Ghosted

by Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall

  Mason called out, “Hey Wilf!”

  “Who’s that?”

  He staggered towards them. “Hey Wilf! Hey guys!”

  “Stop yer yammering!”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “It’s me,” said Mason. “Frannie’s friend. I need some crack.”

  They flipped a lighter to take a look.

  It might have been the arm hanging four inches too low, or the blood-spattered hospital duds tucked into his cowboy boots, or just the look in Mason’s eyes—whatever it was they all agreed: the man needed some crack.

  With each toke Mason grew stronger. And although the fog remained, the life-crushing darkness started to lift. His heartbeat, barely a waltz, began to quicken. His lungs expanded with cocaine breath. Blood rushed through his veins—from head to heart to liver to legs. And then he was off.

  It was kind of like running: the way a smoking, drinking marathoner who’d hit the wall four hours ago or a drugged-up madman with half a working body might do it, and the pain kept Mason somewhat straight. It was hard to tell in the fog, but it felt like he was getting somewhere.

  Then finally he could see it: the finish line. There were floodlights on the banner: The Saving Grace—Completion July 11.

  Just one more night to jump.

  Go fuck yourself.

  Mason hit the barrier—Closed for Opening—and he tumbled to the pavement.

  It was pure will that got him to his feet again—the fog so thick he couldn’t see the ground. Out onto the bridge, it felt like he was stumbling through the air. After a while he saw a light ahead, then a giant lamp—the beams refracting in the fog, bouncing off the taut metal wires.

  Mason pushed on, into the dark mist. Then after a while he saw another light. For the longest time it got no brighter, until finally he was upon it—staggering into the translucent glow. On one side, the centre balustrade, the crosses and wires—on the other, a breach in the barrier, no Saving Grace—the fog alight, swirling around the profile of a woman.

  She couldn’t be sure he was real, even though he spoke: “Please come down from there?”

  The voice was both hoarse and ethereal—words wrenched from a body.

  “No,” she said.

  He limped towards her through the fog, a ghostly apparition. “She’s dead.”

  It was unclear just who he meant, but that his heart and soul had finally broken.

  “I know,” said the doctor, because either way it was true.

  “You may as well come down. You’re not going to jump.” He stepped towards her. “If you were, you would have done it by now. Instead of waiting for someone …”

  “Ha!” She fixed him with her grey eyes, her hair shimmering as it waved. “You think I was waiting for you? You get things wrong all the time, Mason.” She turned her head. “I was just hoping the fog would lift, so I could see. But I guess I’ve got to go.” She lifted her leg over the railing.

  “I know what happened,” said Mason. “She’s on the list: ‘Rebecca Lapin. 16 years old. Victim of a savage childhood rape …’ Becky the Bunny. She jumped the week that Seth got paroled. Then he was put in your care—the man who raped your sister.”

  “The man who killed her,” said Dr. Francis, once Lapin. “The fates served him up to me.”

  “How much were you giving him?”

  “A triple dose each time.” She turned her head and her voice was clear. “I was torturing him to death. He was living in hell—until you came along.”

  “Well, he’s back there now. Willy made sure of it.”

  “I know. I saw.”

  “So why don’t you come on down, Grace?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I was supposed to be looking after her, but I was talking to my boyfriend on the phone. She was attacked and torn apart. That’s sort of my fault—wouldn’t you say?”

  “No.” Mason moved towards her.

  “One more step and I’m gone.”

  He stopped.

  “You can’t do this, Frannie.”

  “Why’s that, Mason? Because I don’t have a letter? You can write me one. Just leave it on my desk.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to write.”

  “No. You wouldn’t. But that’s not my problem. You’re the one who thinks words are so important. Tell me, Mason. What did your father do?”

  He said nothing.

  “I mean what did he do for a living?”

  “He was a writer. He used to tell me stories when I got scared.”

  “And how did he die?”

  “I think you know.”

  “I think he drove off a cliff, drunk. And you blame yourself, because you were scared and you wanted him to come and get you. And if that’s enough to put you on this bridge then I can definitely be here.”

  “No,” said Mason. “You’re listening to the ghosts.”

  “Tell me, then.”

  He took the cup of methadone from his pocket, popped off the lid and drank it. She watched him.

  “My mom was out of town. I think they were fighting. I was staying at Chaz’s house. I didn’t call my dad—he called me. I don’t know where he was, but he was crying. I’d never heard him cry before. He told me he was scared, and he was coming to pick me up.”

  “So in a way he might have saved you, by driving off that cliff.”

  “In a way. But you’re not saving anyone.”

  “Nope.”

  “But you could if you get down from there—dozens, maybe hundreds. You’re good at saving people.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been listening to the ghosts, too. Sometimes they get it right.”

  “I think you’ve got a brain injury, Mason. You should have that checked.”

  “Just tell me why you’re doing it.”

  “I thought maybe I’d feel better when Seth was gone. But I don’t.” The fog was lifting now. “I’ve got patients beat up constantly by the people who should love them. But I worry more when they finally get the courage to leave. That’s when they overdose, hang themselves—it happens all the time. Suddenly it’s quiet—no one to beat them up but themselves.” Behind her, the night sky became a canvas, speckled with stars, the headlights of cars, distant amber windows. “So Seth is gone. The fog is lifting. And now I’ve got nothing to do.”

  She turned and rocked forward, lifting her elbows to push with her hands.

  “See you, Mason …”

  He lunged towards her. Then suddenly she stopped.

  “What the fuck is that?” she said.

  From the heart of the city rose a tower of coloured light. It was flashing and spinning, illogical and stunning, garish, ridiculous and beautiful—a born-again phoenix, a disco ball in its beak.

  “It’s the CN Tower of Babel!” said Mason.

  They stared at it—the doctor on the wall, Mason behind her. “Soon did it, and he didn’t even know …” It was the second tallest free-standing structure in the world: and suddenly it was awesome. The streaming, pulsing lights, every hue known to man, it seemed both random and patterned, controlled, blissful chaos—like watching someone laughing on the surface of the moon.

  “Too bad he’s dead,” said Mason. “He would have liked this.”

  “I’m still jumping,” said the doctor.

  Mason didn’t look at her. He looked at the tower instead. “If you do, the bastards win. Seth is victorious and Willy died for nothing.”

  “Everyone dies for nothing. That’s what dying is.”

  “Fuck you,” said Mason. His knees were shaking now. He was starting to go down.

  “You’re not talking me out of this, Mason. You’re not smart enough.” She rose to her feet, turned and looked at him, her body silhouetted against the flashing night sky, Soon’s unknown masterpiece. “You don’t have the words. I doubt anyone does.”

  “I know,” said Mason, his legs finally giving out. “I knew that from the s
tart.” He dropped to his knees and pulled out his cellphone. “That’s what the backup plan is for.” He dialed 911.

  “Ambulance,” he said.

  “Call a hearse,” said Grace.

  “It’s not for you.” He focused on her eyes and spoke into the phone: “Please listen carefully. There is a man in the centre of the Bloor Street Viaduct. No, he is not going to jump. He’s injured. He has multiple fractures, but that is not what he will die of. I need your full attention. Thank you. Approximately fifty minutes ago he drank 200 milligrams of methadone. He has no tolerance. In order to delay loss of consciousness he ingested a large amount of crack cocaine. That was approximately half an hour ago. Within the last ten minutes he drank another 100 milligrams of methadone. At the end of this conversation he will inhale a vial of amyl nitrite, which will counteract any remaining stimulant. He will collapse and his breathing will cease. Are you listening? There is a doctor nearby. She has, attached to her belt, a shot of epinephrine. With this and CPR she may be able to keep him alive for a few minutes. I have faith in her—she is a very good doctor. But there are barriers on either side of the bridge. Please tell them to run. He does not want to die.”

  Mason hung up the phone. Still looking at her, he pulled a small brown bottle from his pocket. He flipped off the cap and held it up.

  “See you on the other side,” he said, and took a deep breath in.

  THE OTHER SIDE

  The door opened and a round girl with downcast eyes entered the store. A soft bell sounded as the door closed behind her. It was a small store. There was a tall woman behind the counter at the far end, and they glanced at each other as the girl began to browse the sections: Comedy, Suspense, Drama, Action, Horror …

  When she came to the last aisle—Classics—she saw there was someone else there: an Asian girl with green shoes. She skipped that section and arrived at the counter. The tall woman was quite lovely, a delicate mole on her upper lip. The girl became self-conscious and started to sweat, but still she managed to ask, “Do you have The Man from Snowy River?”

  The woman smiled. “I hope so,” she said. “I’ll take a look.” She turned and entered the alcove behind her. The girl looked at a rack entitled New Releases. The bell sounded again, the door opening, closing.

  When the woman reappeared, the girl was holding a box, just staring at it, like there was a ghost in her hands.

  “Whatcha got there?” said the woman.

  She showed her: The Last Word.

  “Oh yeah. It looks pretty crummy—about a guy who writes suicide letters for people. Winona Rider’s in it. Never made it to theatres.”

  The girl nodded.

  “I found The Man from Snowy River.” She pointed at The Last Word. “Do you want that one, too?”

  “No,” said the girl and put it back on the shelf.

  “Do you have an account?”

  She shook her head. The woman tapped at a keyboard.

  “You got ID?”

  The girl looked up. Taped to the monitor was a handwritten note:

  Carolina behind the counter,

  You make me feel like Rambo, before the crummy sequels.

  The girl pointed. Her hand was shaking. “Where did you get that?”

  “That?” she said, leaning out to look. “One of our customers gave it to me. I like it a lot, but he never came back.” The girl looked into her eyes. Cat eyes. The woman held her gaze. “I guess it’s for the better—he wasn’t really my type.”

  “I don’t have ID.”

  “That’s okay,” said the woman, and tapped the keyboard again. “What is your name?”

  The girl hesitated. “Constance,” she said.

  “That’s a beautiful name. I’m Carolina.” She held out her hand.

  For a moment the girl didn’t know what to do. Then she took it.

  And like an e. e. cummings poem, what’s-her-name fell in love.

  The girl with green shoes decided to cut through the Market. It was getting late, but even as the sky darkened a man flew a kite in the park. He moved his hands quickly, trying to avoid tree branches and power lines. The kite danced against the dark blue sky.

  She walked among the stalls, the smell of fish and pomegranates in the air. A breeze blew and it wasn’t too cold. Winter was over at last. At Spadina she turned and walked up to College. Outside the MHAD building she nodded at Barbara, who whispered something to her. The sliding doors slid open.

  It was dark when she came out again. The doctor was with her. The CN Tower was doing its thing—coloured lights dancing above the city. The doctor pointed at it and said something. The girl with green shoes smiled, then turned and headed up Spadina. The doctor crossed the street.

  Beside Harvey’s was the entrance to a new subterranean restaurant: the Scatterhouse Grill. Inside, a gentleman in an ill-fitting tuxedo took her coat, then ushered her down the stairs.

  He saw her come through the curtains, then stop and take in the room. It was an oddly decadent place—like a bordello mixed with a bistro—a bit of speakeasy, too. The waitresses moved quickly, trays held high. People were enjoying themselves, but it wasn’t too loud. Velvet curtains absorbed the racket, just the lilting sound of laughter left.

  She spotted him, seated at a table near the bar, and smiled. He stood up.

  “Hey there,” said Grace.

  “Hey,” said Mason.

  He opened his arms and they held each other.

  “It’s good to see you.”

  She sat down, glancing at the bar—or at the wall behind it. There was a fish tank in front of a large mirror. She turned to look at Mason. “This place is all right.”

  “I’m surprised too,” he said.

  “What are you drinking?”

  He held up his glass. “Light beer. Harm reduction.”

  “Live a little,” she said, and turned towards the waitress. “Gin and tonic for me.” Then back to him: “How was your trip?”

  “Good,” he said. “I spent most of the time with my mum. We figured some things out.”

  “Did you see Sarah?”

  “Yeah. We can talk about that later. How about you?”

  “Things are good, actually. And guess what? The girl with the green shoes—the one who swallows razor blades—her mother died.”

  “That’s great.”

  “It is! And look what she brought me.” She dug into her purse and took out a VHS box. “Breathless, the original French one. The tape’s not even in it. She just stole the box.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  The waitress came back with her drink and Grace addressed her: “Can you do me a favour? Can you find the proprietor and ask him to come over here.”

  The waitress left. There was silence for a moment. They looked towards the bar. “How’s the book going?” said Grace.

  “Almost done …,” said Mason.

  She smiled at him. “That’s one more thing to celebrate.”

  “But I think I’ll change the ending.”

  “Your prerogative …” said the doctor.

  A man walked up to the table.

  “Nice place you got here,” said Mason. “You serving any hotdogs?”

  The man said nothing.

  “Actually,” said Grace. “Can you bring us a bottle of your finest champagne? It’s my friend’s birthday.” She reached across the table and took Mason’s hand. “He’s thirty-one today.”

  “And I just got word,” said Mason. “My buddy’s getting out of prison.” He looked at the proprietor. “I think he’ll like this place.”

  The man turned and walked away.

  “Is that true?” said Grace. “Is Chaz getting out?”

  “Not for a while,” said Mason. “I wanted to see his face.”

  “It looked kind of fishy.”

  “That it did.”

  She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

  Mason sipped his beer, then got up and walked to the bar, st
ill limping slightly. He sat down on a stool and looked at the fish—then through the water, and farther. He stayed like that for a while.

  When he refocused he saw someone behind him in the mirror, aiming something at his back. There was a popping sound. He ducked and the cork hit the glass. Then it bounced into the fish tank.

  On the other side was a room. Light shone through the window, refracting through the water. The floor was covered with empty food cans and water jugs. The shelves were almost bare. There were paintings on canvas, books and stacks of paper strewn around a laptop on the desk. There were bunks against the back wall. On the bottom one, holding the severed right hand of a woman, sat a very thin man.

  He had a beard and long, straggly hair except on the crown of his head, where the flesh was dark and red. He looked like a monk who, for a very long time, had been trapped in a forgotten space pod—or a moribund submarine.

  When the fish scattered, the castaway looked up. There was a young man out there. That was not unusual—everyone was out there—but this one was looking in.

  And now from behind the young man, a woman appeared, holding two glasses of champagne. She was laughing. The young man stood, so that his head rose above the water. The woman put her arm around him and said something. They had about them the toughness and grace of people who had saved each other. Clinking their glasses together, they turned towards the man in the room.

  The man in the room rose, still holding the severed right hand.

  Mason and Grace looked right through him.

  He stood there for a while after they turned away. He watched the two of them dine—on the other side of the water, across the universe. Then he took a deep breath and two steps to his right. He hit the tape deck and picked up the bag. “Fire Lake” began to play. Scratch, scratch. Piano and guitar. That strong, steady backbeat. Those first haunting lines.