“Well, we might as well make the best of it,” Jordan said, and began to spoon the casserole onto two plates. René opened a bottle of red wine, chiding herself for her earlier suspicions. They would make the best of it, have dinner, and head home, no problem.
They ate the dinner and drank some of the wine they had brought. Then they moved onto a wicker couch on the deck to take in the view. It was a perfect spring night, warm, with a gentle breeze and an opaque sky fretted with stars. To the right, a crystalline moon rose over the water, making a marbleized path all the way out to the horizon. In the distance pulsed the P-town lighthouse.
Jordan poured himself his fourth glass of wine and made a toast. “To us and continued success. And I hope we all make a ton of money.” He was beginning to slur his words.
“Yes, continued success,” René said, and clicked his glass.
“Which reminds me,” Jordan said. “Did you see the Klander Report?”
“Yes, I saw it.”
“So, what do you think?”
She really didn’t want to get into it over wine. “Well, I think it’s something of a whitewash.”
“Whitewash?”
“It dismisses flashback seizures as incidental events.”
Maybe it was the wine, but Jordan’s face darkened. “Because that was the conclusion of the CRO—that they’re simple anomalies unrelated to the drug.”
More likely, that was the conclusion of GEM Tech execs who had vigorously denied any rumors of side effects—rumors that had kept deep-pocket investors awake at night. Unrelated delusional behavior. And helping to counter such anxieties was the frenzy created by the FDA’s decision to fast-track Memorine’s development—the deluge of calls and e-mails to clinicians and trial site administrators from AD victims, their families, health care people, and government reps wanting to know when the drug would be available. (The unofficial response was, this coming Christmas.)
However, that was not the unanimous agreement among clinicians, a few of whom had made their concerns known. Even though it was still impossible to prove conclusively that Memorine caused flashbacks, the observational correlation was overwhelming. “It’s still rudimentary,” René said, “but Dr. Habib’s MRI studies were beginning to confirm a connection between flashbacks and neurological repair. I’m sure they were sent to you following his death.”
Furthermore, the MRI configurations of Jack Koryan’s flashback seizures were identical to those of AD patients during flashback seizures. The EEG readings were also similar. And Peter Habib’s independent study had confirmed the similarities. The only problem was that Jack Koryan refused to submit to any more MRI exams or tests to determine the effects of the jellyfish toxins. Understandably, he had had it with being probed. Besides, he was a “civilian” again and getting on with his life.
Jordan studied her for a moment as he selected his words. “Well, some have argued that those are exaggerated claims.” He got up and went inside to get another bottle of wine.
When he returned, he poured more wine into his glass. René still had half a glass. He took a sip. “I’m not sure what to make of Peter Habib’s findings, but let’s say there is some connection, just for the sake of argument. We’re addressing the problem with standard meds and good results, right?”
He put his hand on hers. “And, look, ask yourself this—if your father were still alive, which would you prefer: him drying up layer by layer until he’s nothing more than just the shell of himself, or him alert and reliving some good old times with old friends?”
She hated the question and deflected it. “If these people were all experiencing delightful nostalgic moments, it wouldn’t be so bad,” she said. “But many of them are being thrust into past traumas over and over again, like Louis Martinetti. He keeps reliving the torture of himself and a soldier friend back in Korea. And others get lost in equally horrible experiences from childhood. For whatever reason, these traumas overwhelm any other recollections and keep pulling them back.”
Jordan made a dismissive gesture with his wineglass.
“Jordan, these flashbacks are turning out to be worse than the disease. Worse than fading away to nothing. The stuff is making some of them prisoners of their worst experiences. And the meds we use to treat the flashbacks not only wear off but they dull them so that they’re barely functional.”
Jordan took a sip of his wine and made a smooth grin. “Whatever, once we get to Utah all the laundry will be sorted and all issues will be resolved with one mind. And if there are those who disagree—me, Nick, or anybody else—they can file separate reports with the FDA.”
Just then the telephone rang and Jordan went inside to catch the call. But that wasn’t necessary since a portable was sitting on the side table. She could hear muffled talking from inside and what sounded like Jordan chuckling. Maybe it was the wine, but Jordan never chuckled. He just made polite, smooth grins when he thought something was supposed to be funny.
A couple minutes later, he returned from the kitchen. “That was Grady. Leah is fine and sleeping comfortably. They’ll be back tomorrow for brunch.”
René felt herself tense up.
“So,” Jordan said. He lowered himself to the couch again and put his arm around her shoulder. “I’ve got a question for you, if you don’t mind,” he began. “I asked you out four times, and four times you turned me down. I’m just wondering what there is about me you don’t like. Is it my appearance? Was it something I said? Do I have bad breath? Every time I ask you say you’re busy.”
“Well, I have been. That’s the truth.”
“Well, you’re not busy now.” He lowered his face to hers, at the same time sliding his hand over her shoulder toward her breast.
“Please don’t,” she said.
“Please don’t what?”
“Don’t this.” And she removed his hand.
Jordan snapped his head back. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t feel like being pawed.”
His face was nearly the color of the wine. “Pawed? Is everything fucking protocol with you … or should I say no fucking?”
She got up to move to the chair, but he grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?” He glowered hotly at her.
“Jordan, stop this.”
“Stop what? I haven’t done anything but try to give you a damn kiss, for God’s sake.”
“You’re hurting my arm.”
“You’re hurting my arm,” he mimicked, his face making an ugly distortion as he spit out the words. His other hand jerked as she spoke, spilling wine onto his white pullover and making a large red stain. But he held his grip.
His face was maroon and eyes were glassy and wild-looking. Suddenly René felt afraid of him. She was seeing another being in Jordan that had resided below the surface. His face was the color of rage. “Jordan, please let go of me.”
He glared at her for a long moment, still holding her, scrutinizing her face, his own hot and on this side of erupting. He did not let go.
“Please let go of me,” she insisted.
But he continued to study her without expression. So with her other hand she dug her nails into his wrist and snapped her arm free. Then she shot inside.
“Fucking little bitch,” muttered Jordan, and stumbled after her. “Where you going?” he shouted, as he entered the living room.
In an instant, René decided not to go upstairs for fear of being trapped in a bedroom. So she bolted to the fireplace, grabbed a fire iron out of the rack, and raised it like a bat.
Fucking little bitch.
She had not heard him utter such language nor imagined this heat in him. Maybe he was just a bad drunk, but what crossed that thought was that her reaction was confirming the menace she saw in him. And that maybe it was all he needed to assume the role.