people across the country to encourage use of Memorine once it hit the markets. According to Gavin Moy, that program alone was costing the company forty million dollars. Adding to the rush was the fact that FDA director George Orman-Witt was retiring at the end of the year, and his replacement might not be as sympathetic with flashback reports and could ask for a complete review. So they were playing Beat the Clock.
Mort Coleman, GEM’s legal counsel, turned to Nick. “So, what do you suggest?”
“I suggest that we do an internal review of all clinical data and try to determine the correlation between these flashbacks and patient profiles—demographics, ethnicity, environment, genetic markers, medical profiles, and any other possible parameters. If something comes out of it, perhaps we can determine if certain patients should be excluded from use of the drug.”
“That could take months, maybe years.”
Nick heard the edge of panic in Coleman’s voice. “It may also save lives and beat lawsuits. We rush this to market before it’s ready and we could end up with the greatest medical flop since thalidomide.”
“And if we don’t, it might be the greatest medical crime against humanity,” Thompson declared.
“Then maybe you should speak to some family members,” Nick said.
“What does
“At Webster Smith Rehab in Maine,” Nick explained, “an eighty-two-year-old male lies in his bed all night talking to kids at the YMCA camp he went to as boy—I mean full, coherent conversations about canoeing, rope swinging, et cetera to people who aren’t there. He had his wife bring in mosquito netting, and he’s got it draped over his bed like he’s back camping. Most of the time he doesn’t acknowledge her presence and it’s driving her crazy because Memorine has brought back a son instead of a husband.”
“He’s suffering other problems.”
“You saw what happened to Louis Martinetti out there.”
“I saw a demented patient banging himself in the head.”
“Even if there are these flashbacks,” Thompson said, “what’s the problem with patients reliving parts of their childhood every so often? It’s better than sitting in front of a television like a turnip.”
“Then maybe you should come with me.” Nick opened the door and led them down the hall to another room. “We’re still waiting for the family to claim her belongings, so the place hasn’t been changed over yet. But this is the single that Mary Curley occupied for the last year.” Nick swung open the door.
The interior was a mausoleum to little girlhood. The walls were draped with posters of kittens and puppies and cartoon decals. The bed was covered with applique floral bedspread patches in pinks and yellows, and the pillow was stacked with stuffed animals and Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. Pasted on the headboard were large floral letters in pink spelling out “Mary.” Beside the bed was a nightstand with a pink lamp whose shade had cartoon figures of bees and bluebirds and a framed black-and-white photograph of a puppy with a label “Jello.” On the bureau were ceramic figurines of ballerinas and puppies as well as a grouping of the Cowardly Lion, Tin Man, and Scarecrow. Beside the bed was a pink rocking chair whose back was a carved heart with the hand-painted inscription: “Time out to think about the things you do!” In the corner was a large plastic pumpkin structured as an armoire with shelves lined with small dolls.
“Jesus!” Moy muttered.
“She wanted to be a little girl again,” Nick said, “And in her mind she was.”
“Where did all this stuff come from?” Coleman asked.
“Family members. As she became more functional, she began to demand mementos from her childhood. But since most of them were long gone, relatives brought all this stuff, which made her want more. The problem was that she’d sit in here for hours playing.”
From a bureau drawer Nick removed a small black-and-white photo of a little girl beside a man in a suit. They were standing in front of a statue of an Indian seated bareback on a horse with arms extended. “According to relatives, the MFA was a favorite place her parents took her to as a child. She liked the mummies.”
Then Nick picked up a throw rug in the shape of a yellow puppy. On the floor were crisscross lines where tape had been applied. “Her nephew did that.”
“What is it?” Jordan asked.
“A hopscotch grid,” Moy said.
“It was,” Nick said. “And she was pretty spry for her age. You would hear her singing and trying to hop about. We peeled the tape off when she took a fall.”
Jordan looked rattled. “But if she was happy, what’s the problem?”
“If Mary was your mother and you didn’t mind her playing with dolls and doing hopscotch, that wouldn’t be a problem. But if she’s doing it all day long, you may yearn for Alzheimer’s.
“The other thing is that she’d turn violent when it was time to take her antiseizure pills because she knew what they did. But it was the little blue pill that brought back her childhood.”
Nick held up a folder with a small stack of letters from family members. “These are requests from family members to withdraw their relatives from Memorine. Mary’s daughter had threatened legal action if we refused. We complied, but not soon enough.”
“So you recommend we ask for an extension to work out these problems.”
“Yes.”
“We have a strategy meeting in June. We’ll work it out,” Moy said, and left the room. The others followed through the door. In the corridor Moy stayed back until he and Nick were alone. “You really believe they’re remembering that far back?”
“Yes. We’re rewiring areas in their hippocampus that’s sending them back.”
“How far?”
“Mary Curley’s daughter says she recalled events in the Ohio house where she was born—where they lived before the family moved east.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“Seventy-five years.”
Moy’s face appeared to shift slightly.
“She was less than three years old.”
Moy held Nick’s gaze for a moment until Nick felt something pass between them. Then Moy turned on his heel and left.
54
FIVE, SIX, SEVEN MORE DAYS PASSED, and Jack added another nine, twelve, and fourteen minutes to the time he could walk unassisted. Every day he made mincing little steps of progress.
According to the doctors, he had sustained no impairment to his thinking and reasoning skills, nor would he need speech therapy. So the rehab team focused on making him physically stronger and getting him to walk again. Thus his day was blocked out in sessions with the whirlpool, foot hydrotherapy, the rehab gym, and the physical therapist who had him keep active four or more hours a day.
His progress was considered remarkable by the staff, the result of his own determination to get back on his feet and out on his own. And they would hoot and high-five him and praise his strength of will. His recovery had pushed the envelope.
But it was more than strength of will and muscular reconditioning. Jack wanted out of Greendale. Call it bad karma or superstition or sour psychic residue. But the place was buggy with nightmares and bad flashes—so much so that he began to dread sleep for fear of being assaulted by grade-B horror flick snips. The nurses gave him different drugs that sometimes helped.
But the good news was that Vince had located a place to lease—a small Cape cottage he could have for the next nine months. And it was in Carleton, Jack’s hometown.
That was also the bad news, for it was near the old neighborhood where he and Beth had shared their home.
“HI, JACK. THIS IS DR. NICHOLAS MAVROS.”
