Ghosted - A Novel Part 37

He arrived at the Sherbourne Shelter around 11:30. It was in the bas.e.m.e.nt of a stone church that had become more and more secular over the years-an old men's shelter for the "hard to house" over the age of forty-five. Mason had spent enough time on the streets to know that if you managed to live to fifty you weren't so much put out to pasture as turned into prey. Towering office buildings stood on either side of the old church, looking like they were about to steal its lunch money. There were a half-dozen guys smoking on the steps. Mason considered walking a few more blocks to kill the time, but his ankle had started to throb, so he took a seat on the stairs.

A stocky, red-faced man in a cat burglar toque sat down next to him. "Got a smoke?" he said.

"You're smoking one," said Mason.

"Yeah, but for later."

"Nope. Sorry."

"Huh!" said the man, then leaned back a bit, as if studying him from a different angle. He took a long drag on the filter. "So what's up with you, man?" The others were looking over now, too, like they were trying to figure out if Mason was worth trying to figure out. Any other day he might have fit right in, but this was the new Mason-the one who shaved and crossed things off lists, and it seemed they could see it in him.

"I'm here to visit my friend," he said.

"Who'd that be?"

"The doctor."

"The who?" One of the old men with hard eyes was lumbering towards them.

"Dr. Francis. She's the ..."

"Watch what you're saying 'bout Frannie," said the old man, leaning in close. He smelled of cherry cough syrup and fresh urine.

"I said she's my friend," said Mason.

"Saved my life, that lady did!" said the old man, as if they were arguing. "No one says nothing bad about her!"

"Fair enough."

The rest of the old guys were shuffling over now, too. Mason took his hands out of his pockets. "How'd she save your life?"

"Ah ..." He flicked his hand in the air like Mason wasn't worth the trouble. "Had one of my attacks right there on the floor. I was legally dead...." ..." He flicked his hand in the air like Mason wasn't worth the trouble. "Had one of my attacks right there on the floor. I was legally dead...."

"You weren't dead, Wilf," said a man with rheumy eyes.

"Legally I was. But Frannie-she's smart! She knew right away what the problem was. Gave me a shot right in the thigh. Turns out ...," he lifted one of his fingers, like this was the crux of everything, "I'm allergic to shrimps." I was. But Frannie-she's smart! She knew right away what the problem was. Gave me a shot right in the thigh. Turns out ...," he lifted one of his fingers, like this was the crux of everything, "I'm allergic to shrimps."

"You didn't know that?"

"Never had a shrimp before. There's a first time for everything. Point is, I been around doctors my whole life-they never knew I was allergic to shrimp. To them I'm no more than a dog. But Frannie-she's different." never knew I was allergic to shrimp. To them I'm no more than a dog. But Frannie-she's different."

Mason did his best to follow the logic. "She's allergic to nuts," he said.

Wilf sat up a bit straighter. "To nuts!" he said and looked around at the others, who actually seemed impressed. "I told you! She could see that we're the same-she's got that empathizing gene, makes her care about people. She saved every one of us...."

"Didn't save me," said the rheumy-eyed one.

"Bulls.h.i.+t," said Wilf. "You're full of s.h.i.+t is what you are. Who got you morphine? Who got you housing?" He turned back to Mason. "It's true! He doesn't even live here! Just comes on Tuesday to see the doctor." The guys on the stairs started to laugh.

"I didn't say I didn't like her," said the one with rheumy eyes.

"You're in love with her!" said Wilf.

"I'm in love with her! You're the one with the shrimps and nuts and all the empathizing!" in love with her! You're the one with the shrimps and nuts and all the empathizing!"

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean?"

All of them were laughing know-even the cat burglar, who handed Mason a smoke.

67. I don't know the constellations.

68. My heart is just an organ.

At noon, Mason said goodbye to the guys on the stairs and went into the shelter. It was like a hospital in an old war movie where they'd managed to keep the soldiers alive but never quite healed. They were propped in doorways, lying on a bench, curled up in a corner, reading on a cot, walking around in circles, their hands buzzing at their own ears. They wore modern-day civilian rags, but the war was still with them-in their eyes, in their hacking coughs, their shaking hands, in the stiffness of their walk. The war was the cold of the winter, the heat of the summer, the violence on every corner, the never being able to relax, the pain of memory, the loss of memory, the crack, the Lysol, the smack, the booze and the new weapons too: the meth and the oxy and the giant TV screens attached to high-rise buildings. The war was foster homes, halfway houses, residential schools, jails, prisons, shantytowns, soup kitchens and shelters. It was never getting a real night's sleep, hands grabbing at your belongings, men coughing sickness right into your mouth. It was abusive fathers, dead mothers, cruel foster parents, crowded jail cells. It was TB and scabies and hep C and AIDS. It was bedbugs and kerosene fires and cuts that never got clean. It was cops and g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers and bikers and bashers and pimps and your brother pa.s.sing out on the streetcar tracks. It was schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, borderline personality. It was rage, isolation, mourning. It was self-deception, self-hatred, self-harm, self-destruction. It was your old lady loving you, your old lady leaving you, your old lady dead. It was missing everyone you'd ever known. It was nothing ever changing, and no one to depend on. It was a code that changed every moment, a war that never ended. It was suicide. And Mason, walking through the shelter, felt like a man who'd barely dodged the draft.

Dr. Francis was talking to an old-timer in a trucker's cap. "Would you take me fis.h.i.+ng sometime?" she said.

"Yalright," said the old-timer. "But it ain't gonna be easy. We go for the big fish." He glared at Mason.

"All right then, Flash. I'm gonna hold you to it."

The old-timer nodded.

Mason followed her to a small office in the corner of the room. "You fish?" he said.

"I'm a quick study." She sat down in front of a computer and started clicking with the mouse. "Come here. I want to show you something." Mason pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. "There." She touched the screen with her finger, where a red dot pulsed in the middle of a street map. "That's where he is."

Mason felt his muscles tightening. "I thought he was dead."

She turned around. "Look at the intersection."

Mason leaned in. "Bay and Bloor."

"At precisely 12:02 this morning," said Dr. Francis. "A westbound train pulling into the Bay subway station struck and killed an unidentified male. Even the cops will tell you that. What they won't tell you is that, although the body was severely mangled and partially decapitated, the early autopsy report suggests the man had no scalp. You need a coroner friend for that kind of detail."

"So why is that dot still flas.h.i.+ng?"

"Well, I'd a.s.sume that there in that tunnel, among all those bits of flesh and bone ...," she turned back and tapped the screen once more, "is one b.l.o.o.d.y little microchip."

"Yuck," said Mason.

Dr. Francis nodded once, slowly, like she was accepting a compliment, then closed the screen. "Come on," she said. "It's my lunch hour. Let's take a walk."

There were a few guys smoking crack in the alley, including Wilf of the shrimp and nuts. When they saw Dr. Francis they looked embarra.s.sed. She waved, then carried on to Bloor Street.

"They like you," said Mason.

"It took a while."

They walked along Bloor, and soon the viaduct could be seen up ahead. Dr. Francis looked to Mason, who gave a shrug. He was curious to see how the Saving Grace was coming along, but still he felt anxious as they walked towards it. Conversation seemed difficult. There was little that wasn't complicated between them. Of the three people they had in common one was in jail for drugs and guns, one was on the doctor's methadone, illegally, and the third, thanks to them, was splitting his time-or at least his body-between a coroner's office and a subway station.

Dr. Francis gave it a shot. "That girl you went looking for ... what was her name?"

"Oh," said Mason. "Well, I really don't know what her name was. That's sort of the problem."

"Yeah. Of course."

"I thought it was Sissy."

"Sissy. Right. I've been thinking about her. It's a very specific need, to become somebody else-like a psychological survival instinct."

"Do you think she killed herself?"

"Dunno. But if she didn't, she's probably someone else by now, since Sissy wasn't working. Best scenario, she'd mix the memories she could live with into a character who has never actually existed. The way I see it, that could open her up to possibility-like a door to the future."

"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 Closed for Opening.

"Good t.i.tle," 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 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 f.u.c.k?" 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?" 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 w.i.l.l.y. "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-a.s.s. 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 are.... All the men you'd envisioned were never going to be."

Mason could see them now, slipping through the s.p.a.ces 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?"