Ghosted (35 page)

“I should have done something before she disappeared.”

The doctor said nothing.

They walked until they came to a barricade of orange cones and striped wooden horses. There were arrows diverting traffic
north and south to alternate bridges and a large octagonal sign that read,
Closed for Opening
.

“Good title,” said Mason.

The doctor laughed. “How’s the book going?”

Mason stepped over one of the horses and walked towards the bridge. There were trucks, pallets and a crane, but no one was working at the moment. A banner blew in the wind:
The Saving Grace—Completion July 11
.

“Just five days left to jump,” said Mason.

“It was a serious question,” said Dr. Francis. “About your book.”

“I know,” said Mason. He walked onto the bridge.

“So …”

“What do you mean ‘so’? It’s done.”

“It’s finished?”

“No. Just done … Listen, do you think I can stay off the drugs?”

Dr. Francis stepped onto the pedestrian walkway. “That’s up to you.” She touched the first strand of the Saving Grace.

“Well, I can tell you this,” said Mason. “My chances go up if I don’t write. Even with the whole “Book of Sobriety” thing, I can’t imagine doing it sober, not really…. What would happen if I started using again?”

“At the same rate? There’s a good chance you’d die.”

“So if I never write another word, then that’s okay. At least I’d be alive.’”

“What makes living so important all of the sudden?”

Mason’s hands clenched. “What the fuck?” he said, then walked away from her. It was like that feeling when somebody makes a racial slur—your throat constricts, the world looks instantly ugly and you don’t know what to say. The difference here was she had a point.

He turned and took hold of the Saving Grace, tried to look at the skyline through the strands. “What do you think of this?” he said.

“What?” said Dr. Francis, catching up. “The harp strings?”

Mason nodded.

“It makes me sick to my stomach—literally.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“You can’t walk and look at the world at the same time without wanting to throw up … there’s something wrong with that.”

Mason started to laugh.

Dr. Francis stood next to him. She held onto the wires and leaned back. “You know what I hate? People say suicide is cowardly, and no one ever objects. It’s a lot of things, but I can’t say it’s that. Take suicide bombers—for some reason we all have to agree they’re cowards. Evil, sure, but people are so scared of being gutless that automatically they equate the two.”

They held on to the cables, and tried to look through, to the distant great lake.

“Tell me,” said Mason. “What did you mean when you said that I’ve been
ghosted?”

Dr. Francis tried to pluck one of the metal strings. It made no sound. “Most of us actually, we’ve got these ghosts in us. And I’m not talking about souls. We’re not born with them. You for instance … What did you want to be when you grew up?”

Mason thought of Willy. “A cowboy,” he said. “Or a Jedi. A Jedi-cowboy, I guess.”

Dr. Francis nodded. “And then what?”

“And then? I don’t know … an explorer, an ambulance driver. Then a freedom fighter …, a revolutionary poet—a seductive one, with an edge. Oh, and a rock star, of course—the lonesome, tough
kind. And Gandhi, but a bit more kick-ass. A Sandinista Gandhi Hemingway Indiana Jones kind of thing …”

“Is that all?”

Mason laughed.

“No. It makes sense,” she said. “You probably had a strong imagination—a hundred future selves. And then you got older, got out into the world, and saw all the possibility out there. So you just kept adding to them. It would have been overwhelming.”

Mason remembered being drunk on his own capacity for adventure and greatness. He’d careered across the world and thought it would never end.

“And then,” said Dr. Francis, “something happened. You stopped creating lives and you didn’t even know it. Not until one day when it hit you—dread, fear, maybe even panic—because finally, at some level, you realized that you’d stopped. And now this: You, standing there—or, more likely, hunched over and puking—were who you were, who you
are
…. All the men you’d envisioned were never going to be.”

Mason could see them now, slipping through the spaces in the Saving Grace—a hundred small men who looked like him but better: virtuous, chiselled, poetic, powerful, adored—the cowboy, the rock star, the visionary, the philosopher-king—all tumbling into the valley below. And here he stood, not even a writer. It felt like his legs had given out and he was just hanging there, holding onto the unplayable strings of a giant, stupid harp.

“But you know what I think,” said Dr. Francis. “When those ideas of yourself die, their ghosts persist. And they cause all sorts of trouble….”

He wasn’t listening any more. He’d turned and started walking again, a hand stretched out, fingers bouncing on the taut metal wires.

Dr. Francis followed. They walked until there was no web—a twenty-foot section in the middle of the bridge still free of cables and crosses. Mason leaned forward against the low concrete wall and looked at the Toronto skyline—the CN Tower: no longer the tallest free-standing structure in the world. “What about you?” he said. “You got ghosts inside you, too?”

“I’m sure most people do. I’ve got patients who think they’re spies, superheroes, doctors…. Others got blindsided so young it’s too evident to bear: Willy, for instance. I’m sure she lives every moment with the ghost of a girl whose father didn’t drag her off a balcony.”

Mason pictured her—that little bitch—sticking out her tongue and yelling, doing cartwheels through Willy’s brain. “I should get home to her,” he said.

They turned and started back across the bridge. “You’re sort of opposites,” said the doctor. “You and Willy.”

Mason was going to ask what she meant, but he was tired of being told things. He walked and thought about it, and then he saw: Willy had lived her whole life with her ghost right there—it inhabited half her body. Whereas Mason had dreamed up so many selves, for so long, that when he finally collapsed into the man he was, he was old but his ghosts were young and mutinous. He saw them as angry birds, diving for him, scrabbling for a perch in his chest.

“I think you need them, though,” said Dr. Francis, “if you’re going to be fully human.”

“What?”

“The ghosts. People who don’t have them—they’ve got no conflict. Take Seth: he always knew what he wanted, and went about getting it. He was a hard man to beat. But it’s interesting what we
did—don’t you think. We found a way to
ghost
him—or as close as it comes with a man like that: take away his libido, his cravings, and eventually he becomes ineffectual, barely an idea.”

“So you think there’s a difference,” said Mason, “between being ghosted and just having them inside you?”

“I think so. Look at Chaz. There’s a guy who’s embraced his ghosts. He likes them. When he’s happy he even talks like one.”

“The ghost of Jimmy Cagney.”

“Yeah. The kind of guy his dad would have liked.”

“You think that makes him
less
fucked up?”

The doctor shrugged. “How’s he doing?” she said.

“They’ve got him at the Don,” said Mason. They were nearing the end of the bridge. “I’m hoping to visit in the next couple days.”

“He’ll be all right,” said Dr. Francis.

“And what about me? You think there’s any hope?”

The doctor laughed. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“Some people,” she said. “If they live long enough, their regrets turn into skills.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Boom, boom and boom.”

“At least I can cheat at cards?”

“Tell you what,” said Dr. Francis. “When you see Chaz, ask him about it.”

“About what, exactly?”

“The Man in the Black Helmet.”

They’d reached the end of the bridge.

When it comes to certain things, movies tend to be right: the two chairs, the old phone receivers—two inches of Plexiglas between them. It occurred to Mason that the last time he’d seen Chaz was also through bulletproof glass. He was about to mention it, and then he thought better.

They might be listening in
.

“What’s the rumble?” said Chaz. “You hitting okay?”

“Me? You’re the one in jail?”

Chaz looked around as if surprised. “By Jove, I am!” Then he leaned into the glass. “Tell me about our good friend Seth.”

Mason looked him in the eye. “Gone,” he said.

Chaz grinned.

“Ungracious final act, though.” said Mason, looking around.

“We’ll get you out of here, I promise.”

“What, this?” said Chaz, still smiling. “This ain’t the work of Handyman.”

“What do you mean?”

“The songbirds are singing.”

“Why are you talking like that—is it because they’re listening?”

“Just happy is all.”

“You’re in jail, Chaz.”

“Right as fucking hail.”

“Well, can you talk normal for now? Please?”

Chaz took a breath, and nodded.

“So who do you think set you up?”

Mason could see the effort it took: Chaz rewriting the words in his head—getting rid of all the
stoolies, pigeons
and
rats …
Finally he just said, “Fishy.”

“You’re kidding me?” said Mason.

“Yeah. Who’d ever think it? If you can’t trust a guy named Fishy …?”

Mason glared at him.

“I know, I know. You told me so …”

“How the fuck could he do it?” said Mason.

“It’s funny really: his one contribution—the Dogmobile—was in my name. And that’s where they found the stuff. Everything else belongs to the family. So in exchange for me, the guns and drugs, he gets to keep the buildings.”

“But
why
did he do it?”

“Aw,” said Chaz. “He just wants to be the big man. It’s kind of sweet, really….”

“It’s not fucking sweet! I’m getting you out of here—the paintings are still down there. They’re worth a lot if I do it right. I’ll post bail. We’ll get you a lawyer….”

“Stop,” said Chaz.

“What?”

“Don’t go down there. If himself or the cops ain’t found it, just leave it alone, okay? Don’t you worry—Fishy’s going to get his. And I don’t want you bailing me out. I kind of like it here.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“You got to get another line, Pancho. I just ain’t kidding you. I know half the guys in here. It’ll be good for me—it’ll be good for business. It’ll make me a better gangster. I really fucking believe that.”

“That’s touching, Chaz.” Mason put the phone down, then picked it up again. “Will you at least get a lawyer?”

“Oh yeah, sure … I don’t want to
live
here.”

“Just a working vacation.”

“Exactly.”

They looked at each other. Mason thought of the glass. “You shouldn’t have done it,” he said.

“What?”

“When they raided, you should have … you know.” Mason looked around. “You should have tried to get out.”

“You mean in.”

Mason nodded.

“You would have done the same.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Chaz laughed. He looked at the clock on the wall.

So did Mason. Then he looked at Chaz. “The doctor told me to ask you something.”

“What about?” said Chaz.

“The Man in the Black Helmet.”

Chaz put the receiver down. Mason watched his mouth forming the words
What about him?

“I don’t know,” said Mason, shrugging. “That’s all she said.”

Chaz picked up the phone. “Well, what do you remember?”

“I hit the ground. I looked around, then ran across the street …”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“You ran away from your own house, right in front of his motorcycle, and you don’t remember why?”

Mason shrugged.

“It was because of me,” said Chaz. He looked down at the steel counter, then up. “I was still there: just ten feet over and ten feet up. You hit the ground, looked up and saw me there. And then ran the other way.”

Mason squinted at Chaz, as if trying to see him twenty years ago, stuck up in a tree. Chaz squinted back, and smiled. “He had you cornered, right?”

“Yeah,” said Mason, looking at Chaz through the ages and branches.

“Did he say anything?”

“His helmet was on … I can’t be sure of what I heard.”

“What do you think he said?”

Mason looked down at the stainless steel. Then he mumbled something, the receiver away from his mouth.

“I can’t hear you,” said Chaz.

Mason looked up. ‘You’ve done it now, you little prick.’ Something like that?”

“Anything else?” Chaz was grinning.

“Yeah,” said Mason, and took a breath. “‘Now you must join the dark side.’ And he was talking through that helmet. There are times I can hear his voice. It sounded like …”

“Like James Earl Jones with asthma?” Chaz was almost laughing.

“It isn’t fucking funny! I remember him stepping towards me—those motherfucking boots. I could see myself in the visor. I thought I was going to die. He said something else … and then I think I fainted.”

“You did,” said Chaz, barely containing his laughter. “I saw it from the tree. But before you passed out, do you remember what you did?”

Mason shook his head.

“You gave him the finger.”

Mason said nothing.

“You fucking gave him the finger, man. And you know what
he said, before you passed out? You know what the man in the helmet said?”

“I don’t know….”

“Come on, you really can’t remember?”

Mason grabbed the phone and shouted, “‘You’re going to hell, kid!’”

“‘You’re a hell of kid, Mason!’”

“What?”

“That’s what he said: ‘You’re a hell …’”

“He did say my name! He did! That’s when I passed out…. How did he know my name?”

Chaz was shaking his head. His eyes were moist with tears and laughter. “Jesus, Mason,” he said. “For a smart guy, you sure are stupid. That was our street. It wasn’t another galaxy.”

Mason looked at his best friend through bulletproof glass.