Ghosted (31 page)

“What?”

“She swallows razor blades. She wraps them in bits of toilet paper so they can get down her throat, and then the paper dissolves…. Her insides are torn to ribbons. I’ve sent her to surgery six times now. They hate her at the hospital.”

“Jesus.”

“She’s started breaking her own fingers with a hammer. She came in yesterday and was like, ‘Can you look at this?’ Her left hand looked like—well, like someone had been hammering it.”

“Can’t you put her somewhere?”

“Now that’s interesting. I was just thinking about how weird that is….”

“What?”

“There’s this room we’ve got on the ninth floor: white walls, nothing in it. If someone’s on suicide watch, you check them every five minutes. But sometimes even that’s too long. You’d be surprised how many people can beat that clock, hanging themselves off a doorknob—can you imagine what kind of will that takes? So anyway, this particular room, it doesn’t have a doorknob—nothing but a mat on the floor and a one-way window so we can watch you.”

“I was in one of those,” said Mason.

The doctor nodded. “You know what we call it?”

“What?”

“The TQ room.”

Mason felt the breath go out of him.

“Most hospitals have one. It stands for ‘therapeutic quiet.’” She was still looking down at the street. “Problem is, I can’t put anyone in there for more than a day. Someone like her, she’d need twenty-four-hour surveillance—for as long as it takes—and there’s nowhere like that. The best was when she was in jail. We’re kind of trying for that right now but even then, I don’t know … It went well last time until something happened. She pulled her own teeth out—then she started cutting her tongue.”

He almost gagged, looking down at this girl on the corner.

“I kind of love her. Anyway, my point—one of them—is that she’s not suicidal.” She flicked her fingers like a gun at the windowpane. “Even
her
I can’t diagnose as suicidal—not honestly. She’s self-harming, self-destructive, and eventually what she does will probably kill her but it doesn’t make her suicidal.” She turned and looked at him. “You should meet her. She’s awesome! She gives me the oddest presents—things she’s shoplifted, always useless things. She’s an inspired person. She might even survive—if her mother doesn’t.”

“What does that mean?” Mason was watching her, the girl with green sneakers, who swallowed razorblades, beat her own hand with a hammer and pulled out her teeth. She was crossing the street towards them.

“Her mom pimped her out until she was big enough to fight. And still she keeps in touch with her. But every time they talk she ends up doing something.” Dr. Francis turned and looked at him. “The point is, if she’s not suicidal—and she’s not—you don’t get to be.”

The girl in green shoes had vanished into the building.

“You had another point, too?”

“Right. That girl coming up to see me right now—you know why I love her?”

“Why?”

“She barely bullshits me at all. Do you know how rare that is? Ninety-nine percent of everyone I see—the thing they have in common? They’re full of shit. That doesn’t make me dislike them. I get it. But there’s a result, right? You get so used to bullshit and deception, and omission, that you see it in the air like rays of light or something. And eventually you don’t care any more, until you do by accident.”

Mason thought of Sissy—or whatever her name was. The doctor was silent.

“You haven’t asked me about Seth.”

“You said you’d think about it.”

She walked over to the minifridge in the corner, unlocked it, and pulled out a paper bag.

“Take the methadone,” she said, “and give me your answer tomorrow.”

He stood in the hallway. Both elevators opened at the same time. Mason got into one as a green shoe stepped out of the other.

He walked down Spadina, into the Market, then over to Busytown Park. It was a sunny day. He sat on the grass with his legs crossed, then he swivelled around and did some push-ups—his shoulders felt unused, but strong. He went over to the small jungle gym, kids climbing all over the place, and did a dozen chin-ups. When he dropped down on the sand his ankle stayed firm. He drank some water from the fountain then headed back to the Cave.

He decided to enter through the alley. He hadn’t been back there since he’d taken the Dogmobile and headed for Utopia—that ill-planned journey, ending in a country ditch. So it was a surprise to see the fibreglass fedora parked in its usual spot. He walked up to it and reached out his hand, like he would to a skittish horse. Lines from a Springsteen song sang through his head:

Well now, everything dies, baby, that’s a fact
.

But maybe everything that dies someday comes back
.

He went down into the Cave.

Now Mason knew for sure: there was only one copy of “The Book of Handyman.” Seth’s hubris hadn’t allowed for xeroxes. If something was taken from him, he’d get it back—his freedom, his strength, his mojo
—all
the fucking marbles. Seth wanted the book, but that’s not what it was about. He had the taste of challenge on his tongue—like blood and vodka mixed with honey. Mason could taste it, too.

“What did you just say?” Dr. Francis rose from her seat.

“I challenged him to a game of eightball … but then he suggested poker instead. I knew he would. But I wanted it to be his idea.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Mason?”

“Playing pool for your soul isn’t as cool. With stakes like these, poker’s more intense. It’s more cinematic. Plus, he’s sure he can win.”

“Stakes like what?” She was looking at Mason as if he’d always irritated her—but now he was a guy who irritated her and happened to be holding a bomb.

“If he wins, he gets his notebook back. Plus he gets his freedom.”

“His freedom?”

“Like he wanted from the beginning: you stop the treatment without anybody knowing, and you keep him out of jail.”

She moved fast across the room. “I will
not,”
she said, so close to him he could feel her breath.

He looked her straight in the eye. “You won’t have to.”

She rocked back on her heels, changed her focus. “So what? You’re going to win?”

“I won’t lose,” said Mason.

“In which case …”

“He’s back in prison.”

“I told you, Mason….”

“You told me there was a lot you weren’t telling me.”

She took a moment. Then shook her head. “If he loses, he kills himself.”

“Why would …?” But then Mason stopped. “You know,” he said, “that might just work.”

“I hate it when you’re gone,” said Willy.

“You were asleep. I was just out there in the Cave.”

“What were you doing?”

“Emailing Seth.” He stroked her head. “You can’t get reception in here.”

“Oh.”

“How do you feel?”

“Half-’n’-half,” she said. He pinched her ass on the feeling side. “When do we get out of here?”

“I just got to beat the psycho. Then I’ll take you back to my place.”

“I love it when you talk like that.”

“Everything’s going to be okay.” He kissed her shoulders.

“I’m scared about something,” she said.

“What?”

“You’re so much better now. Without the drugs and the booze and everything. You look better, you sound better.”

“Isn’t that good?”

“I don’t know. It scares me.”

“Why?”

She looked away. “I’m never getting better. You know that, right?”

Mason smiled. “Deep down, I’m still a mess.”

Willy didn’t smile. “It’s hard to explain.”

“What is?”

“I kind of feel like a fake sometimes.”

Mason waited.

“It’s like when you asked me what happened…. People always
ask me that. And I know they mean why am I in a wheelchair but they also mean why am I junkie—or they
don’t
mean that!”

“What do you mean?”

She punched him with her senseless fist. “I told you it’s hard to explain.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s like everyone assumes they’re the same thing, that this is why I do drugs …” she pointed at her body. “Or why I
did
drugs or whatever. You know why
I
think I’m fucked up?”

Mason shook his head.

“The stupidest reason ever.” She looked up, at the bottom of the top bunk. “Some stupid guy broke my heart. I loved him a lot and he broke my heart. Same as everybody, right? And when he left I couldn’t even go after him—so maybe in that way, yeah: I’m fucked because I can’t run after them.”

There was silence for a while.

Finally Mason spoke. “Well, you know,” he said. “It usually doesn’t work.”

“What?”

“Running after them.”

Willy took a breath. “But sometimes it does, right?”

“Maybe.”

“You know why I liked Bethany?”

“No,” said Mason. “Not at all.”

“Because I didn’t like her.” She turned her head and looked at him. “I’m scared you’re going to leave me.” And then he could see she was crying.

Dr. Francis was at her desk, Chaz in the corner like he was her bodyguard or something. She lifted her head and looked at Mason, who had chosen not to take a seat. “He says you’re not as good as you think you are.”

“I said he’s terrible,” said Chaz.

“Well, he can go fuck himself,” said Mason.

“If you don’t win, we’re screwed.”

“I’m going to win.”

Chaz came out of the corner and stood in front of Mason. “I don’t think you understand. If Seth wins, he’s not walking out of there. We’re not just letting him go.”

“So.”

“So what then? I shoot the guy?”

They looked at each other. “Sounds good to me.”

“Jesus, Mason!” Chaz sat down in the chair where the patients sat. He looked at Dr. Francis. “Jesus …”

Dr. Francis turned to Mason. “I’m worried you think Seth will be easy to beat.”

Mason went over and stood by the window. The doctor kept talking.

“Don’t assume sociopaths, just because they lack empathy, aren’t good at reading people. Usually it’s the opposite. That’s their currency—other people’s weaknesses. They can see them like … like stink lines in a cartoon. It’s what makes them so good at manipulating.” She pointed her finger at him. “You won’t get anything from him, Mason. But Seth—he’ll read you perfectly.”

“Ha!” said Mason, turning away from the window.

“What?”

“You’re fucking right. He’s the Warrior Monk.” He looked at Chaz, a half-smile on his face. “Seth is the fucking Warrior Monk.”

“It’s why he agreed to play …”

“Why he
chose
the game,” said Mason.

“He knows he can’t lose.”

“He
thinks
he’ll win,” said Mason, now leaning against the windowsill, “but it’s not a given. If it was, he wouldn’t be interested. He wants the highest stakes there are
and
a meaningful adversary. That’s always been missing for him. And now look at this, it’s perfect: He already hates me, but he trusts me as a gambler. If he wins he’s got my humiliation—your humiliation, too—his notebook, his freedom. And if he loses he’s dead.” Mason walked towards them. “The doctor was right: it’s
way
better than prison. It’s exciting to him. He thinks the odds are in his favour but the stakes actually shake him. They shake him all the way. He couldn’t
design
a better game.”