others or herself.”
That was evident, for Clara looked like a pathetic effigy of the once-feisty woman who had eavesdropped on the nursing staff and tapped her way out of the unit. “My God,” Rene whispered.
“Of course, she was taken off Memorine right after the murder. Then about two months later the plaque had begun to return.”
The aide held a cup of water with a straw to Clara’s lips, talking softly to her. But Clara didn’t respond. She was clearly incapable of speech and the ability to feed herself. Her skin hung on her frame like a too-loose seat cover. From her appearance, she didn’t appear to have much time to go before she was bedridden. Then it would be a matter of weeks before she’d forget how to eat or before her heart or kidneys failed or her lungs filled with fluid.
“Her sister had asked that the staff not take any extraordinary measures.”
Clara’s reversal was kept quiet. But there would be no legal repercussions since in the fine print of the consent forms was a clause exonerating the clinical team, researchers, home and pharmaceutical company, et al., from the possible return of the disease. Clara Devine was the only patient to have been withdrawn, and given the extreme circumstances, her sister and legal guardian had raised no complaint. And since she had been removed from Memorine, her existence was simply a brief countdown to her death.
They left the room, and Nick walked Rene to the door. “They did an MRI on her before they sent her back,” Nick said. “The plaque’s all back. She’s a mess.”
“Oh, no!”
“That’s the bitch of it: Once a subject is on the stuff we can’t withdraw them or the dementia returns.”
“Which means that if the flashbacks become problematic, taking them off Memorine isn’t an option.”
“Not without renewed deterioration.”
“But nearly everything we use to combat the seizures only dulls them.”
“The lesser of two evils. But I do have some good news,” Nick said. “Jack Koryan woke up.”
JACK KORYAN.
When Rene left, Nick sat alone in his office and from his window watched Rene cross the parking lot. She looked so lovely as she made her way. A beautiful and bright young woman. He could still hear her gasp of delight at the news, tears of joy filling her eyes.
His eyes fell to a copy of the report of Dr. Heller’s interview with Jack Koryan. He fingered open some of the pages that held Jack’s answers to standard questions that determined his basic cognitive functionality: Where were you born? Where did you go to school? Name the president of the United States. What state is this? What is your mother’s maiden name?
It was that last one that fixed his attention.
And from the opaque, still water well of past time, it rose up like a phosphorescent bubble expanding all the way until it broke the surface with a blink.
What were the chances—maybe one in a million?
Or maybe not.
He watched Rene pull out of the lot. In a couple of days she would visit Jack Koryan, driven by all the best sentiments—photographic positives of what would drive him.
45
“I REMEMBER YOU,” JACK SAID. “Weren’t we once husband and wife?”
Beth nodded. “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said with a choke. “I waited and waited, but you didn’t wake up and …”
“Nothing to be sorry about. You didn’t know.” He patted her hand. “I’m just glad you didn’t have them pull the plug.” He could hear the false brightness in his voice.
“They said they didn’t think you’d ever recover.”
“Forget it. I would have done the same thing.” That wasn’t true, but what the hell difference did it make? He remembered their marriage was headed for the shoals anyway. The coma had spared him all the anguish.
Beth wiped her eyes with a wad of tissues.
“You’re still the best-looking woman I’ve seen in six months.”
“Very funny,” she said, half laughing and half crying.
Jack stroked her hair lightly, and his mind flooded with memories. Although he had been told of all the time that had passed, it still seemed like just the other day he had last seen Beth, and overnight she had got divorced and remarried.
But Beth looked older: Her face was fuller than he recalled. She still looked good, dressed handsomely in smart gray slacks and black blazer, a pearl necklace lighting up her neck. He recalled none of the outfit and tried to repress the thought of her posing for her new husband as she would with him in the dressing rooms of Saks or Potpourri or their bedroom. The diamond on her finger was the size of a small olive. But on her other hand she wore an emerald ring he had given her for Valentine’s Day, 1998—presented over dinner at Aujourd’hui at the Four Seasons Hotel. In an arrangement with the maitre d’ it was delivered as her dessert under a silver dome. He remembered speculating on his reaction had the man swapped the ring for a wedge of cheesecake.
Five days ago Nurse Marcy Falco had telephoned Beth in Texas with the good news. She arrived last night. For the reunion Falco and the therapist sat Jack in a wheelchair with a new pair of New Balance running shoes.
“How are the feet?”
“Okay, but they’re going back to school.”
Jack had been scheduled for intensive physical therapy, which he welcomed, since he couldn’t believe how weak he was. According to Marcy, he weighed 127 pounds—a loss of a quarter of his body weight. Yet, just last week he had bench-pressed ten reps of 175 pounds at the gym with Vince. Just last week—six months ago.
“So, who’s the lucky guy?”
“His name is George King. He’s a great guy, and I know you’d like him.”
“I’m sure,” he said, and tasted acid. It was impossible to get his mind around the fact that what seemed so fresh—his marriage to Beth, who for seven years had been a fundamental condition of his being—had been cleanly snipped away. He felt like some sci-fi character who takes a star-drive trip to the next solar system only to return a few weeks later to an earth that had aged by fifty years. Suddenly it was the future.
“I just wish I hadn’t let you go alone,” she whimpered. Then in a sudden gush: “Why the hell did you have to take a damn swim in the dark … and all those jellyfish around? Huh? What was the point?”
“It wasn’t dark, and the water was warm, and I didn’t see the jellyfish until I got out to the rock. And my cell phone was in my pants.” He smiled, but she did not smile back. A prickly silence fell between them. He had gone alone as a private thing—to connect to a lost artifact of himself—something Beth couldn’t understand. “I barely remember what happened.” Dark water. Swimming like hell. Stroboscopic flashes of lightning. Aunt Nancy.
She was standing on the beach frantically waving me in. Then she disappeared. Then she was back. Or someone else. Last-ditch hallucinations before the curtain dropped.
“All I remember was swimming to shore. Next, I’m in this bed.” He pulled up his sleeves with his fingers. Faint white scars striped his arm.
“You can barely see them. And they’ll fade.”
“Not that.” He raised his arms. “They look like starched swan necks.”
“In six months you’ll be Popeye again.”
“Until then, Olive Oyl in drag.”
She smiled. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“Speaking of which, who’s paying for all this?”
“It’s all taken care of,” Beth said and explained that when Jack went into the coma she petitioned the court
