JACK WAS IN HIS WHEELCHAIR IN the picnic area listening to Stevie Ray Vaughn on his MP3 when the woman named René Ballard approached him from across the patio.
She was young—in her twenties—very attractive and with a clean, varnished look. She was not in a nurse’s smock or an aide’s green uniform but a beige pants suit and white shirt. She walked toward him with graceful purpose, promising to be better company than Joe McNamara, who had to be taken inside a few minutes ago because he had some kind of spell.
She also looked vaguely familiar—like a face from beneath layers of film.
Because it was a warm day, Jack had rolled outside to put some color back in his face, which looked like mayonnaise. He had his magazines, still trying to fill the hole. After maybe twenty minutes, Joe came up to him asking if he knew where Father O’Connor was. Assuming that Joe was expecting a visit from the family priest, Jack suggested that he ask one of the nurses. Apparently that didn’t register, since Joe cocked his head at Jack like a beagle. Then his eyes saucered and he slipped to his knees, crossed himself, and began to blubber a confession. “Father, forgive me, forgive me, I … I … Ooooowheeeo oooooh … I blinded him in the eye. Lenny Schmidt. I blinded him, and he wasn’t doing anything, just standing there in front of Leone’s, but I just wanted to scare him, that’s all, just scare him, and I didn’t think it would hit him in the face really, Father, I didn’t, just scare him, hit him on the shoulder or something, but not the eye, I swear to God.” One of the aides caught sight of the scene and tried to get Joe to snap out of it. But he was too far gone and started swearing and swinging wildly. Before other aides arrived, Joe asked Jack for forgiveness. As the aides came to haul him off, Jack made the sign of the cross and said he forgave him, reducing Joe to sobs of gratitude. The aides carried him back into his room and shot him up with something to let him sleep off his penance.
Jack didn’t know what had clicked in the guy’s head—maybe it was Jack’s black T-shirt or his saint-gaunt face. But for a brief moment Jack was Father O’Connor. And that wasn’t the first weird episode here. Because it was a
mixed population, younger rehab patients and elderly dementia victims shared common areas. And the staff encouraged mingling just to help those Alzheimer’s residents who weren’t that far gone yet. Jack enjoyed talking with them, finding little personality pilot lights still glowing. But some of them would click off to another place all of a sudden, like Mr. Monks at the table over there with the puzzles and the CD headphones. Most of yesterday he spent do-wopping around the ward to Gene Vincent—a seventeen-year-old inside an old guy’s skin. Or Marty Lubeck, who for two hours yesterday sang, “Defer, defer, I’m the Lord High Executioner” to the aquarium fish, his face frozen with that same weird intensity, eyes beaded down on some seventh-grade memory. Or Noreen Hoolihan in the rocker over there having a full-fledged conversation about her grandmother with a pot of geraniums.
“Good morning, Mr. Koryan. My name is René Ballard. I’m the consulting pharmacist here, and I’m wondering if I can talk to you a bit.”
Her hand was cool and smooth like taffy closing on his fingers. Jack pretended to examine his calendar. “Well, I’m running a tight schedule, but I think I can squeeze you in.”
She chuckled. “Thanks,” she said, and pulled up a plastic chair.
She had lively blue-gray eyes that pulled you in when she smiled. Her hair was chestnut brown and held back with a clasp fashioned out of some lacy material resembling a rose. She wore gold hoop earrings and a thin gold necklace. Her long fingers curled around a gold pen under a notebook. The woman emanated an intelligent, self-possessed nature, and Jack wondered what she looked like in an evening gown. He wondered what she looked like in a bikini. He also wondered about his interest.
“The nurses say that you’re improving remarkably well.”
“Rest home food will do that.”
“You mean it’s that
good?”
“No, that bad, so you want to heal fast and go home.”
She had a laugh like wind chimes that should have settled the low-grade anxiety beginning to nibble at his brain. “I can’t say that I blame you. And from all reports, that won’t be too long, given how well you’re doing. I remember when they brought you in.”
“Sorry that slipped my mind.”
She smiled. “Your wife and friends told me a lot about you.”
“Former wife.”
She nodded. “Yes, I heard. I’m very sorry about that.”
As they chatted, Jack could not repress the mounting unease that had nothing to do with nursing home food or being stuck in a wheelchair surrounded by demented geriatrics. It was this woman—this lovely, shiny young woman with her sincere big eyes and perfect teeth and kiss-me lips—who made him painfully aware of the white-stick legs showing from his pants and birdcage chest and the long empty lane ahead of him. Just the other day he was a creature of satisfaction and desire, and he had a life.
“Dr. Heller showed me your memory tests. She’s not seen anything like it before. Your recall is at the far end of the curve.”
“The universe loves a balance.”
Her manner was guarded as she let a couple of seconds elapse before responding. “The PT people here are the best around. I’m sure in a few months you’ll be a hundred percent better and back to living your life.”
He smiled. “If there’s a God.” She opened her notebook and he could see a list of questions she had written. “I have a funny feeling you’re not here to check my meds.”
“Actually, I’d like to ask you about your memory, if that’s all right.”
“You’re the fourth person this week.” Her pupils dilated as she waited for his response. He could have lost himself in those eyes.
“You mean you’re tested out.”
“Mazes, picture tests, digit recall, word recall, blocks, card tests, and every time I turn around somebody asks me to repeat what they said. I’m beginning to feel like an echo chamber.”
She laughed. “None of that, I promise. But you’re right: I’m not here about your medication although if you have any questions or problems, I hope you let me know.”
“Since you mentioned it. I know it sounds like a bad punch line, but I’m having problems sleeping.”
“You’re not getting enough?”
“Not deep enough. I want to sleep without dreaming. Just a blank.”
“You’re having bad dreams?”
“Yes.” He didn’t want to elaborate.
She wrote something down for the nurses. And he nodded a thank-you to this lovely, inaccessible woman who would give him something not to dream. She slipped her notepad into the clip and looked at him to say it was business time.
“Let me explain. In addition to my consulting role, I’m part of a research
project for a local pharmaceutical company that’s conducting clinical trials of a drug for Alzheimer’s disease. You might have seen it on the news or read about it.”
He had. “Some kind of breakthrough cure.”
“Yes, it’s called Memorine. In fact, several of the residents here are enrolled in the trials.”
“You mean I’ve got Alzheimer’s, too?”
“Hardly,” she laughed. “But, coincidentally, the jellyfish that attacked you contains a toxin that affects memory.”
“I’ve got more than I can use.”
“So I’ve heard, but that’s not what I mean.”
Me, either.
“So, I’m wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your memory.”
“Why?”
“Because we’ve discovered a similarity between your neurological activity and that of patients on the drug. While you were in a coma, the doctors ran some MRI scans on your brain to check for problems—tumors, lesions, or any other abnormalities. Thankfully, there were none. But the images showed that areas associated with memory have experienced enhanced activity, and I’d like to ask you about the kinds of things that are coming back to you.”
“What’s the connection to me?”
“Just that several test patients are experiencing some unusually deep recall. I’m just wondering if you’ve had anything like this—you know, memories of early experiences.” She hesitated a moment as he stared at her without expression. “Flashbacks.”
Flashbacks.
She’d given it a name. And Jack felt his pulse rate spasm.
Yes,
he thought. “No,” he said.
Her eyebrow shot up like a polygraph needle. “Really?”
“No flashbacks.”
He could not determine if she looked disappointed or incredulous. Maybe something in his face gave him away, because she settled back in her chair and studied him. Then after a moment she said, “May I ask, then, why you want something to let you sleep without dreams?”
“That’s not the same thing, is it?”
“Neurologically the activity is coincident.”
If you tell her yes, she’ll poke you with questions until you’re a damn dartboard—which means they’ll never let you out; in fact, they’ll make you
some kind of adjunct study for that drug they’re pushing. “What can I tell you? No flashbacks.”
Nice mouse. Big mouse.
Die, goddamn it.
Her eyes hardened. She didn’t believe him. “I see, then it’s just a coincidence—the images and the fact that on several occasions you called for your mother, actually sounded as if you were having a conversation with her.”
“My mother?”
“One of the nurses caught it on tape.”
The initial hospitality lost its warmth. Nice ploy: Send in a clever female with sunny good looks and knockdown charm to coo him into submission, and you got yourself that grant and a fat bonus.
But right behind that thought another muscled it’s way up: Sour.
You’re a damn self-pitying sour old man before your time. Which is why you belong in this geriatric terrarium.
“You mean you’ve never talked in your sleep before? Talked to a dead relative or friend?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.”
He could hear the caution in her voice. “Given all the medication they were pumping into me, I’m surprised I wasn’t chatting with Cleopatra.”
“That may be true, but what made these episodes different was your voice. You sounded like a child, which suggests that you were reliving some deep-past experience. So I’m wondering if you’re aware of these flashbacks—if you’ve had them while awake, if you can tell us what you’re experiencing when they occur.”
She held him with those big eyes—beseeched him to tell her what they both knew was the truth: That he had flashbacks, that he talked to dead people, that he had been to places he hadn’t thought of in years, relived moment-to-moment interludes that he didn’t want to return from—splendid little kid-fun vignettes. Also the dark other stuff that came back to him in quickfire snaps that left him quaking in horror.
“What we’d like is to determine the kinds of activity your brain undergoes during certain conditions of recall. In other words, conduct some functional MRI tests.” She went on to explain.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Ms. Ballard.”
Her body slumped as she made a polite nod of resignation. “Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She stood up, holding her leather-bound clipboard
and all her questions to her chest. “I’ll talk with Dr. Heller about adjusting your medications to help you sleep better.”
And while you’re at it,
he thought,
maybe you and your neuro pals could climb into my head and tell me what the hell is squatting in the closet—what that friggin’ ooga-booga thing is staked out in the shadows and watching through the slit. The thing with the big sharp head. That’s what I’d really appreciate. Something from that script pad of yours that would nail shut that damn door.
“Thank you.”
She opened her shoulder bag and pulled out a business card and laid it on the table. “Should there be any changes,” she said, and thanked him.
He watched her leave, cutting a rippling wake across the ether of the patio—admiring and hating her pert little gabardined bottom and long legs and bobbing chestnut hair as she made her way into the building and through the lot for her cute little BMW to drive to her cute little condo where later in the day she’d crack open a cute little pinot noir with her cute little geek stud …
To hell with you, René Ballard.
To hell with you, Beth King.
Suddenly he felt like crying.
To hell with you, Jack Koryan.
Shit!
He closed his eyes and wished they’d fuse shut.
Boston, Massachusetts
“MR. REYNOLDS, YOU PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK on or I’m going to tell my daddy!”
The little elderly woman shook her finger at the large naked man with his arms spread.
A few feet away, two college women who were admiring the bronze sculpture near the entrance of the Museum of Fine Arts turned around. The black woman in the Northeastern University baseball cap looked at her white companion and started to snicker.
But the elderly woman with the flowered dress and large shopping bag was not joking. She snapped her head at the young black woman and squinted. Then her expression opened up. “There you are, Lucy Goosey! Where’s my Jello?”
“Beg pardon?”
“You were supposed to be watching him and not running off to Patty’s house.” Her mouth began to tremble. “Now he’s missing.”
“Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mary gave the black woman a sharp look and stamped her foot. She then turned to the young white woman. “My mother’s going to wring her neck when she finds out. She wasn’t supposed to let him out without the leash. Now he’s lost, and it’s going to be dark soon.”
The black woman studied the little elderly woman in the blue flowered housedress and floppy canvas hat. Her legs looked swollen, like bologna rounds pressed into dirty white walking shoes. “I’m sorry, lady, but I think you’re confused.”
“I know what you said to Barbara Chin. Miss DuPont told me. I don’t care if I
don’t
go to your party.” And she stuck out her tongue.
“What party?” the white woman asked. “What’s she talking about?”
The old lady snapped her face toward her then dropped her eyes to the small granite pedestal with the bronze plaque:
“Appeal to the Great Spirit,
Cyrus Edwin Dallin, 1909.”
“What are you talking about? That’s not Jello. That’s the Murphy’s dog, Boris. Jello’s yellow and nice—not like him.” And she kicked at the stone.
“Oh, boy!” the white woman said. Then to her friend she whispered, “She’s got a medical bracelet.”
Mary looked up at the black woman again. “You’re always doing ten things at once.” Then she snapped her head up at the statue. “What’s Mr. Reynolds doing here? It’s not his backyard. And I wish he’d put his clothes on.”
The black woman made a move to read the bracelet, but the elderly woman snapped her hand away and squinted at the band as if it were a watch. “It’s almost five o’clock. My daddy’s going to be home soon, and when he does he’s going to call your parents for this.” Then her voice broke. “He’s still a little puppy,” she said, looking nowhere. “Mommy and Daddy gave him to me for my birthday.”
The black woman made big eyes at her classmate to say the woman was totally delusional. “I’m sure you’ll find Jello. But can you tell us your name?”
A passing trolley train squealed against the tracks, and the elderly woman squinted toward the street. “Lady, can you tell us your name?” the white girl asked, a little louder.
But the old woman paid no attention. Her eyes were transfixed on the MBTA train on the far track moving down Huntington toward the Northeastern stop.
“Ma’am, can you tell me where you live?”
“Seventh.”
“Seventh what?”
“I got him for my seventh birthday, dummy.” She shook her head. “Lucy, you were there, and Patty, too. Okay for you if I’m not invited. I wouldn’t go even if I was. So there!” Then her expression sharpened. “And since when have you been black?”
The black woman’s eyebrows shot up. “Pretty long,” she said and pulled a cell phone out of her bag. The elderly woman looked at the thing and gasped.
“It’s only a cell phone, for God’s sake.”
Blinking, the old woman stared at the device. And while the black woman punched numbers, her white companion leaned down toward the elderly woman. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Jello, you know that.”
“No,
your
name, not your puppy’s.”
The old woman looked around at the traffic grinding down Huntington. They were at a crosswalk to the MBTA Green Line stop at the nearby corner. The traffic was thick and people were waiting for the oncoming train. While she glared across the avenue, distracted by whatever she was taking in, the white student stooped down and read the bracelet. “Mary Curley.”
The black woman nodded. “I’d like to report a missing person,” she said into the phone. “I mean we found her. We’re in front of the Museum of Fine Arts on Huntington. Yeah. She’s an elderly woman who’s definitely confused. She’s got some kind of medical alert bracelet on. Her name’s Mary Curley; it says ‘I am an Alzheimer’s Patient.’”
Before the young woman could read the address on the back, Mary yanked her arm free. “Jello?” She reached into the giant Gap bag and pulled out a red mangled slipper. “Here’s Mister Slippy. Come on, good boy.”
Both women looked behind them, but there was no dog in sight.
“I mean, like she’s spaced out,” the black woman told the dispatcher. “She’s talking to statues and trees like she’s Mr. Magoo.”
“Mary, where do you live?”
But Mary just glared at the street.
“Jello,” the white woman said, to break her attention.
Mary snapped her head at her. “Where?”
The girl took Mary’s shoulders and stuck her face into hers.
“Where do you live?”
she asked, punching out each syllable.
Mary glanced at the museum with its four Doric columns and massive granite portico above huge bronze doors. “Four fifty-two Franklin Avenue.” She sang that out in perfect little-girl rhyme.
The black woman nodded, and into the phone said, “I don’t know. Maybe she escaped from a nursing home. No, I don’t know how she got here, and I don’t think she does, either. She thinks she’s lost her dog. Yeah. And you better come fast … . Yeah, she’s wearing a dress and sneakers and holding a shopping bag. The Gap.”
Mary glanced back at the spot she had been glaring at—someplace beyond the line of cars, busses, and trucks that inched down Huntington.
“How did you get here, Mary?” the white woman asked.
Suddenly Mary jerked out of her trance. “There’s my baby,” she said in that little-girl voice. “Jellooooo? He’s in his house. Where he was all the time.”
The white girl took Mary’s arm as she started toward the street, when suddenly Mary turned on her and bit her wrist.
“Shit, lady!” the girl shouted. “Jesus! It’s bleeding,” she said to her friend, who was still on the cell phone.
Mary shot into the street. Some inner-lane cars screeched to a standstill, and she just made it to the outer lane. But because the cars had stopped bumper to bumper, the college women could not catch Mary, who seemed not to notice the traffic or even the close call as a delivery van screeched to a halt just inches from broadsiding her. It was as if she were following a beam of awareness within a landscape that had nothing to do with the outer world.
“I see you,” she squealed with delight, and scurried through the traffic. “I see you, my baby.”
“Jenny, stop her!” the black woman shouted.
Jenny ran into the street, but neither she nor her friend nor any of the people on the sidewalk could stop Mary Curley because the traffic had made a tight chain of cars for half a block. Without distraction, she moved to the stopped train as if powered by some invisible force. From across the street, Jenny, still holding her bleeding wrist, shouted to her, “Mary, stop.”
But Mary did not stop, nor did she hear Jenny or her friend with the cell phone or the people in their vehicles or the last
ca-ching
of the money falling into the collection machine or the train’s doors closing behind the last passengers. Mary had dropped to her knees so she could look into the doghouse.
“No, Mary! Noooo!”
Jenny and her friend were scrambling over the hoods of the stopped cars screaming at Mary to stop.
But Mary was down now and crawling under the massive coupling that connected the two Green Line cars. “There’s my good boy.”