Ghosted

by Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall

  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.

  69

  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.

  “Okay,” says Willy. And her smile comes back, full of life and thirst.

  Mason unscrews the cap. He takes a whiff. It is mixed with juice, so they can’t inject it, and the smell surprises him.

  “Sports Day,” he says.

  “What?”

  “It’s that weird juice they used to have at McDonald’s, and on Sports Day, too. Remember?”

  “I wasn’t big on Sports Day.”

  “But you had the juice, right? Here, try some …” He holds it to her lips, tilting the bottle carefully. She sips, and sips, then drinks it down. He wipes her lips, and kisses her.

  “Sports Day!” says Willy.

  “I hated it, too,” says Mason, then wishes he hadn’t. There is no way the potato sack race was as tiresome for him as for ten-year-old Willy, watching from her wheelchair—nothing to do but suck weird orange juice from a straw, the science teacher holding a Fudgsicle for her to lick, her chin streaked brown and orange while the other kids yelped and shrieked.

  “Fuck it,” says Willy. “We got the juice!”

  63. My hands can do things without me knowing.


  64. There is nothing that can’t be broken.

  The next day there is no lunch. Not even a Gatorade.

  They wait until after one p.m. Then Mason begins to get dressed.

  Willy looks scared. “What if something happened?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. What if you don’t come back?”

  “I’m coming back,” he says.

  “But what if you don’t? How do I even get out of here?”

  “The left one gets you out,” he says, pointing at her hands, trying to make it sound funny.

  “That’s fucking great!” says Willy. “My only way out is a hand I can’t move!”

  “You can lift it with your right,” says Mason then stops, and kisses her. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

  70

  Mason emerged from the Cave, into the blinding light. He inhaled deeply, holding the air in his lungs, taking a step as he let it out. The man with the invisible kite was on the far median, where the southbound streetcar stopped, keeping tension on the invisible string.

  Mason walked to the corner. The world was unbelievable and finally real. The air was cool, the sun shining. The traffic made him feel like he was inside something enormous. He held himself together, breathed, and waited for the light to change.

  When he’d crossed Spadina, his body and soul wanted to keep on walking, down the street, through the neighbourhood, just to take a walk—but he thought of Willy and turned into MHAD, through the sliding doors.

  He took the elevator to the sixth floor. The waiting room was empty, the door open.

  “He has arisen,” said the doctor, as Mason walked into her office.

  He looked at her. “Why did you do that?” he said.

  “I figured you needed some air.”

  He held her gaze.

  “I needed to get your attention,” she said.

  “What about Willy?”

  “She’ll be good on the methadone.” She motioned for him to sit down. “I think it’s the best thing for her.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “What exactly?” Dr. Francis leaned forward. “Risking my job just to get you straight?”

  Mason took a seat.

  “I need you better,” she said. “To help me fix the mess you’ve made.”

  “Which one?”

  There was a file on her desk. She opened it. “Setya Kateva.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Seth. That’s his real name. It’s Finnish.”

  “So that’s it?” said Mason. “He’s a self-hating Finn.”

  “I wouldn’t say he’s a self-hating anything, not without progesterone.” She looked at Mason. “We’ve got to get him back. And soon.”

  Mason saw Soon dropping beneath the railing, that bird swooping into frame. He shook it off. “He’s still out there?” he said. “Isn’t it time to call the cops?”

  She closed the file. “He wouldn’t be out there if you hadn’t attacked him. Just him being in that bar was a breach of his …”

  “Hey!” said Mason “It was you he was trying to blackmail. And he threatened Willy’s life!”

  The doctor sat back in her chair. “All right,” she said. “But is that really why you attacked him?”

  “Would you stop being a fucking shrink?” He stood back up and paced behind his chair. “What difference does it make? If he breached his parole then the cops should be on him already, right?”

  Dr. Francis shook her head. “Parole officers are swamped. They use doctors like me as a defacto check-in.”

  “What about Sudden Street?”

  She flicked her hand through the air. “Told them Seth missed an appointment, so I called it in. And seeing as he hadn’t come home, I’d call the cops again. Save ’em some work: APB and everything.”

  “But that’s not what you did …”

  The doctor shook her head.

  “So he’s running but no one’s chasing him!”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “There’s something I should tell you, Mason.”

  “There’s a lot that you should tell me.”

  She looked at him straight and took a breath. “Seth knows everything about you. He has your file and he has your notebook…. He has your confession, Mason.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “He broke into my office.”

  Mason steadied his gaze. He tried to steady his breathing.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t care what he’s got on me. The guy should be locked up.”

  “Even if you get locked up, too?”

  Mason shrugged.

  The doctor shook her head. “Jail’s too good for Seth.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Dr. Francis leaned forward. “We’ll do this ourselves.” She pointed a finger at Mason. “He’s got something of yours. You’ve got something of his.”

  “His stupid fucking notebook?”

  The doctor nodded. “It’s up to us. We can take him down.”

  Mason sat in the chair again. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “There’s a lot that I’m not telling you.” She looked him in the eye. “Do you want redemption or not?”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Mason, and put his hand on the desk. “Now give me the goddamn juice.”

  It felt like someone else’s apartment, or like he’d lived there in another life. There were wisps of cocaine on the table and the room still smelled of whisky. His bed remained unmade.

  He sat down and turned on the computer. There was an email from Seth—and only now did he notice the To: line. He’d been too high, or too something to see it.

  To: MasonD@hotmail.com

  From: Handyman@hotmail.com

  Subject: You

  Owe me, bitch.

  S. Handyman

  Truth be told, he’d been expecting something creepier. He clicked Reply.

  To: Handyman@hotmail.com

  From: MasonD@hotmail.com

  Subject: I

  Was expecting something creepier. You once had a way with words.

  M. Dubisee

  The phone rang. He hit Send, walked over and picked it up.

  “What are you doing?” It was Dr. Francis. “He knows where you live.”

  “You’re the one who’s watching me.” He hung up the phone. Then he took the ad off that website, killed his other account, packed up his laptop and left.

  “That doctor is crazy,” said Mason, as Willy drank down the methadone.

  “We’re all crazy. It means that we’re alive.”

  Mason took the cup. “I’ll go out soon and get us some food.”

  She lay back down. “Are you going to be out all the time now?”

  “Not all the time.”

  “Is something wrong?” She turned her head to look at him. “You seem like something’s wrong.”

  “I have to tell you something, Willy.”

  She nodded. And he told her everything: about Warren and Sissy and Soon—about Warren, Zevon and Sarah—and then about Seth Handyman.

  When he finished, she let out a sigh, but her eyes were shining bright. “Are you going to beat him?” she said.

  “I’m not sure how to do it.”

  “Well get sure,” she said. “Get sure, get better and beat him. Live happily ever after.”

  “Aren’t you even scared?”

  “Not for you,” said Willy. “Just don’t forget I’m down here. I hate it when you’re gone.”

  Notes on the Novel in Progress

  It will always be in progress.

  Read it again when you think you’re clean; if it still makes sense, you’re not clean enough.

  Kill all the semicolons.

  Possible title:

  Stop If You Have the Chance

  71

  Not being high made him high. He knew one day th
at would end, and then the normalcy might crush him. But right now he felt pretty damn good. The strength and clarity was intense. He went for walks and then his walks turned into runs—a limping-run, because of his ankle. He knew it was a manic thing to do, but his lungs and heart just felt so strong.

  He focused his energy on Willy, massaging her curves and straightaways. And he read to her: Papillon, The Collected Works of Billy the Kid, The Moon and Sixpence—bits of each until his throat was raw, and they listened to “Fire Lake.” They fought each other’s cravings—that’s how they tried to do it. As one of them got triggered (and it was hard not to, in this cave within the Cave), the other took on the struggle, howling and swearing until they set in to each other again. His libido had returned with a vengeance.

  For most of Mason’s life it had been overwhelming—a driving hunger for love and sex—a thirst that could feel like a curse. He’d been trumped by girlfriends, affairs, romances and ravages, flesh upon flesh. But eventually he’d overwhelmed it—with a new kind of thirst: a stronger, bloodless one—for ash and powder and pure adrenaline. And then he was dry as a bone, nothing but hunger, words and dust. He’d still had sex, but more as a measure of time while waiting for the drugs to come, the curse of lust a distant memory.

  But now it was back: love for love, sex for sex. And it felt like a fucking blessing. They gave it their all and overdid it—chewing up the cave, whipping and gasping and screwing themselves blind until, finally, sweating and bug-eyed, their craving was a beautiful farce. They lay there exhausted, and Mason lost feeling in half his body. But he didn’t tell Willy that—just curled himself into her, singing them both to sleep.