they do while she hung around nursing him back to health? And even if he got better, regained his memory and physical health, they’d be back to where they had left off—estranged at best. Wishing they were living somebody else’s lives.
She hated herself, but she had to admit to a thought which had several times wormed its way up from the recesses of her mind: That it would have been better if Jack had drowned.
22
“THEY’RE COMING BACK. I MEAN, if you saw them a year ago you wouldn’t believe it.”
Rene followed Alice Gordon down the corridor toward the dayroom, knowing that she was hoping to sway Rene into agreeing to the cover-up.
“At first, I thought it was my imagination—subtle little changes we chalked up to ward acclimation and fine- tuning their meds. But then we ran some cognitive tests. Something’s happening, and it’s for real.”
It was Monday morning, and Rene had returned to Broadview for the records that Dr. Carr had promised her. Also, to follow up on Carter Lutz’s suggestion that she meet the trial patients.
Because CommCare was named in the Zuchowsky suit, her boss, Mike Carvalho, had given her the name of the pharmacy’s lawyer who would contact her soon. He said he was also confident that the Zuchowskys had no case against her or CommCare—that neither she nor the pharmacy was negligent in their duties to Broadview, the residents, or the Zuchowskys. Of course, he had no idea about Memorine or what she had seen in that video. Meanwhile, because the records contained six months’ worth of data on Clara Devine, plus the four other phantom test subjects, it would take Rene days to transfer everything to her laptop. But a cursory check showed that for these patients on the trial drug a simple “T-drug 10 mgs” was recorded each morning, the nurses not even knowing GEM’s big little secret. When asked for an explanation, Alice replied, “What can I say? They told us that it was Dr. Carr’s project and he was taking full responsibility. They gave us two cards of pills, one labeled Trial, the other Placebo. It’s irregular, but I think they just wanted to keep everything mum until the data started accumulating.”
“Were residents’ families informed they were in the trial?”
“At first the patients were wards of the state, so there was no need for family consent. The lawyers took care of that, and nobody came by to visit. But you can get just so many wards.”
“So nobody outside the home knew about the trials.”
“Uh-uh. Now we’re enrolling patients with family consent, of course.”
“And how did the families react to the changes?”
“You can ask for yourself. But first I’d like you to meet Ernestine. She’s eighty-two years old, and two years ago she was admitted here with moderate Alzheimer’s.” They entered the activities room. At a table sat a little white-haired woman pasting cutout pictures of flowers onto colored paper. As they approached, Rene could hear her singing to herself.
“Mammy’s little baby loves short’nin, short’nin’, Mammy’s little baby loves short’nin’ bread.”
“Hi, Ernestine,” Alice said. “How you doing today?”
“Put on the skillet, put on the lead, Mammy’s gonna to make a little short ‘nin’ bread.” The woman slowly glanced up at the nurse and Rene, then looked back down to the puzzle. “Fine, thank you.”
“That’s good.”
“Mammy’s little baby loves short’nin’, short’nin’, Mammy’s little baby loves …”
“Ernestine, this is Rene. She’s come to say hello.”
“Hi, Ernestine. Nice to meet you. Those are pretty flowers.”
“It’s for my book.”
“Isn’t that nice. It looks like it’s coming along very well.” A small pile of pasted pages sat neatly beside her.
“I’m going to call it
“What a great title,” Rene said, a little distracted by the woman’s manner. She had pronounced the book’s title with the deliberate carefulness of a child.
“Mammy’s little baby loves short’nin’ bread.”
“Ernestine, do you remember me?” Alice asked.
Ernestine stopped singing and looked up at her again. “Oh, sure.” For a moment there was no light of recognition in the woman’s face. Then she looked at the woman’s nametag and said. “Can’t you read? You’re Alice.” And very slowly and deliberately she recited, “A-L-I-C-E. Alice!” And she went back to her puzzle. “Mammy’s little baby loves short’nin’ bread.”
“That’s great, Ernestine. I’m so proud of you.”
The woman smiled. And they moved away. “Two months ago I could walk in the room, tell her my name,” Alice said, “and twenty seconds later she’d ask me who I was. I’d tell her again, and another twenty seconds later she’d ask me who I was again. She could recognize the face, but forget about putting a name on it.” She shook her head in dismay. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.”
“That’s incredible.”
“Yes, and
“I hear you,” Rene said, still a little dazed by how complicated life had become. One word from her and all this could explode. “You think it’s the drug that brought back her reading?” She hadn’t seen Ernestine’s cognitive evaluations, but some early dementia residents still retained rudimentary reading powers.
“When she was admitted to Broadview two years ago she couldn’t read her own name. But I suppose the proof of the pudding is how she’s doing six months or a year from now.”
“You mean if she’s sitting there reading
Alice laughed in relief. “Given the way things are heading, that may not be a joke.”
As they walked down the corridor, Rene remembered how common nouns for her father had faded into “whatchamacallits” and that to avoid the humiliating frustration, she had put big labels on objects around the house—“telephone,” “dish,” “lamp,” “fridge.” As his ability to read faded, he began making excuses about needing a new prescription for his glasses. Eventually the synaptic wiring got so clotted that written words were meaningless blotches and books were things that filled shelves.
Alice led Rene into a room where a woman bedridden with a fractured hip was sitting with her visiting son and daughter-in-law. Alice explained that Lorraine Budd, age eighty-one, had been diagnosed with moderate dementia when she was admitted over a year ago.
Alice made the introductions. “Hi, Lorraine, this is Rene.”
The woman had a pink face flecked with brown spots, but despite the discoloration and the soft folds of loose skin, Rene could see that she had been a beauty in her youth: the bright sapphire eyes and fleshy mouth and high intelligent forehead. Thick white hair was brushed back neatly and held by combs.
“I knew a Rene from school.”
“You did?”
“Rene St. Onge.”
“And you still remember her?”
“Oh, yes, we were best friends.”
“I’m impressed,” Rene said. “And where did you go to school?”
Without a moment’s hesitation she said, “North Central High in Kalamazoo, Michigan.”
“That’s amazing.”
Lorraine smiled proudly.
“And do you remember what year you graduated?” her son asked.
Lorraine frowned a bit as she thought about the question. “It was 1946. And I had poison ivy all over me. My face was all blown up and pink with the medicine. And it was very hot and I had to wear gloves to shake hands so people wouldn’t catch it.” She chuckled to herself.
“And do you remember your guest’s name here?” Alice nodded toward Rene.
“Yes, Rene like my friend Rene St. Onge.”
Long-term memory
