’d tell him?”
It sounds like Chaz is taking a sip.
“You’re fucked up and haunted, but not by what you think you are. And if you ever get clean, you might have a chance.”

“Ghosted,”
says Dr. Francis.

“What?”

“He’s been ghosted….”

There is a
boom
, and then it all goes quiet.

Mason is on his feet, a dented can of beans in his hands. There is no more talking, no more music. The intercom system is pulverized. He stands there shaking.

And then a voice behind him. “Come here to me,” Willy says.

He turns and walks towards her. He drops the can and climbs beneath the sheet, curling into her.

“It’s going to be okay,” she says.

He shivers.

“What song was that?”

Fire Lake
, he tries to say.

When they talk it sounds like ghosts having a conversation—slow, ethereal, disjointed—but ghosts who like each other….

“What happened … to your throat?”

“Crushed windpipe … stupid bar fight. Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“How did Chaz find you?”

“You’re the one who left, silly … I’ve been here the whole time.”

“Here … behind the wall?”

“Here behind the wall.”

“I thought you were … with Bethany.”

“I wanted to get clean for you.”

“Me, too….”

“We can do it together.”

“All right.”

“You seem sad, or angry.”

“Not at you …”

Their voices move in the dark together, stumbling and drifting along.

This time he is standing, and partially dressed—jeans and cowboy boots—holding onto the bed. “I demand our release!” he announces.

“You got your voice back!” says the doctor.

“Then I guess you heard what I said.”

Chaz laughs, but Mason doesn’t look at him.

“He’s angry,” says Willy.

“You’re not a prisoner here,” says the doctor.

“Well, we can’t get out of here. So what do
you
call it?”

“Jesus Christ!” says Chaz. “I had to reset the scanner so she could get in and out.” He nods towards the doctor. Mason just glares.

“You’ve been through a lot,” says Dr. Francis. “It’s normal to feel anxious, confused, even scared. It happens during detox.”

“I’m not fucking scared.”

“Would you rather not be here?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“For Christ’s sake!” says Chaz. “You’re injured. You’re both sick. The psycho’s out there and he’s got your address. But if you want to leave …”

“No,” says Mason. He looks at the doctor. “But things are going to change…. You’ll scan our hands—both of us.” He looks down at Willy, who smiles. “And what the hell is she on?”

“Sedatives,” says the doctor. “Both of you are. It’s a difficult transition….”

“Well, give her less,” says Mason, “so we can have a conversation. Like normal people.”

Willy nods in agreement.

“And give me fucking none! No more drugs at all!” He looks at Dr. Francis. “We’re in a fucking cave for Christ’s sake! Can’t you lose your licence?”

“We’ve all got things to lose,” says the doctor.

Mason waves a hand, then takes the other one off the bed. He steadies himself and looks at them both. “From now on,” he says. “I’ll be the one looking after her.”

Chaz steps towards him. “Are you fucking kidding me …?” But the doctor cuts him off.

“All right,” she says, looking at Mason, who is having trouble standing. “You’re through the worst of it now—physically at least. If you want to play doctor, I’ll show you what to do.” She turns to Willy. “Is that okay with you?”

“Yes,” says Willy.

The doctor fixes Mason with her eyes. “And you—are you committed to this? To getting clean and helping Willy?”

“Yes,” he says.

    
62. I like the smell of burning rubber.

It feels like an alien ceremony—the scanning of the hands. No one knows just what to say. “Remember,” says Chaz. “The right hand gets you in. The left one gets you out.”

And after that they’re left alone, Mason and Willy, in their cave within the Cave.

“I love you,” says Willy.

“It’s going to be all right.”

Their hands seem to glow as they hold each other tight.

He is still in the woods, but catches sight of the road ahead. He sees what it’ll be like: painful, shameful, remorseful, lost, scary, grief-stricken and just plain sad. In some ways the road will be worse than the woods. But there will be good things, too. Even now there are moments of elation—and then just an emptying, water flowing from his eyes without any emotion at all: a pure physical purge that makes his muscles burn and his head pound, like vomiting without being able to stop. He knows Willy feels it, too, though hers is different. At one point, in her delirium, he hears her humming “Fire Lake.” It is lovely and haunting. He presses against her and the emptying subsides.

When he’s sure she’s deep in sleep, he sets himself a mission—his first one out of the QT room. He locates the Sony tape deck on a shelf with the cans of beans. He picks it up and presses his palm to the panel on the wall. The door slides back and he rolls on through.

He’s on the other side now. But for a moment he doesn’t move—curled up behind the bar. Then he stands and turns and looks at the mirror. His own face shocks him—drawn and bloated at the same time. His eyes look intent—but on what, he doesn’t know. He tries to look through, to see Willy behind the glass.

But of course he can’t. Wouldn’t know if she was screaming.

He limps across the floor. At the DJ booth, Bob Seger’s
Against the Wind
is still on the turntable. He plugs in the Sony, takes out the Gowan cassette and finds a roll of masking tape. Thank God for old technology. Play/Record. He drops the needle in the groove.

Scratch, scratch. Piano. Acoustic guitar
.

When the singing starts, he starts to get dizzy: the heavy scent of booze and cigarettes, sweet sensory metal dripping down his throat. Five years and this is the longest he’s been sober. It hurts like fucking hell.

But man, this song is good
.

The wall slides back and he gets up off the floor

“Where have you been?” says Willy.

“I got you something.” He plugs in the tape deck.

“I wish you hadn’t left.”

“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 embarrassing,” she says.

“What is?”

“When I was a kid I wanted to be an actress.”

“Why is that embarrassing?”

“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.”

“Fuck you,” he says, and starts to smile.

“Fuck 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 ass, 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 ass 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.

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, lashing 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 coke he could want—and get some smack for Willy. But he is through the withdrawal now, and chooses not to give in. This act of free will makes the torture complete, almost sacred. Willy loves and hates him for it.

Mason considers some makeshift curtains. He could put the paintings over the window, the other way around.

Those fucking paintings
.

They’re fucked 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
. 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 Willy is able to eat. He massages 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
.

For a moment he thinks of not showing it to Willy.

But when he does, her face transforms. “Oh God,” 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 fucking 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 Willy 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.