Marcy glanced at the others who looked like wax images of themselves hanging over the bed.
A groan rose from Jack’s throat. “Whatsa date?” he repeated.
Dr. Preston shot a hard look to Marcy, then nodded. He was deferring to her and her baseline policy. To stall him until Beth and Vince arrived would not work. It could even cause him trauma. “Jack,” Marcy finally said, “you had an accident swimming and you’ve been in a coma. You’ve been asleep. Do you understand me?”
And in slow deliberate breath he asked, “How … long?”
“Jack, can you tell me where you live? What town you live in.”
“How long?”
To deflect the question would only make him more agitated. But to tell him the truth could be worse. God, let me do the right thing, Marcy prayed. “Six months.”
Jack looked at her blankly as he processed her words.
“You had a swimming accident off a beach on Homer’s Island—know where that is?”
Jack nodded.
“Good. Well, you blacked out in the water.” And she told him how he was brought from a hospital on Cape Cod to MGH to here. She narrated the details slowly and deliberately for him to absorb, repeating herself, asking him if he was following her, trying not to get him too upset or excited. She left out the jellyfish. There was no point adding to the shock. When she finished, he looked down at his left hand. For a moment Marcy thought he was trying to make sense of the IV connection. But he was inspecting his fingers.
“Beth?”
“Beth is on her way in. We just called her. Now, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to wiggle your toes.”
“Beth.” He repeated her name again as if testing his memory.
“Yes, we just talked to her, and she’s coming in to see you.”
“Still my wife?”
“Now, Jack, I want you to wiggle your toes for me, okay?”
“Still my wife?”
Marcy knew what he was asking. “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said, and shook her head. Gently she gently stroked his hand. Two months ago Beth moved to McAllen, Texas, to remarry.
Jack closed his eyes, and in a matter of moments his eyeballs began to flutter.
“Jack!” She had to keep him talking. “Jack.” Suddenly his face appeared to reshape itself. The skin across his forehead smoothed out, blanking the frown and scowl lines at the corners of his eyes; his lips began to move as if he were having a private conversation within. Then he made a sweet smile. And before they knew it his mouth opened.
“He’s saying something.”
Marcy lowered her ear to his mouth. “I think he’s singing.”
And in fluttery breaths she heard: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.”
But what sent a bolt of recognition through her was Jack’s voice: He was singing in the high, thin, honeyed pitch of a woman.
The next moment Jack let out a raspy sigh and sank into sleep, leaving the others wondering what the hell had just passed through their patient.
38
THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES took René’s hand. “Great job. We’re very proud of you, all of you,” he said. “You’re making medical history.”
“Thank you,” said René, still trying to process whose grip she had just been in.
The president made his way down the line of nurses and other staffers of Broadview Nursing Home, being led by Carter Lutz and an entourage of VIPs, including Gavin Moy and other GEM Tech execs, officers from the Alzheimer’s Association and other health care organizations. Also with them were Nick Mavros, Jordan Carr, and several other clinical physicians as well as security guards.
The president entered the dayroom and chatted with residents who sat in their chairs and had their photos taken. Some recognized him from television and were delighted. Other patients—those not receiving Memorine—were not sure who he was. One of the women announced that she saw Dwight Eisenhower once. The president complimented her on her memory.
As the president approached him, Louis Martinetti rose to attention with a crisp salute. He was dressed in his uniform, now two sizes too small for him. Several people chuckled, although René felt a pang of embarrassment for Louis. He did not seem to be playacting but stood there in stern pride with his Purple Heart, Combat Infantryman Badge, parachutist badge, and other medals and looked straight ahead as the president stopped before him, saluted back, then walked on by, smiling and nodding.
Carter Lutz called attention to the gathering and thanked the president for visiting them. He praised the president for his track record of advocating for the elderly and supporting legislation aimed at early detection of Alzheimer’s disease. Lutz also thanked him for keeping his campaign pledge and embracing “the Memorine Solution.”
The president thanked Dr. Lutz and everybody associated with the Memorine study. “One doesn’t have to look beyond this room to see miracles in action. I congratulate all of you and the good people at the other clinical sites and the researchers and scientists who have made this possible. Memorine represents a sea change in the treatment of Alzheimer’s disease. I wish you continued success in bringing hope to AD victims and their caregivers everywhere.”
A joyous applause filled the room.
The president was right, of course. The AD unit at Broadview was a changed place. In the months since René first entered the ward, the decibel level of the chatter had multiplied. And not just the white noise mumbling and gibberish “word salads,” but talk—purposeful, coherent talk. Patients communicating with staffers, other patients, visitors, themselves. Likewise, the collective kinetic energy level had risen. A year ago, a time-lapse video of the ward would pass for a still life, with an occasional nurse or aide scurrying across the camera or a few patients shuffling by on foot or walker across the dayroom set. Today the ward could easily be mistaken for an active senior citizens center. Patients who months ago would sit and gape at nothing for hours on end were now mingling with others or following aides around asking if they could help.
The president concluded, “I need not remind you that a cure for Alzheimer’s disease would save over fifty billion dollars of American taxpayer money in health care.”
More applause.
Of course, the president’s endorsement was also a public relations bonanza for GEM Tech, whose stock value was soaring as the public anticipated the drug being brought to market soon. And everybody knew that, including Jordan Carr, who was beaming brightly at René from the other side of the room.
When the place settled down, Nick addressed the group, thanking the president for his support. “We are seeing extraordinary progress. And the evidence is in this room, as you have seen, Mr. President. But more work needs to be done, and that’s what we’re doing in collaboration with researchers at GEM Tech.”
Some of the nurses and aides nodded in agreement. Jordan Carr, who was standing with the GEM Tech VIPs, shot a glance to Gavin Moy and the other suits, then turned toward Nick, where all lines of attention converged.
In guarded language, Nick praised the progress of the trials, then added a subtle warning: “But I must caution that the road to success is long and winding and fraught with unexpected turns, although I am very confident that as we continue to make our way, one measure at a time, we will succeed.”
More applause.
The president and entourage left the room, and Louis snapped to attention with a salute.
BEHIND NICK’S CAUTIOUS WORDING WERE THINGS that the president did not see: the growing number of recovering patients lapsing into regressive flashbacks. The weird infantilizing of their personalities. The sudden morphing into some past self that talked to people who weren’t there while not recognizing those who were. The sometimes frightening lapses into traumatic flashbacks when the only recourse was to dope patients down until they had no more affect than when lost in the fog of dementia.