Buffalo Jump (11 page)

“Dispensary?” I asked.

“An on-site pharmacy where medications are kept and distributed. And on the right is where people who are still functioning and ambulatory reside. They don’t need the same level of care and monitoring as someone like your mother would. Why don’t we visit the common areas first,” Stockwell suggested. “Lunch is over but you can see the sort of activities and interaction that take place on a typical day.”

We went through the door into a hallway that led to a large sunny room whose windows faced out onto the grounds. There were forty or fifty residents in the room, along with a dozen or so attendants, all black or Filipina. “There is at least one registered nurse on duty at all times,” Stockwell said, “along with nurse’s aides and caregivers.”

About half of the residents in the room were involved in some kind of activity: playing cards, backgammon, chess or checkers, chatting in groups or watching television in a semicircle of wheelchairs and club chairs. The others were lost in their own worlds: nodding off, staring into space, moving wet lips silently as if in prayer, picking invisible things off their skin and clothes, their frail bodies bent at near impossible angles in wheelchairs and hospital beds.

“If you look at the schedule on the wall there, you’ll see we have interesting and uplifting activities virtually every day,” Stockwell went on. “This afternoon, for example, we have a singalong with the choir director from a local church and you wouldn’t believe how she gets them singing. We have art classes, movies, bingo. Always something going on.”

I looked at one birdlike old girl twisted in a wheelchair. Her fine white hair floated up off her mottled scalp and was
held by static to the headrest of her wheelchair. Her cloudy gaze wasn’t focused on anything I could see.

Not everyone had something going on.

Stockwell moved us through the dining room, where she sang the praises of the staff dietitian and low-sodium, low-everything-else menu, then took us along a hallway that led to the residential wards.

“What’s through there?” I asked as we passed a pebbled glass door marked Private.

“The staff offices and lounge.”

Stockwell used a pass card to open the door to the locked ward. Most of the residents were in the dining room or day room, so she let us peer into rooms whose doors were open. There were both private and semi-private rooms, all with washrooms equipped with safety bars, non-slip surfaces and cords that could be yanked to summon help. Each room had different furniture, some of it quite old.

“Residents can bring their own furniture if it fits,” Stockwell explained. “They’re often comforted by familiar things. It can be the difference between feeling like they’re in an institution or at home.”

“That’s good to know,” I said. “Mom is very attached to her things.”

“As Ms. Tunney probably explained, the government sets the basic accommodation rate on July 1 of every year,” Stockwell said. “That’s this coming Saturday, of course, and the rates will undoubtedly be going up, but since you came in today I’ll guarantee you this year’s rates even if you sign next week.”

“That’s very kind.”

“The basic rate would put your mother into a semi-private room. Many families prefer to upgrade their parents to private—it’s more restful that way. There is of course a premium for that but we can go over the fee schedule at the end of your visit.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Dad left Mom well cared for when he passed.” Our financial status thus assured, I cut closer to the chase. “Would Mom’s physician have privileges here?”

“Yes, if need be. But we are fortunate to have an extremely dedicated and capable medical director, Dr. Paul Bader, who works out of this very facility. Very well known in his field. Most families find it more convenient to have him supervise their loved one’s care because he can keep better track of their condition and respond more quickly to any emergency.”

There it was. The first push toward Bader.

“How long has he been with you?” I asked Stockwell.

“About two years.”

“He moves around a lot.”

“I’m sorry?” Her gaze sharpened a little.

“I looked at his biography on your website and he seems to have worked in a lot of different places. Should we be concerned?”

“On the contrary. I think it’s a credit to his abilities that so many institutions have wanted him on staff,” she said.

“Is he here today? Can we meet him?”

“I’ll have to check his office.”

“Please do.”

Stockwell looked us both over, worked up a passable smile and walked to a nursing station at the far end of the corridor to make the call.

“Whatever they’re up to, she’s in on it,” Jenn said.

“Right up to her chignon. Listen, when we meet Bader, let’s see if we can find where they keep the medication records. If the opportunity arises, say you need the washroom and scope it out.”

“Looking for what?”

“How much they keep on hand, for one thing. And how secure it is.”

“Let’s see if Blondie lets me off the leash.”

Heels clicked loudly as Alice Stockwell came back. “You’re in luck. Dr. Bader is in his office. He’ll see you now.”

We exited the ward and headed back to the common area, where Stockwell carded us through the door that led to the staff offices. Bader stood waiting outside his office: short and pear-shaped, with brown eyes, a full beard and curly brown hair. The effect was that of a warm and fuzzy bear, the kind who might break out in a Russian circus dance.

Introductions were made and we were invited to sit opposite Bader’s cluttered desk, while Stockwell stood in back of us like a proctor overseeing an exam. Cabinets and shelves on the wall behind Bader were stacked with industry samples of medications.

“Alice tells me you have concerns about medical care at our facilities.”

“Not concerns as much as questions,” I said. “There are so many things we’re working through right now. Mom’s legal affairs, her investments, closing up her apartment … we’re just a little overwhelmed.” Jenn put her reassuring hand on my shoulder again. It was something I could get used to.

“Rest assured we’ll do everything we can to make this part easier,” the fuzzy doctor said. He was so sincere I wanted to climb over his desk for a hug. “Our standards of care meet or exceed those laid out by the province. We have policies in place to prevent patients from going missing, from experiencing extreme hot or cold temperatures, from choking, from being abused by other patients or staff. We train all staff in CPR and first aid, including the security guards. We have nurses available around the clock and I am on call when not actually on the premises.”

“That’s good to know.”

“What about medications?” Jenn asked. “My mother-in-law takes quite a few and she can’t keep track anymore.”

“Once again, everything is done according to strict government guidelines. And of course we’re a proud member in good standing of the Residential Care Association.” Bader showed us a four-page form with a lot of shaded boxes and multiple-choice questions. “We do a complete assessment of my own design when the client is admitted and I personally sign any orders for medications.”

“What if Mom’s doctor wants to review what she’s taking, make sure nothing is contraindicated? Are there records you can fax him? Or that he can come and see?”

Bader looked past me—at Stockwell, I assumed—then established eye contact again. “Absolutely. The records are available if we need them.”

“Here on site?”

“Yes. Though as Alice may have mentioned, I’d be happy to serve as your mother’s physician. If that made things easier for you.”

“But you don’t know Mom’s history like her doctor does.”

“It’s her current reality that matters, not her history. I would see her virtually every day. I could monitor her condition and adjust her medications with greater subtlety and precision than someone who sees her twice a year.”

“I guess that makes sense.” I looked at Jenn. “Doesn’t it, hon?”

“It does. It really does.”

“Though I’d reserve the right to keep Mom’s doctor involved if the change seemed overwhelming. If she needed … I don’t know, continuity?”

“I suppose so.”

“Terrific,” I said. “I feel much better.”

Jenn swivelled in her chair to face Alice Stockwell. “Is there a bathroom nearby?”

Stockwell pointed to a door down the hall. “It’s a staff room so I’ll have to swipe you in.”

“Thank you,” Jenn said, and the two of them left.

“About your mother’s stroke,” Dr. Bader said, his pen poised over the assessment form. “Was it diagnosed as ischemic or hemorrhagic?”

A little warning bell tinkled in the back of my mind. I hadn’t done a lick of research on strokes, which I normally would have done in prepping a story. But it wasn’t my case and Franny had given me no time. “You know,” I said, “we don’t have to do this part now. We’ve taken enough of your time. Linda and I should get back downtown. I’ll get the details from her physician and call you.”

“Why don’t you give me his number. I can call him directly.”

“I don’t have it on me.”

Bader’s phone burred softly. He picked it up and spun around in his studded leather chair. He listened briefly, spoke even more briefly and hung up. He pushed off with his feet and spun slowly back to me. “Where was your mother admitted after her stroke?”

“Beth Israel.”

“What day, please?”

He had me and he knew it. “It was night.”

“All right then. What night?”

“It’s all a blur. Listen, thanks again,” I said. “I’m just going to wait for Linda in the hall.”

When I got to the doorway, it was filled by Big John from the front desk. He clamped his hand hard around my left arm. I looked down the hall where Jenn had gone and saw no one.

“Sir?” John said. “Why don’t you come with me back to the lobby.”

“Where’s my wife?”

“Ms. Stockwell will bring her along when she’s done in the little girls’ room.”

Getting tossed out of the place didn’t worry me as long as they tossed Jenn too, so I went along. But as we entered the
lobby area, I saw two men getting out of an SUV outside the main entrance. One was the round-faced melonhead who’d been smoking outside when we arrived. The other was a tall concave guy in a mournful black suit. The Melonhead walked briskly toward the main entrance while the Suit took a paved walkway toward the rear. This did not bode well for me or Jenn. Time to loosen Big John’s grip. I kicked back with my heel and caught him sharply on the knee. He gasped and let go of my arm. I drove my elbow back into his nose and felt cartilage give. I turned, grabbed his hair, pulled his head down and hit him again in the same spot with my knee. He dropped to the floor, moaning, gurgling and spitting blood.

The Melonhead was steps from the front door. I ran behind John’s desk and scanned the monitors. Most showed empty entrances and exit doors. The day room. The dining room. Corridors in the residential area. The corridor outside Bader’s office. A rear exit. There! Alice Stockwell was trying to push Jenn out the door from the inside; the Suit was trying to pull her out. Jenn was braced in the doorway, kicking any part of him that came close.

I grabbed the swipe card off John’s belt as the Melonhead strode into the lobby. His eyes took in John’s legs lying across the floor. I bolted out from behind the console and swiped myself back into the hall that led to Bader’ office, pulling it shut behind me. I ran down the hall, hoping I was going the right way, looking left and right for a weapon of some kind. Around a corner I saw a woman in a pale blue uniform loading metal bedpans from a closet onto a wheeled cart. I grabbed one of the bedpans as I ran past her.

Jonah Geller: armed and ridiculous.

As I neared the end of the corridor, I could hear shoes scuffing against a tile floor. I peered around the corner to my left. Stockwell and the Suit had made no progress getting Jenn outside. The three of them were grappling in the hall.
Stockwell’s chignon was coming apart and the Suit had a fresh welt on the bridge of his nose. When the Suit heard me coming, he squared himself to face me and reached into his jacket. Stockwell, suddenly without her tag-team partner, bolted out the open door onto the lawn with Jenn in hot pursuit. I whipped the bedpan at the Suit like a discus as he yanked a small automatic from his waistband. It caught him flush on the crown, where any cut bleeds like an oil find. Blood squirted straight up in the air and down into his eyes. I moved in and twisted the pistol out of his hand, then drove my knee into his solar plexus. He gasped and fell over in a fetal position. I ejected the magazine and pocketed it, ejected the round that was in the chamber and pocketed that too, wiped the pistol with my shirttail and dropped it in a wastebasket across the hall.

Out on the lawn was a sight to see. Jenn had Stockwell face down on the ground, rubbing her face in the sod. The cream silk suit was taking on a grassy hue. Stockwell was trying to push herself up off the ground but I didn’t like her chances, not against my Estonian wonder girl.

No matter how much dirt Stockwell deserved to eat, it was time to go. The Suit and Big John were out of it but the Melonhead was still on the grounds somewhere. I pulled Jenn off Stockwell and we ran to the parking lot. We got into the car and peeled out just as the Melonhead came barrelling out of a side entrance, setting off an insistent alarm. I couldn’t tell whether there was a gun in his hand but I assumed there was and shouted to Jenn to keep her head down.

We got out of there without a single shot being fired.

A
fter dropping Jenn at the office, I drove home to shower and change out of my bloody clothes. Then I headed out to the Med-E-Mart to see Jay Silver in his work habitat. I took Broadview north until it became O’Connor, then crossed the Don Valley on the Leaside Bridge. I had the windows down and Uncle Tupelo blasting through its live version of “We’ve Been Had” when my cellphone rang. I looked at the caller ID, lowered the sound, raised the windows and mustered my chipperest voice. “Hi, Ma.”

“Everything okay, dear?”