hierarchy, had named Carr assistant principal investigator of the trials.
This was Gavin’s second visit to the home since the GEM-sponsored renovations. But it was not why he and his entourage were here. For the benefit of the others, Nick walked them through the ward for a quick overview before they got down to business.
The new dayroom, nearly twice the size of the original, was a skylighted cheerful area set up with clusters of chairs and tables, a wide-screen television set, and bookcases with a surround-sound system that was currently playing some soothing, innocuous instrumental CD music meant to keep patients calm. A whole collection of easy- listening and memory-lane CDs filled the shelves—from
The unit was now fully air-conditioned and equipped with an elaborating lighting as well as a fail-safe security system, ceiling-mounted cameras at the elevators and all exits. No more repeats of Clara Devine.
Nick could feel Moy’s restlessness as they made their way through the ward. But Nick kept up the pace and the tour-guide chatter not out of perversity but to humanize the issue for Moy and his suits—and to show where GEM’s grant money had gone.
Nick flicked a wall switch twice, turning on a primary then a secondary bank of fluorescence. “Double lighting because afternoons are stressful,” he explained. “The sun goes down, and they get agitated. It doesn’t always work, but it helps.”
A few elderly women were in chairs, some talking to each other, some talking to themselves. One woman in green sweatpants and white sneakers sat in a wheelchair holding a doll. One man paced by the rear windows, looking outside and muttering to himself. A few others shuffled on wheeled walkers.
Of the forty-eight patients on the ward, more than half were on Memorine. Because the trial was designed to be a single blind study, patients did not know if they were receiving the active drug or a placebo. And great care had been taken that the placebo tablet looked like the active medication. The reason, of course, was to prevent patients from acting differently because they knew they were taking an experimental drug. Although some medical staff knew who was in the control group, the participants were randomly assigned; and all effects observed— beneficial and troublesome—were documented then analyzed with cold, hard statistics. Even for those staffers who did not know which subjects were on Memorine and which were not, the distinction became progressively apparent over the months, especially since some of the more recovered patients, particularly those with no other morbidities or physical infirmities, were beginning to wonder why they were still in a nursing home.
Nick showed them a few sample rooms. The interiors were neat and cozily appointed in soothing pastels. Most had three beds, some two; a few were singles. Stuffed animals were bunched on the pillows in some of the women’s rooms. The walls and bureau tops held personal belongings—toiletries, religious statues, bowling trophies, war medals, and photos of the patients and family members from earlier times. One man had Red Sox banners and an autographed photo of Ted Williams. Most photographs had labels naming those in the pictures, including the patients themselves. Many residents not receiving Memorine forgot who they were.
Around the beds in one room were crayon drawings, some saying, “I love you, Gramma.” There was also a sheet with a poem, “To Aunt Wanda.” On the wall beside one bed was a cracked black-and-white photo of the patient as a little girl in pants and floppy hat posing with a pony. The name on the label was “Margaret, age 9.” She was the woman outside in the dayroom with the rubber doll in her arms.
“She’s a real gabber, this one,” Nick said. “Born in Ireland and can tell you lots of good tales from her childhood.”
“Is she one of ours?” asked Moy.
“Yes,” Nick said. “Three years ago she couldn’t recall the last four decades of her life, including the death of her husband and daughter. But you’ll be happy to know that she’s coming back.”
Moy nodded with pleasure, the smile relaxing his scowl.
“What’s interesting,” Nick added, “is that she recalls her early days like they were yesterday.”
They left the room. As in most homes, the nursing staff had made every effort to individualize the patients. So outside of each room was a computer-printed biography of the residents.
Margaret O’Bannion was born in Ireland on January 30, 1921, and retired as a history teacher at Arlington High School. She enjoys her family and activities. She has 3 children and 7 grandchildren. She has a great sense of humor and enjoys rock-and-roll music and playing cards.
The next room’s bio read:
Herbert Quinn was born in Lawrence, Mass., and worked in the mills as a young man. He is a very proud grandfather and likes to sing and socialize.
The door of the next room, a single, was closed, apparently because the patient was taking a nap. Outside of it was this bio:
Louis Martinetti was born in Portland, Maine, but lived much of his life in Woburn, Mass. He’s a decorated soldier from the Korean War. He has a wife, Marie, a daughter, Christine, and a grandson, Steven. He likes oldies music, history, and baseball, and he enjoys playing cards and watching movies.
Nick led them into one of the large activities rooms where eight patients sat at a table as a recreational therapist instructed them in cutting and pasting pictures onto construction paper. “Hi, ladies,” Nick said, as they entered. “Hope we’re not disturbing you. I’m just showing my friends what a lovely place you have here.”
“How are you girls doing today?” Moy asked. He walked up to the table smiling and inspected their artwork.
“Fine,” two women said in unison.
Some others just nodded. One woman squinted at Moy and muttered something. Nick flicked the switch to double the lighting. “Oh, he’s adorable,” she said, nodding at Gavin Moy. “He looks just like my Jimmy without his hair.”
“Jimmy’s my cat’s name,” another woman piped up.
“That’s not a cat’s name, Jimmy.” She made a face and turned toward Gavin Moy. “What’s your name?”
Before Moy could answer, the other declared, “Yul Brenner. He’s Yul Brenner.”
“Yul Brenner?” another said, her eyes squinting at Moy. “Nahhh, go on. That’s not Yul Brenner.” Then she scowled at him, when suddenly her eyes widened. “Oh, oh. Omigod, it’s Yul Brenner!” and she burst into snickers.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is—”
“Thank you very much, ladies,” Moy began. “I’m flattered, but—”
Sudden shouting behind them cut off Moy. Nick shot outside.
Margaret, the woman in a wheelchair, was sobbing uncontrollably as a nurse and two aides at her side tried to comfort her. “He’s not breathing,” she blubbered.
“Who’s not breathing?” Moy asked. “Who she talking about?”
“He’s dead!” Margaret cried. “He’s dead.” And she began to wail.
“The doll,” Nick said.
Lucille, one of the nurses, moved over to Margaret. “He’s not dead, Margaret,” she said, and put her hands out to take the doll. “I just think he’s just sound asleep.” Then, as everybody watched, she gently pried the doll out of the woman’s clutch and laid it on the floor where she began to stroke the doll’s chest as if performing CPR.
