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A lightning bolt of searing pain shot through Georgie’s head. She winced hard, her attention veering in and out of the Egyptologist’s presentation.
“…drying out their tissues…their own methods of embalming and mummification…”
Thankfully, migraine attacks didn’t happen too often at school, but when one would strike, Georgie always pushed through. She’d step out of her classroom and head to the staff lounge where she’d swallow her meds, returning to her students within minutes, ready to ride out the attack. This barrage, however, wasn’t responding to her medication or her stubborn resolve.
Eden gently touched Georgie’s upper back.
“I’ve got this,” she whispered, battling through a yawn. “Go. Relax for a few minutes. I’ll collect you downstairs when we’re done.”
Georgie wrestled with her migraine-fuelled muddle. As much as she hated to admit defeat and temporarily hand over her class, a quiet seat somewhere away from sassy teenagers and head-splitting spotlights would at least give her medication a fighting chance to tackle the attack. She could also wolf down a handful of crackers, which would help suppress a surging bout of nausea.
“I have done this before, you know,” Eden added playfully, her tone hushed.
Gratitude bloomed inside Georgie, but stepping away would feel unprofessional. After all, this was her class, her field trip, her responsibility.
Hesitating, she rubbed her temple, but the longer she dragged her heels, the more her current reality throbbed, impossible to ignore. If she didn’t tame this beast of an attack soon, it could knock her out of commission for the whole day’s teaching. Her students certainly didn’t deserve that.
And while the promotion decision was still months away, Laporte had already begun his unannounced drop-ins. He’d fold his six-foot-four frame into a student-sized desk at the back of the classroom and take notes for the entirety of a seventy-five-minute lesson. If Georgie was still mired in slow speech and a pain-addled brain fog, she might as well scribble I’M A LIABILITY on a yellow sticky note and smack it against her achy forehead.
Without a doubt, Laporte would jot down something negative and she’d have no choice but to concede the promotion to Bootlicker Brian. Not only would she suffer, her students would too, having a teacher/department head who seemed so disinterested in their potential.
Georgie’s stomach lurched. She wasn’t sure what to blame: her thoughts or her migraine disease.
“…however,” Dr. Jönsson droned on, “not all drying agents were created equal. One of the best was a naturally occurring salt called natron…”
Looking up, she caught a distorted glimpse of two pupils passing notes as a third doodled something on his assignment.
“This presentation is dryer than the Sahara,” Eden murmured out the side of her mouth. “You can tell Dr. Jönsson doesn’t do this often. He’s losing his audience.”
“Teenagers are tough,” Georgie agreed.
“As are you. But you need to go—now! Before I yawn myself into a stupor and change my mind.”
Forced to make a decision on the spot, Georgie chose the option that would benefit her students the most: salvaging the remainder of the school day. “Okay, but only for fifteen minutes, tops.” She whisked a hand through her hair, and the vintage silver bracelet on her wrist glimmered as it caught a spotlight. “Sorry, E.”
“Don’t be,” said Eden. “Feel better. See ya in a bit.”
“Thanks.” With a relieved nod, Georgie weaved carefully past priceless artifacts and through the exhibit’s archway, oblivious to Dr. Jönsson’s lingering double take.
TWO
OLIVER
Several days later, Saturday, October 3, 1992
Warm and fluffy, the chocolate chip pancakes were saturated with sticky maple syrup as Oliver stuffed a bite-sized chunk between his lips and chewed, the comforting sweetness rousing the corners of his mouth into a smile. The $4.99 breakfast special including toast, savoury home fries, and crispy bacon at the Golden Griddle on Carlton Street wasn’t fancy, but it was fast becoming his latest Toronto habit. His first was wandering the aisles of the pharmacy around the corner for post-work snacks. His second, watching late-night showings of subtitled films at the small, arthouse cinema across the road from the restaurant, conveniently located at street level beneath his apartment building. However, four weeks into his stay and Oliver had yet to venture beyond a few city blocks. Moving to a foreign country wasn’t easy, and with long hours at a new job and no friends or family to introduce him to the delights of his adopted home, new discoveries were slow to materialize.
But as long as syrupy chocolate chip pancakes and free refills of hot coffee kept coming every morning, who was he to complain?
His friend Rafferty, though, was another story.
Setting down his knife and fork, Oliver shifted, and the tag of his white button-down scraped the back of his neck. He reached into his collar, temporarily flattening the offending corner, then turned his attention to a postcard of the CN Tower, the world’s tallest freestanding structure looming large over Toronto’s skyline. He spoke with Rafferty often, so whatever he jotted down would be old news by the time it flew to London and slid through his door, but Toronto postcards were just one of his four parting requests. “See the city, have experiences, meet people,” he’d urged while dropping Oliver off at Heathrow last month, his poorly veiled attempt to prevent Ollie from retreating into the safe comfort of his own company while abroad.
The socializing and sightseeing he could fake, but postcards were an ask requiring tangible proof. Rafferty would give him an earache if he didn’t send them, so he picked up his pen and started writing.
Hi Raff! It’s Sat morning. I’m eating choc chip pancakes and watching Toronto wake up.
He paused, contemplating what to write next. Even with the anonymity postcards offered, anything personal was best left to a private phone conversation. Just the thought of strangers reading about his snooze-worthy presentations at the museum, how the high schoolers zoned out and one of the teachers walked out made Oliver’s stomach plunge like a freefalling skydiver. It didn’t matter if he was new to the museum or that several guides were off sick and their boss begged him last minute to fill in “just for today.” The end results remained the same: he had bombed miserably three times in front of three different high schools. Not only that, the debacles happened while delivering the educational outreach curriculum he had been hired to revise and oversee. There was also the very real chance the regular guides had flatlined as well earlier in the week, dragged down by the course material he had authored and distributed seven days prior.
