Ghosted (28 page)

Mason nodded.

“You should look for a new therapist.”

“She’s in danger,”
said Mason.

“Of course she is,” said Chaz, standing up. He walked behind his chair.

“Read the notebook.”

“First things first,” said Chaz. “We gotta get you cleaned up.”

Mason nodded.

“I mean all the way clean,” said Chaz, looking Mason in the eye. “You’re no good to anyone like this.”

Mason stared at the floor between his legs. He took a moment and raised his head.
“The doc… can help.”
As Chaz circled the chair the room began to spin.

“Why would she do that?”

The Cave tilted. He felt his body sliding, his throat closing up again.

“Just read the fucking book …”

DEMONS WITH DEMONS

They are beautiful.

And fucking scary, too.

There is a bridge with blue and silver wings and people are jumping off—limbs stretching in all directions. Some are falling, some diving, some grabbing hold of the wings and flying.

There is a man clutching a bird in his upheld hand—trying to save it from drowning as he sinks into a lake. His fist is tight, pinning the bird’s wings to its body. They are both trying to rise.

There is a woman cutting off her own head with a black and silver sabre. At her feet sit a dozen dirt-streaked children, their bellies distended. Blood drips onto the white plates before them.

There is a man on a silver horse, sliding down a sheer cliff in the moonlight. He is leaning so far back—one arm stretching up behind him—that they look like an extension of each other, horse and rider. The bit in the horse’s mouth is flashing, pulling its head so far back that its neck is breaking. The head of a young woman, her face awakened in surprise, is bursting through the horse’s throat.

They are works of art. Dreams. Memories. Hallucinations. It doesn’t matter. Yet. Nothing does. He shakes. Awake. Then asleep. Then awake.

    
53. You don’t need drugs to have a good time.

54. The lak of fir is real.

He thinks he’s in a bathtub or a womb. But it’s just sweat, and as he realizes this the sensation turns from warm to cold. He is lying on his back. There are words above him, white paint against a dark sky. Or are they in his head?

Stay as you are
.

He thinks about this: to stay as he is, he must be in a specific way….

He’s quite sure he is naked, covered with a wet sheet. It feels like he’s up high, on the edge of a cliff. It’s difficult to move his body—he does it slowly. There are tubes in his arms, and as he turns they tug at his flesh. He thinks of E.T.: the empathetic extraterrestrial. The tubes are attached to a metal stand. It reminds him of the mahogany coat rack. He thinks of fish, then nestling swallows. The light is dim, but as his eyes adjust he sees images on the walls around him: a bridge with wings, a man holding a bird, a woman with a sabre, a horse down a cliff. He crawls to the edge and looks….

The light is coming through a large window. He blinks long and purposefully, and when he opens his eyes again, he can see them out there. They’re doing the things that earthlings do: drinking and smoking, kissing and dancing, winning and losing—probably talking, and laughing too. But he can’t hear a word, not a sound. Watching them hurts him physically. Something inside him says,
You’ll never do that again. That’s all over for you
.

He wonders if he is dead, or perhaps just deaf.

And then he hears something. “Mason.” It is Willy’s voice, coming from below—like she’s at the bottom of this goddamn cliff. He tries to answer, but no sound comes out.
Not deaf, but mute
. “Mason,” she says again, and now it is too much for him. He pulls out the tubes and hurls himself into the darkness below.

He opens his eyes, but sees nothing. A voice is shouting in his head.

Water!

Liquid drips from above. He feels it on his skin, but his throat won’t open to drink.

Water, you asshole!

It pools around him as he pushes against the floor. His ankle is burning and the pain makes him feel alive, even as he thinks he’s dead. He is naked, on all fours, struggling to get up—and then he sees her, right in front of him. It’s like she’s floating on her back, like when he held her in the pool. There are tubes in her arms. He reaches out and touches her. “Mason,” she says. Never has he loved his name so much.

He climbs in next to her. Their bodies entwine, slippery and warm. They slip in and out of consciousness, sweating beneath a damp white sheet.

    
55. I am often too hot or too cold.

56. My dreams are always awful.

There are children, in trees, all down the street. Then suddenly they’re dropping from the boughs. But they never land, just keep on falling. He’s in the air alongside them and now suddenly on the ground, looking up as they plummet towards him. He’s got a net in his hands, but it’s all tangled up. It’s made of razor wire, and it rips through his flesh as he tries to stretch it open. And now there’s a
thud
. The earth quakes: a
thud
, a
thud
and a
thud
—as they hit the ground around him.

    
57. Life is a pale imitation of art.

58. I prefer the bottom bunk.

He wakes again—the deep sweat, the tubes, the dim light—but this time he knows where he is. And suddenly there’s nothing but sadness, a hollow in his chest. He’s felt it a thousand times before, coming down in the light of day, but now it is burrowing—larger, emptier. And the overwhelming sensation is this.

It has barely started to dig, to empty you out. It will get worse and worse, and then you’ll be hollow forever, here in the half-light
.

He hears Willy breathing in the bed beneath him, and wants to be down there with her.

How did I get back up here?

He tries to move, to get these damn tubes out of him.

“No,” says a voice in the darkness, or maybe just in his head.

“Stay as you are. You need to heal. You need some fluids.”

He wants to protest, but he’s got no voice.

“Don’t worry about Willy. She’s doing all right.”

Alllriiiiiight.

    
59. Anyone lived in a pretty how town.

60. It kills the buggers dead.

He awakes to her screaming beneath him. He doesn’t think, just jumps. His ankle buckles but he doesn’t notice. He grabs on to her. A light flashes on, arms reaching over him, laying their hands on her writhing body—half of it yanked by the other.

Why is this happening?

Her screaming loses volume. Her head turns towards him. He sees Willy’s face.

Then Sissy’s, then Circe’s …

This makes no sense
.

And now it is Sarah.

No sense at all
.

He holds onto her hand, unable to help in any way.

Willy is sleeping. Mason sits on a chair beside her. He can hear her breathing, but nothing else. It could be any time, any day, any universe. The air is close in this cave within the Cave. It smells of their breath and body fluids, and oil paint. He looks around at the canvases like dreams leaning on the walls. He closes his eyes. Then he opens them again—stares straight out through the bulletproof window, at the Cave outside this cave.

And there they are: his best friend and his doctor, sitting at a table on the other side of the bar—their mouths moving, a candle flickering between them. How long has it been?

Five days? Five months? Five years?

His legs shake as he stands. He falls against the wall and presses the intercom button.

The sound of a scratchy record fills the room: piano and guitar, a slow backbeat. Leaning into the speaker, he tries to say something, but all that comes out is
“Caaaaaahhh …”
drowned out by the music—and then, above it a voice.

“Have you seen
The Man from Snowy River?”

He takes his finger off the intercom button, but the voices keep on coming.

“No. Is it good?”

He presses hard and then releases.

“Sure. This Aussie kid—his father dies, his horse runs off with a wild herd, and he goes and becomes a ranch hand, falls in love with the rancher’s daughter, pisses off her dad. That kind of stuff. But there’s this scene at the end—a couple dozen cowboys chasing after this wild herd. The rancher’s prize colt is with them now, too, and whoever catches them gets to be a hero.”

He jabs at it, but the QT room is filling with music—and Chaz’s rising voice.

“So they get to this cliff—not a sheer drop, but enough that it’s a cliff. The wild horses go down and the cowboys pull up. Except for him, of course—the man from Snowy River. He doesn’t even hesitate.”
Chaz takes a breath.
“The kid, he just goes for it—over the edge and down.”

Mason bangs on the intercom.

“He digs in his heels and does it—leaning so far back his head’s almost touching the horse’s tail….”

Mason sees it happening. He looks at them through the window.

“It’s a death-defying leap, but of course he makes it. He rounds ’em up, gets his horse back, the girl… It’s a great fucking scene.”

“Cool,”
says the doctor.

Chaz lifts his glass,
“Mason used to watch it over and over when we were kids. That’s what he wanted: blaze of glory, over the edge—the whole fucking bit. Problem is …,”
and Chaz takes a sip,
“the guy never grew out of it.”

The fucking guy!

“Did he tell you about Sarah?”

Dr. Francis opens her hands—indicating confidentiality.

Chaz nods, as if he understands.

Mason wants to strangle them both.

“The way I see it,”
says Chaz.
“He had a shitty summer. He turned twenty-five, his girlfriend dumped him and he still wasn’t a famous writer—just drank like one. But we were all having a tough go of it.”

“That’s that the summer your father died.”

Chaz nods.
“Anyway. His mom sold the house in the city and bought a ranch. He was working on his lonesome cowboy bit….”

Mason punches the intercom.

“They had a family reunion or something. I don’t know. I wasn’t there….”

“Because of your father… Tenner, right?”

Chaz takes a drink.
“This is about Mason,”
he says.

“Well, don’t you think it affected him, too?”

Chaz looks at her.
“Sarah idolized Mason. Thought everything he did was cool.”

“Sarah, his cousin …?”

Chaz nods. Mason gives up on the intercom. Holding the wall, he crosses over to where the scanner is. He puts his hand on the panel. Nothing.

He tries the other hand.

Nothing.

“She’d have followed him anywhere.”

He slides down the wall, sitting with his back to the window.

He can see her now as she circles in the clearing, Warren’s dark mane flaring out. They turn, then straighten. She looks once at Mason, who is on the back of Zevon, grinning at the edge of the cliff. She digs her heels in. “Yahhhh!” she shouts, but the sound is swept back as she charges. There’s no expression on her face. Her eyes flash silver, and Warren just gallops—straight past Mason, into the air.

The noise is awful, like an avalanche of horse—the hooves cutting downward through rock and soil, the whinny a desperate wail. But Sarah is silent.

Mason sees the fall—Warren tumbling, hooves over head over Sarah—a monstrosity of limbs, hair and eyes flashing in the moonlight, the sickening crunch as the whinnying stops.

He slides off Zevon’s back—then down the cliff on his ass, a gutless, moonlit descent.

    
61. I’d like to see myself through someone else’s eyes.