Then those old chestnuts, regarding the effects of such use:
I have missed work or a work-related deadline.
I have fought with friends or family members.
I have experienced anxiety or memory loss.
I have locked myself out, wearing red monkey underwear.
I Agree. Strongly Agree. Disagree. Strongly Disagree … On and on, till the nameless man said he was done.
22
Sissy thought for a while, then finally said, “I used to like horses.”
This was in response to Mason asking her to tell him about herself.
“I read all sorts of stories about girls and their horses, and boys and their horses, when I was a kid. Do you remember that scene in The Black Stallion, at the beginning, when the black stallion is in the ship and they’re being so awful to him? All I dreamed about was having a horse like that to save. Are you even listening?”
“Yes …,” said Mason. His skin felt itchy, like there were flies on his neck. He, too, had once liked horses.
“So have you seen that movie or not?”
“I have.” They were quiet. Then Mason said, “How about The Man from Snowy River?”
“I haven’t seen it. Is it good?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. I think it’s just this place. Do you think we could go somewhere else … somewhere with a tree, maybe?”
“I don’t know …” Sissy lifted up her little plastic cup. “I’ve still got some juice left.”
“So bring it with you!” He said this like it was a daring idea.
Sissy thought for a moment. “All right,” she said.
“Okay then. Great!”
“But I don’t want to sit on the ground.”
“No way. Near a tree, maybe. But definitely not on the ground.”
“We could find a bench.”
“A bench would be perfect!” He ushered Sissy and her apple juice out of the Ho-vee’s, into the cold sunlight and traffic outside.
They found a park with a bench near a tree. It was at the bottom of a grassy hill. They sat down. Mason waited for Sissy to catch her breath. Eventually she pulled an envelope from her pocket. “Your money,” she said. “And I also brought you this.” She handed him a folded piece of paper.
“What is it?” asked Mason—distracted by the weight of the envelope.
“It’s one of my dad’s poems.”
He was about to take it, then stopped. “I don’t want to know who he is.”
“His name’s not on it.”
“I might recognize the poem.”
“I seriously doubt it.”
He unfolded the paper.
Circe and the Stallion
You remember the waves like breath, but never will
See the ocean, the stables where the gods keep them
Pawing, their hooves sparking aqua-blue, snorting hot breath from
Massive lungs, the stables, the ocean, the heat, the waves, all the same and so
You never even sweat.
But you guess at being a girl once, running breathless
Placing things in a box, an island with walls you could fill
With toy soldiers, a purple toenail, a funny sketch of your mother
You might have drawn, had you not become more lovely, so unearthly
You put the island in its place.
And when eventually came the stallion, it was indistinguishable
From the waves it crashed upon the shore breathing and beaten tough
With the burning of its own lungs, it sighed your name and made you run
For the first time, down to the edge of the water, the island, the earth, the box, the page
You picked up and wrote.
You rode it down the shore, in circles, Circe,
Then stumbled finally
On brine-covered, salty, wind-whipped glass.
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.
Notes on the Novel in Progress
Verisimilitude check:
So many characters, so few professions.
Real people have real jobs….
To research:
Doctors. Lawyers. Policemen. Priest. Court reporters. Candlestick-makers. Intake forms. Medical questionnaires. How to make candles.
Possible title:
That Is the Question
23
The file was thick—full of all those answers he’d given. Mason could guess, more or less, what was on the first page:
Name: Mason Dubisee
Age: 30
Occupation: writer / hotdog vendor
Health Card #: not available
Treatment for: alcohol and cocaine
Use in past 60 days: extreme
Duration of heavy to extreme use: 5 years, approx.
Arrests, parole or court appearances: none
Psychiatric history: Formed once. May 4—this year. Less than 72 hours.
Drinks per week: 84
Cocaine per week: 4.5 grams
Willingness to decrease use: unclear
Risk to self: moderate
Risk to others: low
Managing day-to-day life: moderate difficulty
Isolation or feelings of loneliness: quite a bit
Depression, hopelessness: quite a bit
Fear, anxiety, panic: quite a bit
Confusion, loss of concentration, memory: quite a bit
Mood swings, unstable moods: quite a bit
Uncontrollable, compulsive behaviour: quite a bit
Impulsive, illegal or reckless behaviour: quite a bit
Manic, bizarre behaviour: a little
Openness to treatment: unclear
Would like to belong to several clubs: very unclear
“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.
24
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.
Sissy’s Letter—Take One
I’ve quit this world that treasures nothing so much as beauty (which I guess makes sense, considering all the ugliness out there). Sure, beauty’s a rare thing—but really, I think most of you are digging in the wrong spots.
And that’s not just because of men like my father—who think striving for eloquence is somehow noble enough to make them good. For all his poetic pursuits, higher and lower—“a man of the people and graceful aspiration”—he never really could look his baby in the eye, especially when he said, “You’re beautiful.” He said it a lot, then finally stopped, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. A real poet would have figured out the words, and how not to loathe his daughter.
But really, Dad, it’s not just you.
It’s Ms. Meir, who always singled me out (as if the rest of the class was paying attention): “Dreaming of pie again, Circe?” she’d say, then send me home because the safety pins I’d used to fasten the busted zipper on my jeans were “obscene.” When skinny Dylan asked what obscene meant, she wrote it on the board and we had to look it up in our dictionaries while waiting for the hall supervisor to come and take me away.
It’s Alphonse Lader, who stopped me in the hall on Valentine’s Day my first year of high school, got down on his knee, and presented me with a large heart-shaped box tied with a red ribbon. I knew something was up. I wasn’t that stupid. His buddies were there too, and I just stood there holding the heart in the hall. “Open it!” they said. I shook my head and started to shiver. “Please,” said Alphonse Lader, “be my valentine.” I hesitated, then pulled off the heart-shaped cover—inside was a jar of diet pills surrounded by two dozen packets of NutraSweet.
Crossing a street on the way home, I thought, I can’t believe he went to all that trouble, then almost got hit by a car with all my laughing and crying.
“Tell me about your mother,” said Mason.
Sissy laughed.
Mason was kind of strung out, and although he’d brought them both coffees she’d said she didn’t drink the stuff, and then she’d started to sulk. But now a laugh—that was good, even if he was being serious.
“I was being serious. I know your dad’s a famous poet….”
“And a jerk.”
“Right, but what about your mom?”
Sissy couldn’t come up with much. Her mother had the makings of an apparition: a waif-thin woman with incandescent eyes who died when Sissy was ten years old. It seemed like she’d never been there at all—omnipresent but totally absent.
“But it’s weird,” said Sissy. “I don’t really remember one thing about her. Not anything that ever happened—just that she was always there, looking at me. I don’t know how to explain it. I’m not even really sure what she died of. I guess you could say she was beautiful. And skinny, too. She got skinnier and skinnier until they put her in a coffin that was way too big. Maybe she had an eating disorder or something.”
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