Because it was a warm day, Jack had rolled outside to put some color back in his face, which looked like mayonnaise. He had his magazines, still trying to fill the hole. After maybe twenty minutes, Joe came up to him asking if he knew where Father O’Connor was. Assuming that Joe was expecting a visit from the family priest, Jack suggested that he ask one of the nurses. Apparently that didn’t register, since Joe cocked his head at Jack like a beagle. Then his eyes saucered and he slipped to his knees, crossed himself, and began to blubber a confession. “Father, forgive me, forgive me, I … I … Ooooowheeeo oooooh … I blinded him in the eye. Lenny Schmidt. I blinded him, and he wasn’t doing anything, just standing there in front of Leone’s, but I just wanted to scare him, that’s all, just scare him, and I didn’t think it would hit him in the face really, Father, I didn’t, just scare him, hit him on the shoulder or something, but not the eye, I swear to God.” One of the aides caught sight of the scene and tried to get Joe to snap out of it. But he was too far gone and started swearing and swinging wildly. Before other aides arrived, Joe asked Jack for forgiveness. As the aides came to haul him off, Jack made the sign of the cross and said he forgave him, reducing Joe to sobs of gratitude. The aides carried him back into his room and shot him up with something to let him sleep off his penance.
Jack didn’t know what had clicked in the guy’s head—maybe it was Jack’s black T-shirt or his saint-gaunt face. But for a brief moment Jack was Father O’Connor. And that wasn’t the first weird episode here. Because it was a mixed population, younger rehab patients and elderly dementia victims shared common areas. And the staff encouraged mingling just to help those Alzheimer’s residents who weren’t that far gone yet. Jack enjoyed talking with them, finding little personality pilot lights still glowing. But some of them would click off to another place all of a sudden, like Mr. Monks at the table over there with the puzzles and the CD headphones. Most of yesterday he spent do-wopping around the ward to Gene Vincent—a seventeen-year-old inside an old guy’s skin. Or Marty Lubeck, who for two hours yesterday sang, “Defer, defer, I’m the Lord High Executioner” to the aquarium fish, his face frozen with that same weird intensity, eyes beaded down on some seventh-grade memory. Or Noreen Hoolihan in the rocker over there having a full-fledged conversation about her grandmother with a pot of geraniums.
“Good morning, Mr. Koryan. My name is Rene Ballard. I’m the consulting pharmacist here, and I’m wondering if I can talk to you a bit.”
Her hand was cool and smooth like taffy closing on his fingers. Jack pretended to examine his calendar. “Well, I’m running a tight schedule, but I think I can squeeze you in.”
She chuckled. “Thanks,” she said, and pulled up a plastic chair.
She had lively blue-gray eyes that pulled you in when she smiled. Her hair was chestnut brown and held back with a clasp fashioned out of some lacy material resembling a rose. She wore gold hoop earrings and a thin gold necklace. Her long fingers curled around a gold pen under a notebook. The woman emanated an intelligent, self- possessed nature, and Jack wondered what she looked like in an evening gown. He wondered what she looked like in a bikini. He also wondered about his interest.
“The nurses say that you’re improving remarkably well.”
“Rest home food will do that.”
“You mean it’s that
“No, that bad, so you want to heal fast and go home.”
She had a laugh like wind chimes that should have settled the low-grade anxiety beginning to nibble at his brain. “I can’t say that I blame you. And from all reports, that won’t be too long, given how well you’re doing. I remember when they brought you in.”
“Sorry that slipped my mind.”
She smiled. “Your wife and friends told me a lot about you.”
“Former wife.”
She nodded. “Yes, I heard. I’m very sorry about that.”
As they chatted, Jack could not repress the mounting unease that had nothing to do with nursing home food or being stuck in a wheelchair surrounded by demented geriatrics. It was this woman—this lovely, shiny young woman with her sincere big eyes and perfect teeth and kiss-me lips—who made him painfully aware of the white- stick legs showing from his pants and birdcage chest and the long empty lane ahead of him. Just the other day he was a creature of satisfaction and desire, and he had a life.
“Dr. Heller showed me your memory tests. She’s not seen anything like it before. Your recall is at the far end of the curve.”
“The universe loves a balance.”
Her manner was guarded as she let a couple of seconds elapse before responding. “The PT people here are the best around. I’m sure in a few months you’ll be a hundred percent better and back to living your life.”
He smiled. “If there’s a God.” She opened her notebook and he could see a list of questions she had written. “I have a funny feeling you’re not here to check my meds.”
“Actually, I’d like to ask you about your memory, if that’s all right.”
“You’re the fourth person this week.” Her pupils dilated as she waited for his response. He could have lost himself in those eyes.
“You mean you’re tested out.”
“Mazes, picture tests, digit recall, word recall, blocks, card tests, and every time I turn around somebody asks me to repeat what they said. I’m beginning to feel like an echo chamber.”
She laughed. “None of that, I promise. But you’re right: I’m not here about your medication although if you have any questions or problems, I hope you let me know.”
“Since you mentioned it. I know it sounds like a bad punch line, but I’m having problems sleeping.”
“You’re not getting enough?”
“Not deep enough. I want to sleep without dreaming. Just a blank.”
“You’re having bad dreams?”
“Yes.” He didn’t want to elaborate.
She wrote something down for the nurses. And he nodded a thank-you to this lovely, inaccessible woman who would give him something not to dream. She slipped her notepad into the clip and looked at him to say it was business time.
“Let me explain. In addition to my consulting role, I’m part of a research project for a local pharmaceutical company that’s conducting clinical trials of a drug for Alzheimer’s disease. You might have seen it on the news or read about it.”
He had. “Some kind of breakthrough cure.”
“Yes, it’s called Memorine. In fact, several of the residents here are enrolled in the trials.”
“You mean I’ve got Alzheimer’s, too?”
“Hardly,” she laughed. “But, coincidentally, the jellyfish that attacked you contains a toxin that affects memory.”
“I’ve got more than I can use.”
“So I’ve heard, but that’s not what I mean.”
“So, I’m wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your memory.”
“Why?”
“Because we’ve discovered a similarity between your neurological activity and that of patients on the drug. While you were in a coma, the doctors ran some MRI scans on your brain to check for problems—tumors, lesions, or any other abnormalities. Thankfully, there were none. But the images showed that areas associated with memory have experienced enhanced activity, and I’d like to ask you about the kinds of things that are coming back to you.”
“What’s the connection to me?”
“Just that several test patients are experiencing some unusually deep recall. I’m just wondering if you’ve had anything like this—you know, memories of early experiences.” She hesitated a moment as he stared at her without expression. “Flashbacks.”
Her eyebrow shot up like a polygraph needle. “Really?”
“No flashbacks.”
He could not determine if she looked disappointed or incredulous. Maybe something in his face gave him
