The scene shifted back to the reporter. “Located in Walden, Massachusetts, GEM Tech plans to develop Memorine as an orally available pill.”
On the screen were shots of the GEM complex, the camera panning the main building and surrounding complexes. “The president and CEO of GEM Tech is Dr. Gavin Moy.” Moy’s large, fleshy face filled the screen. “Dr. Moy, what do you see as your goals in these clinical trials?”
Moy adjusted his glasses. “Alzheimer’s disease is the most common and deadly form of dementia affecting people over age sixty-five. Some five million Americans are afflicted, and it’s the major reason why people are institutionalized in the United States. Left unchecked, there will be fifteen million cases in this country by 2025. And that’s what we’re trying to prevent here at GEM Tech. And every indication tells us that we’re heading that way.”
“So, when can we expect Memorine to become available?”
“Based on our great successes so far, we’re expecting to complete trials in nine months, maybe sooner if the FDA fast-tracks our application. We’re very hopeful.”
The camera switched to Nick’s video sequence of a blue brain heavily spotted with red blotches of plaque. As the video ran, the red began to recede and disappear. “What you’re seeing are time-lapsed MRI images showing the actual reversal of the damage in an Alzheimer’s patient’s brain …”
Rene watched, thinking that Gavin Moy was brilliant and slick as oil. What he had done was turn a news announcement into a priceless promo for Memorine. And corporate protocol be damned because, no matter how premature the announcement, every prestigious journal in the world would want to publish the results, just as every neurologist would kill to get his or her name attached to the trials. And to potential investors the publicity was catnip. By tomorrow night GEM stocks would probably double again.
The camera closed in on the original patent framed and hanging on the wall of his office. “By the way,” the reporter said, “how did you discover that Memorine was so beneficial to the treatment of Alzheimer’s disease?”
Moy smiled. “Trade secret.”
Nick appeared on-screen again. “What makes Memorine so revolutionary?” the reporter asked him.
“We think that Memorine prompts an immune-system response that destroys amyloid plaques, one of the hallmarks of Alzheimer’s that contribute to brain cell degeneration. It also stimulates the regeneration of new cells in damaged areas.”
Back to the reporter. “According to GEM researchers, patients tested with Memorine experienced significantly better results than participants in the placebo group in measures of thinking and reasoning, day-to-day functioning, and behavior.
“But the drug did not help every individual who took it. At least not as yet.”
Back to Nick: “Some patients may take longer, depending on the stage of their diseases. It may be a genetic factor or a demographic one. That’s part of what we’ll try to determine in the trials. Also for whom it works best, et cetera.”
“Any side effects?”
“That’s part of what the trials will determine. Every drug including aspirin has side effects, some more measurable and adverse than others. But at the present time, there are no conclusive side effects to speak of.”
The report concluded with a shot in front of GEM Tech’s offices. “If approved by the FDA, all indications point to Memorine becoming one of the all-time blockbuster drugs with first-year U.S. sales of five billion dollars. Back to you, Liz.”
The final shot was of Louis Martinetti snapping a salute at the camera.
AND FOR ANOTHER ONE HUNDRED AND twenty-seven days Jack Koryan remained in a profound sleep.
3
37
Four Months Later
Nurse Marcy Falco looked up from her chart to Constance Stone, who was tucking in the sheet at the bottom of the bed. “You say something?”
“N-no,” Nurse Stone gasped, here eyes bulging like hen’s eggs. “
“Omigod!”
Jack Koryan was staring at Marcy—eyes locked in purposeful focus, not floating around in their sockets or staring off in different directions. And his mouth was moving.
He repeated those syllables.
Over the six months, Jack Koryan had muttered a lot of nonsense, but this was the first time Marcy saw signs of a breakthrough. “Hi, Jack. My name is Marcy.” Then over her shoulder to Constance: “Get the others. They’ve gotta see this.”
But Constance was frozen in place, her eyes transfixed on a man who for the better half of a year had been a body connected to drips and Texas Catheters.
“Constance! Snap out of it. He’s trying to talk. Get the doctor.”
“Uh.” Constance said, but she was still unable to move.
“Jack! Jack. What did you say?”
“He’s waking up,” Constance gasped, as if just realizing it.
“Jack, say it again,” Marcy insisted.
And the same syllables scraped out.
“Something about his meds. ‘Meds karma’?” Constance asked.
“Would you
He looked at her, his eyes widening in fear.
“Good. Jack, my name is Marcy. I’m your nurse. I’m going to stay with you,” she continued. In a strange environment with no frame of reverence, he could panic, maybe even relapse into the coma or, worse, go into cardiac arrest. “I’m not going to leave you. I know this is confusing to you, but you’re going to be okay. But I want you to talk to me, Jack. Do you understand? I want you to talk to me.”
His eyes closed again. Nothing.
Jack rolled his head and took a deep breath. But he did not open his eyes.
“Jack, squeeze my hand.” She raised her voice. “Jack, squeeze my hand.” And she felt his hand squeeze ever so slightly. “Good, Jack. Now open your eyes. I know you’re in there.”
Jack’s eyes slitted open.
“Hi. Can you see me?” she asked, hoping even after six months that he would be another of her “witchcraft” wake-up cases. Instantly she shifted into her clinical mode, carefully scrutinizing him for neurological responses. “Look at me, Jack.”
