Flashback

by Gary Braver

Once more just to dream in the moonlight …

  But he wasn’t naked anymore, or chilled. Instead he was dressed in pants and the striped sweater that Edna had given him for his seventieth birthday a few years ago. Before he passed into the kitchen, he stopped in the living room and removed from the bookshelves the red leather-bound book, its pages now flaky with age. Father Cardarelli’s signature still looked fresh.

  “Uncle Rod, is that you down there?” Edna asked.

  Edna.

  He said nothing as he made his way to the cellar door.

  “I’m in the bathroom. I’ll be right down. Don’t forget to take your medicine. The white pills.”

  Rodney opened the cellar door He could hear the familiar creaking of the stairs as he made his way down.

  He moved to the workbench with the tools neatly lined up on the pegboard, the wrenches ranging from tiny to large plumber items, the same with the screwdrivers and pliers and coping saws. Even the knives—from small carving blades to a steel hunting knife that Nora gave him for Christmas a long time ago. Nora whom they disowned and who took her own life before she turned twenty.

  Nora, mother of his daughter, Edna. Secret Edna. Edna who was born far away and whose father nobody knew. Nobody except Rodney.

  “Uncle Rod,” Edna called from upstairs. “You fell asleep in the backyard. Did the radio wake you? You looked so cute on the blanket beside the tent.”

  He laid the missal on the bench. Forgive me, dear God. He undid his belt.

  “I’ll get your pills.”

  He pulled his pants down.

  “But tonight you belong to me. Just to little ol’ me …”

  “The white ones.”

  He removed himself.

  Upstairs water ran from the kitchen faucet into a glass.

  Rodney removed his old hunting knife, still shiny and razor-honed the way he left it the other day.

  “You were talking to yourself out there.” Footsteps crossed the kitchen floor to the cellar door at the head of the stairs.

  “I know with the dawn that you will be gone …”

  Rodney gripped himself tightly.

  “But tonight you belong to me … Just to little ol’ me!”

  And with his right hand he slashed.

  50

  JACK WAS IN HIS WHEELCHAIR IN the picnic area listening to Stevie Ray Vaughn on his MP3 when the woman named René Ballard approached him from across the patio.

  She was young—in her twenties—very attractive and with a clean, varnished look. She was not in a nurse’s smock or an aide’s green uniform but a beige pants suit and white shirt. She walked toward him with graceful purpose, promising to be better company than Joe McNamara, who had to be taken inside a few minutes ago because he had some kind of spell.

  She also looked vaguely familiar—like a face from beneath layers of film.

  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 René 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 good?”

  “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.”

  Me, either.

  “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.”

  Flashbacks. She’d given it a name. And Jack felt his pulse rate spasm. Yes, he thought. “No,” he said.

  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 away, because she settled back in her chair and studied him. Then after a moment she said, “May I ask, then, why you want something to let you sleep without dreams?”

  “That’s not the same thing, is it?”

  “Neurologically the activity is coincident.”

  If you tell her yes, she’ll poke you with questions until you’re a damn dartboard—which means they’ll never let you out; in fact, they’ll make you some kind of adjunct study for that drug they’re pushing. “What can I tell you? No flashbacks.”

  Nice mouse. Big mouse.

  Die, goddamn it.

  Her eyes hardened. She didn’t believe him. “I see, then it’s just a coincidence—the images and the fact that on several occasions you called for your mother, actually sounded as if you were having a conversation with her.”

  “My mother?”

  “One of the nurses caught it on tape.”

  The initial hospitality lost its warmth. Nice ploy: Send in a clever female with sunny good looks and knockdown charm to coo him into submission, and you got yourself that grant and a fat bonus.

  But right behind that thought another muscled it’s way up: Sour. You’re a damn self-pitying sour old man before your time. Which is why you belong in this geriatric terrarium.

  “You mean you’ve never talked in your sleep before? Talked to a dead relative or friend?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  He could hear the caution in her voice. “Given all the medication they were pumping into me, I’m surprised I wasn’t chatting with Cleopatra.”

  “That may be true, but what made these episodes different was your voice. You sounded like a child, which suggests that you were reliving some deep-past experience. So I’m wondering if you’re aware of these flashbacks—if you’ve had them while awake, if you can tell us what you’re experiencing when they occur.”

  She held him with those big eyes—beseeched him to tell her what they both knew was the truth: That he had flashbacks, that he talked to dead people, that he had been to places he hadn’t thought of in years, relived moment-to-moment interludes that he didn’t want to return from—splendid little kid-fun vignettes. Also the dark other stuff that came back to him in quickfire snaps that left him quaking in horror.

  “What we’d like is to determine the kinds of activity your brain undergoes during certain conditions of recall. In other words, conduct some functional MRI tests.” She went on to explain.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Ms. Ballard.”

  Her body slumped as she made a polite nod of resignation. “Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She stood up, holding her leather-bound clipboard and all her questions to her chest. “I’ll talk with Dr. Heller about adjusting your medications to help you sleep better.”

  And while you’re at it, he thought, maybe you and your neuro pals could climb into my head and tell me what the hell is squatting in the closet—what that friggin’ ooga-booga thing is staked out in the shadows and watching through the slit. The thing with the big sharp head. That’s what I’d really appreciate. Something from that script pad of yours that would nail shut that damn door.

  “Thank you.”

  She opened her shoulder bag and pulled out a business card and laid it on the table. “Should there be any changes,” she said, and thanked him.

  He watched her leave, cutting a rippling wake across the ether of the patio—admiring and hating her pert little gabardined bottom and long legs and bobbing chestnut hair as she made her way into the building and through the lot for her cute little BMW to drive to her cute little condo where later in the day she’d crack open a cute little pinot noir with her cute little geek stud …

  To hell with you, René Ballard.

  To hell with you, Beth King.

  Suddenly he felt like crying.

  To hell with you, Jack Koryan.

  Shit! He closed his eyes and wished they’d fuse shut.

  51

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “MR. REYNOLDS, YOU PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK on or I’m going to tell my daddy!”

  The little elderly woman shook her finger at the large naked man with his arms spread.

  A few feet away, two college women who were admiring the bronze sculpture near the entrance of the Museum of Fine Arts turned around. The black woman in the Northeastern University baseball cap looked at her white companion and started to snicker.

  But the elderly woman with the flowered dress and large shopping bag was not joking. She snapped her head at the young black woman and squinted. Then her expression opened up. “There you are, Lucy Goosey! Where’s my Jello?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You were supposed to be watching him and not running off to Patty’s house.” Her mouth began to tremble. “Now he’s missing.”

  “Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Mary gave the black woman a sharp look and stamped her foot. She then turned to the young white woman. “My mother’s going to wring her neck when she finds out. She wasn’t supposed to let him out without the leash. Now he’s lost, and it’s going to be dark
soon.”

  The black woman studied the little elderly woman in the blue flowered housedress and floppy canvas hat. Her legs looked swollen, like bologna rounds pressed into dirty white walking shoes. “I’m sorry, lady, but I think you’re confused.”

  “I know what you said to Barbara Chin. Miss DuPont told me. I don’t care if I don’t go to your party.” And she stuck out her tongue.

  “What party?” the white woman asked. “What’s she talking about?”

  The old lady snapped her face toward her then dropped her eyes to the small granite pedestal with the bronze plaque: “Appeal to the Great Spirit, Cyrus Edwin Dallin, 1909.”

  “What are you talking about? That’s not Jello. That’s the Murphy’s dog, Boris. Jello’s yellow and nice—not like him.” And she kicked at the stone.

  “Oh, boy!” the white woman said. Then to her friend she whispered, “She’s got a medical bracelet.”

  Mary looked up at the black woman again. “You’re always doing ten things at once.” Then she snapped her head up at the statue. “What’s Mr. Reynolds doing here? It’s not his backyard. And I wish he’d put his clothes on.”

  The black woman made a move to read the bracelet, but the elderly woman snapped her hand away and squinted at the band as if it were a watch. “It’s almost five o’clock. My daddy’s going to be home soon, and when he does he’s going to call your parents for this.” Then her voice broke. “He’s still a little puppy,” she said, looking nowhere. “Mommy and Daddy gave him to me for my birthday.”

  The black woman made big eyes at her classmate to say the woman was totally delusional. “I’m sure you’ll find Jello. But can you tell us your name?”

  A passing trolley train squealed against the tracks, and the elderly woman squinted toward the street. “Lady, can you tell us your name?” the white girl asked, a little louder.

  But the old woman paid no attention. Her eyes were transfixed on the MBTA train on the far track moving down Huntington toward the Northeastern stop.

  “Ma’am, can you tell me where you live?”

  “Seventh.”