to call Dr. Bader. A minute later Bader showed up with one of those little plastic cups with pills in it. Mom took them and eventually calmed down. He took her blood pressure and it was high as a damn bowling score, but he said it would come down soon. I demanded an explanation and he gave me some long, convoluted story about trying a promising new medication and needing to fine-tune the dosage. But the more I asked about it, the more evasive he got. FP: Specifics, please. EB: I asked to see Mom’s file, because each medication is supposed to be logged, and he gave me a song and dance about how her records had been shipped by mistake to their archives and he’d have to fill out requisition forms to get them back. That made it two mistakes: one with the medication, one with the records. FP: Okay. So mistakes were being made. Some of these places, you hear they’re understaffed or- EB: It wasn’t just the mistakes, Franny. Mistakes I could live with. But like I said, I’m a budget analyst. All day long I look at income statements, balance sheets, expense reports, looking for the things that don’t fit, that look inflated, that are just-out of proportion, I guess. And that’s all I can say about it. The nurse’s reaction seemed out of proportion. And so did Bader’s. He was covering something up, I could feel it. FP: Feelings aren’t the best way- EB: Then I know. I know something’s going on. She wasn’t getting her medication like she was supposed to. FP: But why? What you hear about some places, they over-medicate to keep people, what’s the word… manageable. EB: I don’t know why. Maybe they sell them to someone else. FP: What kind of meds was she on, may I ask? EB: Oh, God. All kinds. For her blood pressure, her anxiety, plus diuretics, anti-seizure meds… FP: Not morphine or OxyContin or anything like that. EB: No. FP: All right, Errol. Did you confront Dr. Bader with your suspicions? EB: [pause] I was afraid to. Afraid for Mom, I mean, not for myself. You hear stories about helpless old people being abused, and I thought if I made trouble they might take it out on Mom. I should have come to you then. Maybe if I had- FP: Errol, let’s stay with the things we can control here and now, okay? Did you consider moving her to another facility? EB: It’s not that easy. The good ones have long waiting lists. And what if nothing was wrong and I was just being overpro-tective? We’d move her for nothing, and people in her condition don’t handle change well. After the stroke, every change in her routine was a huge setback. FP: What did she die of, may I ask? EB: Another stroke. FP: This Dr. Bader signed the death certificate? EB: Yes. FP: So as I understand it, you want us to find out whether mistakes were made with her medications and whether they contributed to her death. EB: That’s right. My brother is fully behind this and very affluent. There won’t be any problem with fees. FB: Let’s talk about that.
CHAPTER 5
Heading home on an eastbound streetcar, crossing back over the Don Valley, I saw the ornate silver inscription on the west side of the bridge glinting in the sun: “This river I step in is not the river I stand in.” White plastic shopping bags floated on the surface of the Don River. Pop cans and milk jugs bobbed alongside them. Near the west bank a rusting shopping cart lay half-submerged. What you couldn’t see-the chlorine and other spilled toxins-was even worse. A truer inscription would have been, “This river I step in will give me a wicked rash.”
I arrived home feeling wilted. I thought about having a cold beer. I thought about calling my old friend Kenny Aber, to see if he wanted to pop by with a joint, which he was always good for. I finally decided against both and got my Rollerblades from the hall closet.
Getting down to the Don River bike path on skates was easy. All downhill, as it were. As long as my weight was centred over my blades, gravity did the rest, taking me down the gentle slope of Broadview Avenue. At the south end of Riverdale Park, just past Dr. Sun’s statue, was a much steeper paved path that led down into the valley. I used my foot brake a little but mostly cut back and forth like a skier to control my speed until the path levelled out near a pedestrian footbridge that crossed the valley east to west. Halfway across the bridge was a metal staircase that led down to the bike path. I climbed down sideways, then started up the trail that followed the Don River north. It was less industrial than the southern trail and part of it was a defunct road, much wider than the bike path, that would give me a chance to sprint.
Normally after work this path was jammed with bikers, bladers, runners and dog walkers, but the heat was keeping people away. With no obstacles to dodge, I broke a good sweat by the time I reached the Chester Marsh, a wetland that had been painstakingly restored by volunteers and was now home to a bewildering variety of grasses, reeds and birds.
I crossed Pottery Road, a steep, curving access road that leads down from Riverdale to the Bayview Extension, taking care not to become a hood ornament as cars came rushing blindly down toward a level railway crossing. On my right was a small fenced-off gravel lot with a gap on the right side just wide enough to let bicycles and strollers pass through. There began a wide, even surface that ran parallel to the river. I picked up my pace, bent at the waist like a speed skater, feeling twinges in my right tricep each time my arm extended. Who knew gunshot wounds took so long to heal?
I went past two posts, about a hundred yards apart, on which hung bright orange lifesavers. The second one also had a long metal pole with a wide ring at one end. If someone fell into the river, you could fish them out with it. Or use it to clean out some of the trash. As I went past the embankment going up to the Parkway, I had the sound of traffic on my right and the river on my left, rushing sounds on both sides. Sweat stung the skin around my eyes but it felt good to get up a head of steam. I had been pretty sedentary since getting shot, partly because of the wound itself and partly because of the depression I’d felt looming around me ever since the Ensign case crashed and burned.
As soon as I got home, I showered and changed into shorts. While I waited for Joe Avila, I opened a cheap and cheerful Australian Cabernet, checked the cork for mould, then tossed it. I was about to pour myself a glass of wine when Joe called up from the lobby. “Down in a second,” I told him.
Joe was just five-seven but looked like he’d been carved from the cliffs of his Portuguese village in the Dorro River valley. He had dark curly hair and olive skin. He wiped his right hand on the back of his coveralls and we shook. “Sorry I’m late, Jonah, but I got a call for a boost just as I was leaving. That’s seventy bucks for five minutes’ work and it was on the way here.”
“Don’t worry about it, Joe. Thanks for coming.”
“I owe you for bringing Mariela home safe.”
“You owe me for selling me a piece of shit car.”
“Come on,” he said, trying to look aggrieved. “There’s nothing wrong with that car, not for the price you paid. You want to upgrade, I can put you in a two-year-old Camry or Accord for 10 per cent less than book.”
“Just get this one running for now,” I said.
I walked down to the garage door and opened it from the outside with a key. Joe drove his tow truck out of the circular drive and down into the garage and parked next to the Camry. Once I opened the hood, he slipped the hook of a caged lamp through an eyehole along the edge. He leaned in to have a look and I leaned in over his shoulder.
“You’re in my light,” he said.
“Sorry.”
He checked the battery and pronounced it fine. I leaned in again.
“Jonah.”
“Sorry.”
“Why don’t you go outside and have a smoke or something?”
“I quit.”
“Then go outside and stick your thumb up your ass till I call you, okay? Otherwise we gonna be here all night.”
It was so nicely put, what could I do but leave the man to his work?
I sat in the shade of a Norway maple on the lawn outside the building, stretching my hamstrings, listening to starlings chatter in the trees. I wondered what it would be like to move my mother into a nursing home. Not that we were anywhere near it. My mother was in her early sixties and needed assisted living like I needed another gunshot wound. After my father died, she became a real estate agent and now owned a thriving brokerage, Ruth Geller amp; Associates. Mom sat on half a dozen boards and committees that raised funds for the elderly, newly arrived Russian Jews, tree planting in the Negev desert, various hospital and medical research campaigns, her local Liberal member and either the Art Gallery of Ontario or the Royal Ontario Museum, I can never remember which. I wonder how she can.
