Phase Shift (9 page)

"Tobin..." Sobal warned.

Tobin maneuvered the craft skyward,
following the contour of the building.

"Pull out!" Luna cried when she saw the
large, saucer-shaped midsection of the building loom large (and
growing larger) above their heads.

Tobin wasted no time throttling out as he
directed the craft away from the structure.

When he was sure he had cleared the
midsection, Tobin set the craft to hover at an altitude roughly
even with the rounded overhang of the structure. It was then they
noticed the windows stretching around the saucer's circumference,
and the people staring at them from within.

Fourteen pictures were taken with digital
cameras of the UFO from behind the glass of the CN Tower’s
observation deck that day.

Because the photographs were digital in
nature, their authenticity came into question. Photographic
analysts would study the pictures for years to come, each one of
their analyses falling short of authentication.

The American tabloids offered a small king's
ransom for first publication rights of
The Canadian UFO
Images
, as they came to be known. Ten years thence, the same
images would be used to substantiate claims of alien and UFO
sightings across the globe on a pseudo-scientific documentary
series called "Irrefutable Evidence".

Tourists on the observation deck would
recount their experience to reporters on the six o'clock news that
evening. Their stories would be consistent: an unidentified flying
object about the size of a compact car, black and wedge-shaped,
suddenly appeared off the north wall of the CN Tower from beneath
the observation deck. It hovered in place, level with the
observation deck for a moment, before disappearing from view. They
would report seeing three figures wearing silver space suits
within.

Three people would come forward with video
footage of the observation deck of the CN Tower at the time of the
sighting. They would report that a small object seemed to appear in
the sky, midway between the observation deck and the ground, on a
collision course with the building. At the last moment, the craft
pulled up and began its ascent, almost colliding with the underside
of the observation deck. It pulled out and continued its ascent,
stopping when it was level with the observation deck, at which
point it hovered momentarily, and then began a rapid descent until
it disappeared at the very same point from which it first appeared.
The video footage would serve to authenticate the eye-witness
reports.

"So I've been thinking," I say to Palmer.
We're nearing the end of our nightly ritual. Said ritual begins
after our classes and daily paperwork is done. One of us finds the
other and asks that dreaded question we've both come to loathe:
'What's for dinner?' This is followed by a negotiation in which we
decide the specifics of the menu. Agreeing on what to make is
harder than it seems. Palmer's a die-hard meat and potatoes man,
while I prefer somewhat less starchy alternatives. The rules of
negotiation are precise and must conclude with a protein and no
less than two sides. After a trip to the local grocery, we retire
to our kitchen. Palmer's in charge of the protein, while I take
care of the sides. The meal is followed by the washing of the daily
dishes. Under ordinary conditions, I'd be complaining about the
drudgery of dish washing pausing only to fantasize about the next
house we'll own. I'd pass the time musing over a larger kitchen,
one with ceramic tiles, built-in dishwasher, and flat-top stove. I
can usually suck Palmer in to the fantasy if I include a second
bathroom and spacious third bedroom which we'll turn into a
permanent study. When he's had a good day, I up the ante and turn
the second bedroom into a canary yellow nursery. But not tonight.
Tonight I have something else in mind.

"So I've been thinking," I say. I hand
Palmer a dripping salad bowl. It's a huge, wooden behemoth we got
as a wedding gift from which you could feed the world and then
some. It's too large for just the two of us, but we'd rather put it
to good use than see it gathering dust in the cupboard.

"We're in trouble now," he says, smirking,
trying to be cute. Okay, so it's working. I smile back.

"I spent most of today reading Prescott's
stuff and...well...what if what he says is true?"

Palmer puts the dried salad bowl on the
dinner table and I hand him a wet pan. "I seriously doubt that,
Moll," he tells me, indulgent.

"Hear me out, okay?"

"Okay," he says, tentative.

"Prescott's a normal guy, just like you or
me. He gives lectures, he co-authors text books, he's liked by both
faculty and students, but then something happens, some…epiphany—he
misses lessons, appears distracted—"

"It's called senility." He puts down the pan
and I hand him a large pot.

"Ha ha," I say in monotone. "Really—I'm
serious.

“So he has this epiphany, right? And then
things change. He's distracted, misses classes, doesn't find
teaching fulfilling anymore. He spends his time writing copious
notes on this life-altering experience. Even his technical writing
changes—"

"You read his technical writing?" He stops
drying and looks at me, like I'm Algernon or something.

"I read the preface to a text he
co-authored." Palmer nods and resumes drying. "In his writing are
all sorts of thinly cloaked references to his alternative
world—remember? He called it 'Gaia'?"

"Molly," Palmer says, as he puts down the
pot, "in all likelihood, Prescott probably just made up Gaia. That
guy from the token, too, what was his name?"

"Reyes Prefect."

"Prefect. Right. Look, lots of people
fictionalize their life's work and publish it. Maybe Prescott was
some kind of...frustrated sci-fi writer, and the notes you have
represent a...a fictionalization of his theories," he says,
assuming the role of devil's advocate.

I shake my head. "He hid his writing under
the floor—"

"So he was paranoid."

I turn off the water, pull the dish towel
from his hands and use it to dry my own. "What you're saying makes
no sense, Palmer. Prescott was a published author. If he wanted to
publish something, he would have had the connections to do so."

"He published non-fiction, Moll. Scientific
works? That's a far cry from—"

"Prescott could have published an account of
his experience as non-fiction. He had the evidence: the silvered
case with the map, the device—that thing that looks like a garage
door remote. What did he call it? The modulator. He could have
called the government and convinced them to reverse engineer the
modulator if he wanted. But he didn't." I try to put the salad bowl
in an overhead cupboard but it's too big and the shelf is too high.
Palmer takes it from me before I can lose my balance and slides it
into the cupboard with ease. The pots go under the counter. I'm
short—I can handle those without help. "It's almost like he was
protecting Gaia."

"Protecting Gaia? From what?"

"From us. From...capitalism. Gaia was like
a…
tabula rasa.
Imagine the possibilities there—an entire
world untouched by commercialism, full of untapped natural
resources. Maybe Prescott wanted to keep Gaia from becoming Earth
Two." Palmer leans against the kitchen counter. A dish rag is slung
over one shoulder. He appears to be contemplating my last
comment.

"Still skeptical, huh?" I ask. "You were
there when I spoke to Dr. Morales. Didn't he say that theoretically
Prescott's story could be true?"

He shakes his head. "His exact words were,
'In theory, anything is possible'." He shifts his weight against
the counter, propping his upper body up with his arm. "Not exactly
the same thing." That's Palmer for you—ever playing Scully to my
Mulder.

"If I could just figure out a way to
energize the modulator..."

"Prescott said it worked on solar energy,
didn't he? Why don't you just leave the thing in the backyard for a
few days?"

I throw a damp tea towel at him. It hits him
in the neck and chest with a muffled thwack. "Palmer! I'm
serious."

"So am I," he says, smiling. "We must have a
few solar calculators in the house. Maybe if we cannibalized the
batteries we could figure out a way to charge it."

I feel like he’s having one over on me.
"It's not the same and you know it."

The phone begins to ring.

"I've got it," Palmer says. "Saved by the
bell," he mutters on his way down the hall to the office.

"I heard that," I call after him. I begin to
wipe down the counter and table top while Palmer takes the
call.

"That was Suzanne Pascoe," he says after he
hangs up. I'm wiping the stovetop at the time. "You remember
Suzanne?" I toss him the wet rag and ask him to finish it off.

"How could I forget Suzanne Pascoe?" Never
in a million years could I forget Suzanne Pascoe.

"The Museum inherited a mummy from a private
collection a few months back. They've been waiting for time for
X-rays and cat-scans. Suzanne just found out they've got an
appointment for two-thirty tonight. She asked me a while ago to be
on the team."

Uh-huh
, I say with a nod of my
head.

"I don't know when I'll be home. If you wake
up and I'm not here I'll see you at school later."

I nod again, like I'm okay with the fact
he's going to spend the night with his ex.

"Guess I'll try to get some sleep before the
big event, huh?" He heads down the hall that leads to the master
bedroom.

Suddenly I'm struck by an idea. "Palmer,
wait," I yell. He stops mid-step and turns. "Prescott. He didn't
say the modulator ran on solar power. What he said was that it ran
on solar radiation."

"I don't follow you."

"X-rays and cat-scans use radiation,
right?"

"Yeah," he says slowly, as if he's unsure as
to where I'm going with this.

"Couldn't we somehow use the X-rays and
cat-scans to irradiate it?"

Palmer shrugs. "It's worth a try, I guess."
We look at each other in silence for a moment. Palmer nods. "Okay.
Give me the modulator and I'll see what I can do."

"No way," I say with a quick shake of my
head. "If you're going to try this, I want to be there. I'm going
with you."

I maintain a death grip on
Palmer's hand with one hand and on his elbow with the other as I
let him lead me down the faded peach hospital corridor. I feel like
a loser who's crashed the cool kids' party and Palmer's the only
one that's glad I came. My hold on him tightens when I see Suzanne
Pascoe standing at the end of the corridor. He must sense my
discomfort because he rests one of his hands on the one I have on
his elbow. A lump rises in my throat that refuses to be swallowed,
no matter how hard I try. Though I know it’s irrational, I can't
prevent my anxiety levels from rising. Before we left the house I
had a bowl of cereal and some yogurt, both of which are now
churning in my stomach, threatening to come up.

When Suzanne sees us she pastes a
large, toothy smile on her face, straightens her posture and starts
toward us. "Hello, Paulie," she says when she's close enough to
touch. Again with the 'Paulie'. I hate that name. It belongs to a
part of my husband's life that I cannot share. Come to think of it,
if Suzanne's a part of that life, maybe that's not such a bad
thing. "It's about time you got here." She glances at me furtively
and then says to my husband in a hungry, yet flirty lilt, "You're
looking good." She holds her hand out as if to indicate she wants a
shake. Palmer lets go of me and manages to work free of my grasp to
comply. He takes a single step toward her. They shake hands.
Afterward, Suzanne shrugs her shoulders and lunges herself at him
for a hug. The motion stirs up a breeze that sends a whiff of her
perfume in my direction. It's powdery and distantly floral,
reminiscent of the scent my mother-in-law wears. How Freudian. At
some point in the embrace, Suzanne must've kissed Palmer on the
cheek. She stands beside my husband, pinching a muted mulberry
stain from his face.

I catch myself taking a nip out of my inner
cheek, a habit I thought I'd licked.

"Don't I know you?" Suzanne asks
coyly.

Bitch
. The thought is followed by a
good self-scolding for allowing her to get my goat this way.
Suzanne's like someone who's locked herself away in a bomb shelter
at the first nuclear threat only to emerge believing we're at war,
and anyone who tells her otherwise is an agent of the enemy. She
persists in staging battle after passive-aggressive battle,
oblivious she's lost the war as far as Palmer's
concerned.

"I was at the Museum last week?" I
remind her. "You remember the Artifact Night?"

"Oh?" She tucks her hair behind
her ears. "Did I analyze an artifact for you?"

Take a deep
breath
, I tell myself.

"Molly stood in for me on the panel," Palmer
tells her.

Her head bobbles up and down and
she speaks. "Oh right," she says. "Tell me: did you ever find that
marker you were looking for?"

Bitch!
I think again. I can't help myself. In that very
moment I am certain Suzanne had been responsible for the "error" on
my name placard. I want to rip her eyelashes out with a set of
rusty pliers, one by one, slowly savoring each and every yank.
Instead, I smile and say, "No, I never did."

"Oh,
well.
C'est la
vie
." She laughs.
It sounds purposeful, deeply intoned and
fake.