“It’s what we did if they became too disruptive or when the families visited.”
The medication orders had been signed by Jordan Carr.
Of course, Clara Devine was at McLean’s Hospital for psychiatric evaluation and would not be back for weeks or months—if ever.
During his rounds one afternoon, Rene approached Jordan Carr about his medication orders when he became defensive. “That’s what’s used for treating psychotic delusions. Do you have a problem with that?” His face had taken on the rashlike mottling again.
He clearly did not like the implication of her question: that they were burying a potential adverse side effect of Memorine. His manner also reminded her of the professional divide that separated them. “No,” she said.
“Good.” Then to clear the air, his manner changed. “I hear your deposition went well.”
“It’s not something I’d like to go through again.”
“Well, you won’t, I’m sure.” Then out of his shirt pocket he removed two concert tickets. “By the way, I’ve got two tickets to the symphony next Friday night.
She thanked him but said she was busy, which was a lie. It was also the second time she had turned down a date with him. Jordan Carr was handsome, charming, brilliant, rich, and accomplished—a real catch in most women’s books. His interest in her had not gone unnoticed by some nursing home staffers who wondered if her relationship with Jordan had transcended the professional. It hadn’t, and Rene did not want to encourage that. She was not comfortable dating a professional colleague. Nor was she ready for another boyfriend. All she wanted was to continue carving out her career without complications.
From the upstairs window she watched Jordan leave the building. A couple of weeks ago he had purchased a second Ferrari, a silver 1999 Maranello. Out of curiosity, the other night she went online and looked up the model. She came up with one hit from Atlanta with the same red with tan interior. The asking price was $240,000.
As he pulled out of the parking lot, her eye fell on her little blue Honda Civic with the dented front fender. She felt like the member of a different species.
“Did Dr. Carr leave?” Alice asked, as Rene returned to the nurse’s station.
“Yes.”
“Oh, well. A fax just came in for him.”
Just then one of the aides called her to help with a patient. “Here, hon, slip this in Dr. Carr’s mailbox for me like a good kid, okay?” And she handed Rene the sheets and scurried away to the aide. Even Alice was beginning to perceive Rene as Jordan’s girl.
Rene walked over to the mailboxes and happened to glance at the sheet. It was from Massachusetts General Hospital Emergency Department, Archives. It was a blood assay made back in August.
She glanced at all the chemical analyses, but what caught her eye was the name of the patient. It struck her as odd since he was not one of Jordan Carr’s patients. In fact, when she had mentioned her visit a few weeks earlier, Jordan had said that he was unfamiliar with the case of Jack Koryan. Never heard of him.
31
RENE FOUND MARY CURLEY IN ONE of the activity rooms. Three other women were at the main table doing cut-and-pastes with an aide. But Mary sat alone in a corner with puzzle pieces piled in front of her.
As she approached her, Rene became aware of Mary’s outfit—a ruffled white blouse under a pink and white jumper. Some residents needed help getting dressed. Others could dress themselves. According to the charts, Mary was in the latter category because of her improved functionality. But what startled Rene was that Mary looked like a geriatric Little Bo Peep. “Hi, Mary. Remember me? My name is Rene.”
Mary looked at her. “I remember you.”
Rene didn’t really believe her since several weeks had passed. “The last time we met, you were doing a puzzle of a kitten.”
“That was Daisy. She’s over there.” And she pointed to a shelf of puzzle boxes.
Rene was shocked at her recall. But Alice’s words shot through her head:
“That’s right!” But as soon as the words were out, Rene’s eyes fell to the picture puzzle—a little girl with a dog. And the little girl was dressed in a pink and white jumper. “Mary, that’s a very pretty dress. Where did you get it?”
Without missing a beat, Mary said, “My daddy.” She clicked another piece into the puzzle. “He’s going to take me to the museum today.” And she checked her naked wrist as if reading a watch.
“He is? Isn’t that nice? Which museum?”
“The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston,” and she enunciated the words with slow deliberation.
But what sent a jag through Rene was the woman’s voice. As if somebody had flicked a switch, Mary sounded like a little girl. Even her deportment seemed to shift as she rocked her head with each syllable, the pink tip of her tongue wetting her lips.
“He’s going to take me to see the mummies. You like mummies?”
“Yes. I like mummies,” Rene said, feeling as if the room temperature had dropped ten degrees.
“No, you don’t. That’s not what you said yesterday. You said you didn’t like mummies. You said they were all dry and scary-looking, and you didn’t want to go the museum.”
“But I didn’t see you yesterday.”
“You did so.”
“Mary, what’s my name? Do you remember?”
Mary looked up at her with a slightly quizzical expression. “Barbara Chin, silly.”
“My name isn’t Barbara Chin. It’s Rene.”
Mary snapped another piece into the puzzle. “I’m not afraid of mummies. And you shouldn’t be either. They’re dead.”
As Mary continued her weird monologue, Rene noticed how she kept licking her upper lip like a child and how she fidgeted with the folds of her dress and twisted strands of her hair as she studied the scattered puzzle pieces, or put a twist of them in her mouth, sucking the ends as she searched for connections.
But what unnerved Rene was not just the full-faced innocent hazel eyes entreating her to explain her fear of mummies. It was that voice: It had none of the resonance and timbre of an elderly woman but the thin violin sharpness of a little girl’s.
“I remember you have a dog also,” Rene said, as Mary completed the spaniel’s head in the picture.
Mary licked her lips and her face lit up. “His name is Jello.”
“Yes, Jello. I like the name. What kind of dog is he?”
“He’s a golden retrieber.”
“Retriever.”
“That’s what I said,
Rene kept feeding her questions not just in fascination at Mary’s recall, but the weird sense of double exposure. Half the visual cues told her that Rene was having a conversation with a seventy-eight-year-old woman. But the dress and gestures and voice were those of a child. Every so often Mary would look up full-faced at Rene, her watery eyes staring at her full of little-girl innocence but through a face of crinkled, doughy flesh and liver spots. These were not the eyes of a dementia patient who looked out in fear and confusion at a meaningless kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. Nor were these the eyes of a woman who was being stripped away inside. These were the eyes of a child pressed into the face of an old woman.
“Mary, can I ask you a question?”
Mary looked up at her blankly, her eyes perfectly round orbs of milky blue innocence.
“Where are you?”
For a hushed moment, Mary just looked at her with that broad soft open face. “Henry C. Dwight Elementary.”
“And how old are you?”
“Seven.”
“No,” Rene began. But she was cut off as Mary grabbed her hand, and for a second Rene thought she wanted
