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July 1993
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“WOULD YOU MIND putting this in the safe? The combination is 5-4-0-8.” I hand the box to the nurse who secures it with my other valuables. My head is swimming, In fact I’m entirely at sea. Nothing’s made sense since I stepped onto that strange ship, and yet I miss it. Have you ever awakened from a vivid dream and wished that you could close your eyes and return to that receding world? You had a life in that other realm as rich and complex as the one you’ve just awakened to. Such an odd sensation, the buildings, the landscapes, the people are so real and then they vanish like images on overexposed film that fade in light. But what if they’re not really gone? What if they’re waiting patiently while you dream that you’re awake?
Michael thinks I’m no longer compos mentis, and perhaps he’s right. My memories of the Aqua Meridian don’t make sense, not even to me. I’m an empiricist by nature, a modern archaeologist trained to seek laboratory-based physical, chemical, and biological evidence from an excavated site. I seek facts and solve puzzles, wary of anything that shows up in the wrong strata, misplaced in time or space. So, considering the unlikely events I’ve recently experienced, I must consider Michael’s diagnosis. My brain may be going soft, but if it was all a delusion then how . . . ?
“Nurse, what was the line on that cat pendant Mrs. Savas was wearing?”
“Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a wonderful way of working together.”
“No, just the words on her half, the part she was wearing.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It started Mungoj and Rumpel. That’s how I figured it out, but I can’t remember the rest. But you know what the other half says, don’t you?”
“Yes, there was a young woman on the Aqua Meridian wearing the other half of that pendant who looked exactly like Amy Savas, only younger. She might have been her daughter or a younger sister, but Mrs. Savas claims she doesn’t know her. It doesn’t make any sense, no sense at all.” My teeth chatter and my skin breaks out in goose bumps. “Nurse, am I losing my mind? Please, be honest, I need to know.”
As she turns, the late afternoon sun illuminates her face and hair. Her white uniform glows in the light streaming through the window. I take a deep breath then exhale slowly, unclench my jaw and wait, trusting that she’ll tell the truth.
“Your chart says you’re suffering from dementia, most likely Alzheimer’s. Symptoms include delusional thinking, poor short-term memory, and impaired judgment.”
Tears well in my eyes.
She steps closer and gives me a conspiratorial smile. “But sometimes doctors miss the big picture. They’ve never sailed on a ship like the Aqua Meridian, so they assume it’s a hallucination, but we know what we know, don’t we?”
“No, I don’t know what I know at all. I mean, I know I was on a boat where I fell and broke my hip. Everyone agrees about that, but beyond that, it’s a blur. One minute we were in the Toronto harbor and the next we were at sea without passing through any locks or canals that I recall. How could we have reached the ocean? And I felt younger there, or I was younger, it’s hard to explain. Seriously, do you think I’m going mad?”
“Nurses aren’t allowed to make those kinds of diagnosis, but you seem okay to me.”
“Thank you.” The usual hubbub in the corridor is strangely silent. I can hear the wall clock tick. The nurse stands at the foot of my bed without making any move to leave. You’d think she had all the time in the world. “They’re going to lock me up in some sort of loony bin. They’re trying to put a good face on it, but that’s what it is.”
“Humph.” She makes a dismissive sound and shakes her head. “Well, you don’t have to go, you know. You have other options.”
“Really?” I stare at her incredulous. “I do?”
Just then an alarm goes off and the quiet hallway is instantly transformed into a busy thoroughfare. People in white coats, pushing carts and gurneys, stream in the direction of the noise while a loudspeaker screams, “Code blue.” Like that, the nurse is gone, swallowed by the throng racing down the hall and I’m left wondering what my other options are.
Does she know about the disc? Does she imagine I’ll be working with the university again? Maybe she figures Michael can’t keep me under lock and key if the Canadian Archaeological Association is asking for articles and inviting me to speak. Or is there something else, something I don’t know about?
In any case, I need to contact the department straight away to let them know what’s in my safe. My time as a free man is running out, and yet I hesitate, afraid they’ll dismiss me as a crank. I decide to proceed cautiously, make some notes, and write out my talking points. As I twist to reach the pen and paper on the bedside table a shooting pain nearly knocks me out, so I ring the button for assistance, but everyone’s busy rescuing some other poor soul down the hall and no one comes. I wait patiently for a quarter hour and then, exhausted by the afternoon’s events, I fall asleep.
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MICHAEL ARRIVES WITH Peter just after supper. I’m usually delighted to see them, but this evening they’ve interrupted my preparations for the call I need to make tomorrow. I hide my notepad under the bedclothes and welcome my errant grandson who’s just been sprung from the hoosegow. His hair is too long, his T-shirt’s too small, and his ball cap’s on backward. He looks like a hooligan, but his face lights up the moment he sees me, and he throws his arms around me like a child.
“So, the jailbird’s flown the coop.” I kiss him on the cheek. “I hear you’ve been standing up to racists and anti-Semites. Good for you.”
“Dad, please don’t encourage him. He’s out on personal recognizance. They’ll throw him back in jail if he pulls a stunt like that again. I couldn’t take it. I’m living on antacids as it is.” Michael rubs his belly and emits a sour smelling burp. My son, for all his bluster, collapses under stress.
Peter is a warrior like his grandmother. “Your father’s right,” I admonish him. “You can’t go about beaning Nazis on the head in Canada. There are other, legal ways to bring them down.”
“We were protesting legally. There was a lot of shouting on both sides, but I swear, I didn’t mean to hit anyone.”
“Then what happened?” I’m trying to look stern, but I’m secretly relishing the image of my grandson whacking the thug with a wooden post.
“One of the skinheads grabbed my placard, and I was trying to yank it back, but he outweighed me by like fifty pounds. When I finally let go, he flew backward and the pole whacked his ugly tattooed head. It wasn’t my fault, it was pure physics, an equal and opposite reaction. Served him right, anyway.”
“Great, we’ll call Sir Isaac Newton to testify in your defense.” Michael isn’t amused.
I take a sip of cold tea from my supper tray so they won’t see the grin spreading across my face. “Well, be more careful in the future. You can’t set the world right from the inside of a jail cell.”
“I will be more careful, but the Heritage Front is sponsoring a speech by a big Holocaust Denier, Ernst Zundel, next week and I’m going to be there. I’m not letting them spread their lies without pushing back.”
I’m no longer smiling. “Peter, those people are violent and dangerous. Your protest could turn into a street brawl, and they won’t fight fair.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going with a group from B’nai Brith. They’ll keep it under control. Anyway, someone has to stand up to the Fascists.”
I nod, but the joy’s gone out of me. Peter’s right, of course. Someone does need to fight the Nazis, but I thought we’d already won that war.
Michael pulls a pillbox from his pocket and downs a small pink tablet with the last of my tea. “Well, on a happier note,” he begins, but he doesn’t look happy. He’s smiling too broadly, and his eyes are blinking as though he’s just walked into a bright light. I’m immediately on guard. “The hospital’s discharging you to Bayside Manor at the end of the week.”
“No, they’re not. I’m going back to my own apartment.”
“Be reasonable, Dad, you have a broken hip. You need someone to look after you.” He turns to Peter as though I’m not within earshot. “Do you see, this is exactly what I’m talking about. He’s not in his right mind. He can’t be left alone.”
Peter, bless him, comes to my defense. “People go home after breaking their hips. He just needs to heal up a bit more. Can’t he just go to a nursing home for rehab until he gets better? It doesn’t have to be permanent.”
Michael brightens immediately. “How’s that for a compromise? You go to Bayside Manor for a few months and then, if you’re able to look after yourself, we can talk about other options. What do you think?”
I think he thinks I’m an idiot. No one over four years old would fall for such an obvious trick. But, on the other hand, he’s right, I do need assistance. I can’t even get to the toilet by myself. I look toward the closet where the disc is hidden and wonder how I’ll negotiate the future of a valuable artifact from a locked ward. My fantasy of belated acclaim begins to fade. I’m not going to be taking any bows. At best I’ll hand the disc over to a younger, more vigorous man and hope he remembers me in a foot note.
“. . . and you can take some of your furniture and personal belongings, so you’ll feel right at home.” Michael is pitching the place like one of those sleazy guys selling payday loans on late night TV.
“How much can I take?” The move is beginning to feel inevitable, the beginning of the end.
“They provide a bed and chest, but you could bring your recliner and your TV and some pictures for the walls. We’ll make it real cozy for you.”
I can bring a chair and a few tchotchkes. My heart sinks, but then I feel the hidden paper crinkle beneath the sheets and realize that I still have one avenue of escape. I can write. I can still write the articles I’ve been planning. “I’ll need my desk and books. I’m not going anywhere without them. And my papers, I’ll need my files.”
“Dad, it’s a small apartment. Your desk is huge. It would take up the whole room.”
“Then we’re done here. I’m not going.” This is pure bravado, and he knows it, but I’m desperate.
“How about if we bring your papers and say, one box of books, and set up a small table where you can work. Would that do it?”
I nod, it will have to do. Then I have another thought. “Wait, one more thing. I want the framed photo of your mother and the copy of the Phaistos Disc that are on my desk. Could you bring them the next time you visit?”
“Sure, Grandpa,” Peter answers. “I’ll bring them tomorrow.”
He’s such a good boy.
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I NEED TO gird for battle, but I’m not the soldier I once was. I tried doing a thorough reconnaissance of the archaeology department but couldn’t remember how to locate directories or track down faculty. My nurse, bless her, called the library and verified that Ianni Stournaris is chairman, and got his number for me. I have his number and personal extension jotted down on the back of my breakfast menu, along with my own personal history, including the years I taught in the department and the time I spent in Greece. The phone is beside me on the bed. My only reservation is how to explain the improbable story of how I came into possession of the disc. Well, there’s no help for that. It is what it is. I pick up the phone and punch in the numbers.
A pleasant-sounding woman answers. “Good morning, Dr. Stournaris’s office. May I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to speak with Dr. Stournaris, please.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s out of the country until August. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, I need to speak to him directly, or to whoever’s covering for him while he’s gone.”
“That would be Dr. Jordan Mansour.”
“Fine, then, may I speak to him.”
“She’s in a meeting at the moment. May I take a message?”
She? Times have certainly changed. Bess would have been happy. “This is Jacob Kanter. That’s Kanter with a K. I used to teach in your department, but I retired a while back. I’ve come into possession of a remarkable artifact, possibly a second Phaistos Disc, and I need to speak to someone right away. Please have Dr . . . what did you say her name was?
“Mansour.”
“Yes, well, have her call me as soon as possible.” I leave my number and hang up. Adrenaline is coursing through my system and my heart is beating fast. I was expecting to change the course of ancient history. Simply leaving my number and waiting for a return call is a complete letdown. I console myself with the thought that Dr. Mansour will call back later in the day. I just hope she doesn’t call when I’m in therapy or asleep.
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PETER AND MICHAEL surprise me by showing up again just after lunch. I’m a bit on edge since I’m still waiting for Dr. Mansour’s call, but I’m glad to see them. Peter’s carrying a plastic bag that he empties on my bed. There’s my replica of the Phaistos Disc and the picture of my wife. I pick up the framed photo and look into Bess’s eyes. I could swear she looks right back at me. “You old fool,” she seems to say. “How long do you plan to keep me waiting?”
I had a professional photographer take her portrait as a gift when she turned forty. He caught her Ava Gardner looks, but the black and white photo couldn’t capture her chestnut-colored hair, peach complexion, or those gray eyes that always saw right through me. Who could have imagined cancer would transform that beauty into a bald skeleton with sunken eyes? Poor Bess, you were a trooper to the end. You didn’t deserve that last year. Neither of us did.
“Grandpa, what are all these papers on your bed? What have you been working on?”
“Oh, top secret stuff.” I gather my scattered notes into a pile and tuck them into the mystery I’ve been reading. “Speaking of secrets, I bet you’d like to know what I have hidden in my safe.”
“Dad already told me. He says you found a second Rosetta Stone.”
“Did he say I found or that I imagine that I’ve found, as in the old guy’s addled and doesn’t know what he’s looking at?”
Peter looks a little sheepish, but nods. “Yeah, more like that.”
“What I said is,” Michael says, “I hope whatever he’s got is worth a fortune, because Bayside Manor costs a bundle. Dad, you have no idea the sacrifices we’re making to take care of you. A priceless artifact would really help pay all those bills.”
“Are you out of your mind? It’s not for sale. It’s going to the university.”
“Yes, of course,” he says in a smarmy tone, intended to console me I suppose. “But there’s no reason to simply give it to them. If it’s worth something, why not make them pay for it? I’m sure they have a budget for things like that and we could use your share to cover the cost of Bayside Manor.”
“I don’t have a share. The disc belongs to a Mrs. Savas who’s donating it to the university.”
“Then she needs an attorney to negotiate on her behalf. Maybe I should talk to her.” I can see the wheels turning in Michael’s head and I don’t like the direction they’re going, but I don’t have the energy to fight him.
“That will be up to Mrs. Savas, but it’s irrelevant until we get the piece authenticated.”
“Grandpa, can I see it?” Peter’s never been interested in archaeology before, but talk of a fortune seems to have piqued his curiosity.
“It’s in the back of the closet. There’s a little safe back there. The combination is 5-4-0-8.” I can hear him push aside the hangers holding my shirt and trousers.
“This thing is a joke,” he calls over his shoulder. “I could pry it open with a butter knife.”
A tall orderly appears in the doorway. “It’s time for PT, Dr. Kanter.” He pushes an empty wheelchair in my direction.
“Would it be alright if I skip therapy today? I’m expecting an important call.”
“Sorry, my orders are to have you in therapy by two o’clock, but don’t worry, the nurses will take a message while you’re gone.”
Peter backs out of the small wardrobe. “Is it okay if I go with you? I have the afternoon off.”
“Sure, you can come,” the orderly answers for me. “Family’s always welcome in PT.” It’s amazing how quickly I’ve become invisible since being admitted to the hospital, but it will be good to have Peter with me for another hour. The orderly may have spoken out of turn, but he knows his business and gets me into the chair with a minimum of fuss.
Michael waves us off. “Go ahead without me. I have some errands to attend to. See you later.”
Peter stays by my side as the orderly wheels me down the hall, into the elevator and down another corridor until we reach the rehab waiting room. A few other patients have family with them, but none as young or vital as my Peter. I feel a surge of pride in the handsome young man sitting by my side.
I pat his hand. “Would you like a cup of coffee or some soda? There are free drinks at the nurse’s station.”
Peter shakes his head, and then bends to whisper in my ear. “Everyone’s so old. Don’t young people ever come for therapy?”
As if in answer to his question, an orderly wheels in the young Nick Savas. I smile when I see him and he smiles back, directing the orderly to park his chair across from mine.
“Hello, young man. Good to see you. Let me introduce my grandson, Peter.” The boys look at one another, sizing each other up. “Peter, this is Nick, he’s a daredevil cyclist who took a nasty spill and broke his leg.”
“Too bad about your leg. Will it take long to heal?”
“They say it’ll be back to normal in time for school, and there’s nothing wrong with my arms. I don’t know why they need to push me around in this thing.” He pounds the arms of his wheelchair. “It makes me feel stupid.”
“Yeah, that would annoy me too.”
Nick points to Peter’s T-shirt with approval. “You’re into Barenaked Ladies. I love those guys. I heard them at Ontario Place a couple years ago.”
Peter grins. “That’s pretty precocious for a high school kid. I didn’t get into Indie rock until I was in college. Where do you go to school?”
“Malvern Collegiate, it’s my last year.”
“No kidding? That’s where I went. Does Mrs. Norton still make you dissect cats in biology?”
“No, we do frogs now, that’s gross enough.”
“Yeah, that’s probably why I’m majoring in poli sci, no blood and guts.”
“Oh, there’s blood and guts in poli sci the way you do it,” I tease. “Just ask that fascist you whacked upside the head.”
“What?” Nick did an amusing double take. “You actually hit a fascist?”
Peter looks embarrassed. “It was an accident. I was with a group standing up to a bunch of Nazis from the National Front. He got hit by a pole I was carrying.”
Nick’s eyes widen. “That happened outside my father’s office. He was there and told me about it. I wish I could have been there with you.”
“We can always use more volunteers. In fact, there’s another rally coming up . . .”
I’m relieved when my therapist emerges from behind a pair of double doors and cuts this conversation short since I doubt Nick’s mother would appreciate having her son recruited by the ARA.
The therapist is very pleasant, but all business. She gives Peter a quick smile as she waves us in.
Peter stands up to follow me into the therapy room. “Nice meeting you. Hope your leg heals up fast.”
“Wait, I’d really like to talk with you about that rally. Will you be around later?” Nick calls after us.
“No, but I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. My grandfather’s in the South wing, room 918.”
“I know, he’s right down the hall from me. See you tomorrow then.”
“Right on!” Peter pumps his fist in Nick’s direction and Nick pumps his arm in return, as though they’re already comrades in arms.
I’m exhausted by the time the orderly wheels me back to my room. The therapist was merciless and my poor leg aches from being tortured by the iron maiden. Peter’s already left and I’m looking forward to a good nap. However, as the orderly pushes me into my room, I find Michael poking through my papers.
“Find anything of interest?” I inquire.
“Sorry, just tidying up.” He doesn’t even look embarrassed. He picks up the menu I’ve scratched up with notes and phone numbers and holds it out accusingly. “Look at this.” He waves the paper in my face. “Dr. Stournaris on Sabbatical until August. Dr. Mansour will call back later. What were you thinking? Didn’t I ask you not to call the university?”
“And didn’t you say you’d be out running errands? What are you doing here?” I’m surprised and upset, but I keep my cool.
“I came back to check on a few things, and I’m glad I did. Why wouldn’t you listen to me? You’re going to embarrass yourself with the university.”
I’m dumbfounded, my son has absolutely no faith in me. “You don’t understand how significant this object is. The university will be calling any minute.”
Michael presses his lips together and looks away, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, let’s not talk about it. I didn’t come here to argue, I came to make you an offer. You know that old recliner in your living room? It’s in terrible shape and I can’t see the point of moving it. How about if I treat you to a comfy new chair with fresh fabric and good springs? Simpsons could have it delivered to Bayside Manor before you move in. What do you say?”
I don’t say anything. I polish my glasses with the end of my hospital gown to buy some time. It’s just a chair, I tell myself, man up. But that chair is one loss too many and I can’t find the strength to let it go. Michael promised I could bring a few things from my apartment. He promised me that chair.
“No, Michael. Your mother picked out that chair. I’ve sat in it for twenty years. It fits me like a glove and that’s the chair I want. Certainly, one chair isn’t too much to ask.”
Now, for the first time, he looks embarrassed. “Well, actually that’s a problem. I’m afraid there was a miscommunication and the guys I hired to clear out your apartment took it by mistake.”