Phase Shift (10 page)

I parrot the grin which has formed
on her face, hoping it looks as false as it feels.

"Paulie, come," Suzanne demands.
She has Palmer by the wrist, attempting to lead him down the
corridor.

"Moll?" Palmer asks, extending his free hand
to me. Trouble is, with Suzanne leading him forward like that, his
hand gets harder and harder for me to take, both physically and
philosophically.

"I have to make a quick stop first," I call.
All of a sudden, I have to go to the bathroom. I think I must've
consumed an entire bottle of water in the car on the way down
here.

"I'll wait," Palmer offers. Bless him. He tugs
his hand in an unsuccessful effort to free it from Suzanne's
grip.

In spite of myself I say, "No, its
okay. I'll catch up." I regret the statement the instant it leaves
my mouth. It hangs in the air, taunting me, echoing in my brain for
the better part of a minute after I say it, though I know it'll be
okay. I know Palmer. I trust him.

Palmer glances once, nervously, in
my direction before Suzanne leads him down the hall, a look which
begs for me to save him and though I desperately want to be the one
who rescues him, I make no attempt to do so. I curse my bladder—I
really have to go. I would never in a million years allow them out
of my sight at all had it not been for the close to agonizing
pressure building in my abdomen.

I watch as
Palmer glances back at me one more time, watch as my husband is led
off by his ex. '
Paulie
'? What is this 'Paulie' shit? Who in God's name calls him
that?

Suzanne does, I
remind myself. And Serge did too, both bygones from another era,
from a time before I was part of Palmer's life.
Paulie's life
, I think, trying it on
for size. It leaves a bad taste in my psyche.

A few moments later I find myself
standing in front of the mirror in the washroom, splashing cool
water on my face, remembering Suzanne's tone when she asked, "Don't
I know you?" She hasn't forgotten who I am and I know this for a
fact—I've heard from a variety of sources she tells everyone who
cares to listen that Palmer's the one who got away and I'm the
hussy-home wrecker who caused the break-up.

The newsprint which stands in for
paper towel scratches my face. I take one last look at myself in
the mirror. The fluorescents in the room are harsh and unforgiving.
Did they use the same type of lighting in the corridor? This light
emphasizes the grey in my hair and turns my skin ashen. Is this how
Palmer sees me? I take a deep breath and wonder how I could have
ever competed with that mousy Mensa member down the
hall.

The voices of Suzanne and her team
reverberate in the empty corridor. I hear them the moment I open
the rest room door. They speak of the history of the mummy, excited
at the virtual autopsy they are about to perform—we are about to
perform. I have to admit, I feel kind of giddy at the prospect.
After all, how often is one given the chance to unwrap a mummy,
virtual or otherwise? I continue down the corridor, stop this side
of the bend, and listen to their conversation.

The mummy—Mer-et-sa-ankh is her
name, a literal translation of the phrase 'She Loves Life'—was
granted to the Museum by life-long member and benefactor Sandor
Sheikh. A widower with no children, Mr. Sheikh left huge sums of
money to a number of children’s charities around the globe. His
personal art and artifact collections, said to be worth billions,
were split between The Art Gallery of Ontario and The Royal Ontario
Museum. Fancying himself an armchair Egyptologist, Mr. Sheikh had
in his collection over one-hundred authentic Egyptian, Nubian, and
Greco-Roman artifacts, most of which currently sit in crates in
various curatorial departments throughout the museum. The one
exception to this is Mer-et-sa-ankh. Mary (for this was the name
under which she had been christened by the curatorial staff) was
currently making the one-and-one-quarter kilometre trek around
Queen’s Park and down University Avenue to Toronto’s Mount Sinai
Hospital in an ambulance hired specifically for the
occasion.

While Mary was not precisely
descended from royalty, she did have royalty in her blood—before it
was siphoned off to preserve her body from rotting so it could be
reclaimed in the afterlife. It seems her mother’s second husband
was fourth in line for ascension to the pharonic throne, sometime
during the Fourth Dynasty, which makes her roughly forty-five
hundred years old, give or take a few.

Suzanne's voice commandeers the
conversation as she begins an exposition of the intricate, gilded
markings on Mary’s cartonnage wrapping detailing lists of her
genetic lineage as well as deities the said lineage revered, and to
which said lineage owed thanks. I try to follow Suzanne’s story,
try to get lost in the wonder of the incredible history of the
mummy of which I am about to assist in the virtual unwrapping, the
likes of which I may never again be party to in my career, but the
tone and pitch of Suzanne’s voice at this very moment is akin to
the nonsensical yapping of a nervous French poodle.

What's even more distracting is
the proximity of Suzanne’s leg to Palmer’s as they sit,
side-by-side, on a bright orange naugahyde love seat, the only
chair large enough to seat two in the room. As I watch them, my
cheeks grow hot. The way I see it, I can react in one of two ways—I
can storm into the room, temper flaring, or I can enter the room
acting calm, nonchalant, indifferent.

Suzanne laughs and tosses her
soft, curly mane up and back. It brushes Palmer's face. He flicks
it away as he might a fly. And then the final step, the metaphoric
slap in the face--Suzanne puts a hand on Palmer’s knee and
squeezes.

Palmer starts noticeably, but
relaxes when she withdraws her hand.

At that exact moment, a young man dressed in
pale blue scrubs says to me, "Are you one of the mummy
people?"

I glance at him over my shoulder. The guy
looks to be fresh out of high school, though if he's working here
as a technician, he has to be quite a few years older than that. I
nod, momentarily distracted from the harlot with my
husband.

"Won’t be long now. I hear they just pulled in
to emerg."

I don't know how I do it, but I manage to
smile. "I’ll let the others know. Thanks." I resume my pose,
leaning against the wall, unsure as to how to progress. I hear
myself sigh. I'm surprised at how lonely it sounds.

"They make a cute couple, don’t
they?" he asks. He startles me. I thought he had left to meet Mary
at the elevator.

"They would except for one thing,"
I say. "He’s my husband." I'm not clear on just who I'm trying to
hurt with that statement, me or the technician, but I've finally
had enough of the show. I make my way into the waiting room trying
desperately not to look back though I'm dying to see the look on
the technician's face.

Palmer stands the second he sees
me to offer up his seat. I shake my head almost imperceptibly. One
of the men sitting in a bridge chair opposite the love seat stands.
He has a baby face with a crooked nose and blond hair and
introduces himself as Paul Ungermeyer. He pushes his glasses up
onto the bridge of his nose before offering me his hand. The second
man takes this as his cue to stand. He introduces himself as Zane
Stowe. Zane has a mop of bright orange hair only a few shades
darker than the love seat. His face is hidden under a mask of
freckles. Zane and Paul settle back into their respective bridge
chairs.

"The technician says it should only be a few
minutes more," I tell the men in the bridge chairs. "They’ve just
dropped the mummy off downstairs." I manage a smile and then say,
"Could I speak to you for a moment?" to Palmer.

"Sure, Moll," he says.

"Alone," I say, smiling an apology
to the men.

Palmer glances nervously at Suzanne who stands
and smoothes her pants leg around the curve of her buttocks. "Just
as well," she says, "I have to visit the ladies’ room
anyway."

"Down the hall and to your right," I offer.
She glares at me and smiles.

I turn to Palmer and smile what
feels like a fake smile. "Please?"

"Sure, Moll," he says. Is that a hint of
amusement I detect in his voice?

I follow Palmer around the corner,
just past where I was spying on him and Suzanne. My hands rest in
the back pockets of my jeans. I take a deep breath and try to
maintain a Vulcan-like temperament. "What do you think you’re
doing?" I blurt. Turns out I'd make a crappy Vulcan.

He looks puzzled. He opens his
mouth as if to say something, but presses his lips together
instead. He takes a beat and then his eyes narrow and he says,
"What do you think I’m doing?"

I want to counter with "You know what you're
doing," but cut to the chase instead. "You’re flirting with
Suzanne."

"I am not flirting with
Suzanne."

"You let her kiss you—"

"Come on, Moll," he says.

"If she were sitting any closer to you she'd
be sitting in your lap—"

"The seat is narrow."

"Come on, Palmer! Even the
technician noticed how cute a couple you made."

He says my name, once firmly, like
he's fed up with me, and then again, this time in a voice which is
much softer. I want him to take me in his arms and tell me he loves
me. I look at my feet. If I make eye contact with him, I'm afraid
I'll burst into tears.

"Your nose is out of joint because
a technician thought Suzanne and I were a couple. Is that what this
is all about?"

No that's not what it's about. The
way he says it makes what I feel seem so petty.

"Molly, I love you," he says,
voice like sweet mocha. I chance a quick glance at his face, but
then I'm distracted by a figure coming toward us down the
corridor.

"Hey," he says. He cups my chin in
his hand and gently turns my face toward his. "I...love...you. I
married you." I try to turn my face toward the figure down the hall
but he gently angles it back. "Hey," he whispers softly in my ear,
"I chose you."

I feel silly, but manage to smile in spite of
myself.

The footsteps coming down the
corridor are louder now, the urgent click-clack of someone wearing
heels.

"Forget about Suzanne, okay?"
Palmer says. He tilts my head up and kisses me lightly on the lips.
I can't find it in me to enjoy the moment. It's like there's no
passion in the kiss. It feels more like a calculated battle tactic,
Palmer's show of allegiance by letting me mark my territory. That
and I feel like we're being watched. I turn my head and there's
Suzanne. Coming toward us. Just as I thought. "Here's your
girlfriend now," I tell him, being sarcastic. He doesn't get the
humour. Palmer’s face adopts a pained look and I want to take those
stupid words back.

Suzanne stops just short of where
we're standing. From her vantage point she can address Palmer and
me, as well as the men still in the waiting room. "Gentlemen," she
says, as if she's about to announce she's discovered the cure for
cancer. "I have just been informed Mary is in X-ray waiting for us.
Come. Let me introduce you to her, this is her party, after all,
eh?" Her eyes flit to Palmer. His arm is resting on my shoulder; my
arm is resting on his hip. Suzanne frowns. She wheels herself
around and disappears into a room just down the corridor without
another word. The members of the team, Palmer and I included,
follow.

The X-ray room is much darker and
much smaller than the corridor, typical of every other X-ray room
I've ever seen. A single technician, the guy who asked me if I was
one of the mummy people, stands in a small, glassed-in cubby. The
room is crowded with the six of us in a space designed for two, the
air, still and entirely too quiet. It's as though none of us dare
to breathe, lest the cartonnage mirage before us that is Mary
vanish.

I take a single step closer and
walk face first into a pair of white archivist's gloves suspended
in midair. I follow the arm attached to the neatly French manicured
fingers holding the gloves, to find it belongs to Suzanne. I snatch
the gloves from her.

"Gloves, everyone, please,"
Suzanne says, and she continues to dole out sets of pristine,
white, cotton gloves to every member of the team. I hate these
gloves. They never fit quite right. The fingers are always too wide
and the wrist is always too short. About the only person these
things would look good on is Mickey Mouse.

Gloved up, I advance on the
cartonnage sarcophagus until I'm close enough to touch it. I run my
fingers over the plaster outer layer, imagining it feels smooth as
glass. In truth, the sensation is akin to feeling up a leg cast
wearing mittens.

The sarcophagus
is truly exquisite. The mask is thickly gilded, the plaster outer
layer, dimpled, white-washed and covered with hieroglyphic
markings. I notice an
ankh
symbol, the Egyptian symbol for life, and touch
it with my forefinger.

"Her name,"
Suzanne says from behind me. She reaches over my shoulder and
points to a graphic three glyphs above the
ankh
, and then to each symbol which
follows it as she reads, "Mer...et...sa...ankh. Her name. She Loves
Life."