Ghosted - A Novel Part 42

"f.u.c.king fathers!" said w.i.l.l.y.

Mason got up from his chair. "He didn't mean to. It was a hospital room, like this one-except the walls weren't made of gla.s.s." He glanced out at the people looking in, and limped around to the other side of the bed. "I'd just been born." He lifted up the sheet and climbed underneath. As soon as his skin touched hers, everything else stopped.

He felt her body, her death ahead of them. Then everything broke inside him.

He began to sob, not gradually, but all at once. The world was her voice, the thought of her as a child, her terror, her fall, her half getting up, her wondrous strength and kind crafty eyes, her life before he knew her, her warmth and paralysis, the hum of her butchered body, how she needed him and he needed her, her goodness, how she made him feel, and he finally felt it-the world right next to him, and it was about to be taken away.

"I love you," he sobbed.

"I do know," said w.i.l.l.y, her voice steady, as he curled against her chest. "Now please, baby, tell me the story. I want to see you on the day you were born."

He was tiny. She was everything. His tears flooded down as he spoke. He didn't have to think of the words. They'd been told so many times, always different-always the same.

"My father came into the hospital room. He was smiling. They called him Johnnie Walker Joe, but today it was champagne. He held it in his arms like a baby. He tore off the foil and cranked the wire. Aiming the bottle heavenward, he pushed with his thumbs...."

And as he spoke, w.i.l.l.y grew lighter against him, giving up the ghost.

When the cork hit the pillow she was gone.

Mason tried to go with her. He fought with all his might. But those docs and cops, they held him down. And she was left to rise.

86.

Your friend is awake.

Your friend is dead.

You have no friends.

You have no hope.

That's why you are here.

Where?

In the QT Room. In the TQ Room. In the white room with black curtains near the station. The station is abandoned, and so are you, my friend. Silver horses run down moonbeams in your dark eyes.

What?

It's a song. You've gone crazy-and that's what crazy people do: they sing. How about "Fire Lake"? You know how it goes, don't you?

Yes.

It was your father's favourite song. And we'll tell you something now, because you deserve a break.

What?

It's not about going to h.e.l.l-unless you want it to be. It's about facing risk. He said so himself.

Who?

Bob Seger of course.

How...?

How do we know? The same way we know that Warren gave Carolina one of your letters. The same way we know that Samuel Batt was crying when he struck Warren on the head and pushed him into the lake. The same way we know who Sissy is. And she's not the only one who changed her name.

The same way we know that Soon wanted to help people, but he had no gift for it-except when it came to you. We've seen his body floating in the dark river.

The same way we know that w.i.l.l.y saved your life.

The same way we know where Seth is-and so does the doctor. In fact, she's watching him right now.

The same way we know you, Mason-what you could have been, what you've chosen to forget....

All this we know, and more.

But how?

Isn't it obvious? We are semi-omniscient.

Like a narrator?

Like narrators. Like ghosts. Like the ones who tell your story.

Can you change it?

We're not your f.u.c.king authors, Mason.

Well, can you help me?

Most of us don't even like you. We could have done a better job. Lived a better life. Had a better story. And now you've gone insane.

The doctor was right-there are far too many of us, stuck in your busted body, your broken brain. You should have listened to her. She She has a gift for saving people. has a gift for saving people.

Can you at least get me out of here?

A question, Mason: what is the date?

Just get me the h.e.l.l out!

What's wrong with where you are?

There's nothing here!

This is a place where things tend to get broken.

Not even a doork.n.o.b!

When the room is empty the story's over. Why do you think we're talking to you? There's nothing left for us to do.

Can you get me out of here or not?

Why?

What do you mean, why?

What exactly would you do?

Don't you know?

We're only semi semi-omniscient.

Then I guess you'll have to wait and see. But I'll let you tell the story.

The door clicked open.

87.

Mason stepped out of the room. He limped down the empty hall and came to a bank of elevators. He was on the eleventh floor. He pressed the down b.u.t.ton.

The inside of the elevator was mirrored. He looked at himself, and an unexpected Mason looked back: blue hospital gown, bruised eyes, bare feet. Not exactly inconspicuous. There was a ding ding as the doors opened. as the doors opened.

He crossed through emergency and made it outside. The sky was growing dark. He turned and looked at the building: Western Hospital. Just eight blocks through Kensington Market to his apartment.

A skinhead on stilts was chasing small children. A woman was standing on a large rock, playing the trumpet. The statue of Al Waxman had daisy chains around its neck. Dogs were running in circles. No one paid Mason the least bit of attention. He limped past the taco stands, the fishmongers, the cheese shops, all the way to Spadina, then up.

And there she was, in front of the MHAD building. "I need your help again," he said. Barbara nodded, tightening her cape.

It was a bit over the top-like someone purposefully causing a distraction. She jumped and raged and spun her arms and howled-an earthbound, unhinged superhero.

It took all of security just to get her attention, by which time Mason was in the elevator.

He got out at the sixth floor. Dr. Francis's office door was closed. He knocked, and knocked again. It was locked. He stepped back then hurled himself into it. The frame cracked. It felt like his shoulder did, too. He took another run and the door broke, pain shooting up his leg as he crashed to the floor.

He pulled himself up on the desk, then sat down in the doctor's chair. He pressed a b.u.t.ton on her keyboard and the screen sprang to life-the aerial map of downtown, homed in right here: at College and Spadina. There was nothing now, but Mason saw where the beacon would have been. And the doctor would have been watching it-that pulsing red dot, growing fainter on the screen, until it was gone.

A question, Mason: what is the date?

He looked at the corner of the screen: 7:36 p.m. July 10.

Saving people is a matter of minutes.

He lifted his head.

You are my suns.h.i.+ne!

The diploma was back on the wall.

"The College of Physicians and Surgeons certifies Grace Lapin as a member of the college, authorized to engage in the practice of medicine"

NO NUTS ALLOWED!!.

He looked at the screen again, then back at the wall-until finally the words clicked into place.

This is a place where things tend to get broken.

There was a soapstone paperweight on her desk. He picked it up, limped around to the small fridge and bashed at the lock until it broke.

Three cups of Sports Day methadone, 100 milligrams each.

What are you doing, Mason?

He pulled a bag out of the trash bin and put them in it. Then he left the building and crossed the street, hopping like an injured idiot, with a death wish and a bag full of methadone.

Before entering his building he went into the Lucky Save to make one final purchase. Then he dragged himself up the stairs to the door of his apartment. He stopped. He had that feeling-that someone was in there, waiting for him to come home. He opened the door and something flew past his face, then he limped to the centre of the room. A bird was circling near the ceiling. It swooped low then rose again.

He pulled out the cups of methadone and put them on his desk. Then he found his cowboy boots, wincing as he pulled them on, and his leather jacket. He drank some Jim Beam, then grabbed his cellphone and sat at the desk. Looking out on Spadina through a broken window, he dialled the doctor's cell. Once. Twice. Nothing. He opened a drawer and pulled out a pad of paper. A pen.

What the h.e.l.l are you doing?

He tried to calm his mind. The bird flew overhead. He crumpled up the paper and threw it, then drank some more Jim Beam. He tried again. And again. Nothing. And nothing. He dialled her number once more, then put the phone in his pocket.

"He didn't leave a note." He opened two of the cups. "Boom and boom," he said, then drank them both down.

You're a f.u.c.king idiot!

He turned around. "For some people, if they live long enough, their regrets turn into skills."

So was that long enough?

Have you even lived?

The bird swooped as he got to his feet. It looked like a swallow ... or maybe a sparrow. He'd never been good at birds.

He made it across the room and down the stairs. His limp was almost gone. He was in the alley now, and there was Chaz's motorcyle. Before he got on, he paused for a moment. Beneath his feet was the QT Room, the cave within the Cave-never to be opened. He imagined everything inside it, the story that could be told. Then he got on the bike and hit the throttle.