FLASHBACK by Gary Braver Page B

field of gold. “That’s the logo on the blazer you wore yesterday.”

    “Yes,” he said as he pulled away. “I used to have a few other models until a divorce lawyer entered the picture.”
    For a moment she imagined that he had a whole wardrobe of Ferrari outfits—blazers, polo shirts, Windbreakers, hats—probably even had rearing stallion undies. “Sorry to hear that,” she said, but found it hard to feel sympathy for a guy who was down to his last Ferrari. “I collect Honda Civics.”
    Carr turned his face toward her. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
    “I guess not.” The guy seemed devoid of humor. Or maybe he wasn’t used to teasing from underlings. Whatever—she decided that this was not going to be a long and tedious night.
    They came to a stoplight and Dr. Carr turned full-face toward her. “I think if we’re going to have a pleasant evening, it might be a good idea to clear the air.”
    “Fine,” she said, feeling as if a valve had opened up. “Then maybe you can tell me what exactly is going on in Broadview Nursing Home, since that is what this is all about.”
    Carr stared at her, no doubt offended that an inferior in the medical Great Chain of Being had spoken to him with such bluntness. “You are a feisty one, I’ll say.”
    “And I think you’re playing coy with me, Dr. Carr.”
    “Do you always say what’s on your mind?”
    “I guess I do.”
    He nodded. “Okay, fair enough, but over the wine. And it’s Jordan.”
    Silence filled the car as they headed toward the restaurant, while René kept wondering what this was all about, why Chateau Dominique and escort service by this high-powered neurologist who collected Ferraris.
    To break the tension, Jordan looked over at her. “So, how did you end up in a profession like yours? I mean, really, you’re an attractive, bright young woman, yet you chose to work with geriatrics and dementia patients.”
    The question was as familiar as the answer was boring. “I like the elderly. And I guess it’s because I’ve always had an interest in caring for those who get overlooked or scorned by society. Before pharmacy school, I worked at a homeless shelter and then at a substance-abuse clinic. That put me in touch with what it feels like to be a social outcast.”
    “And now it’s geriatric nursing home residents.”
    “Yes. There are plenty of people in the medical professions who care for babies and the middle-class Americans with health insurance.”
    “Thus you’ve chosen the underserved.”

    “That or I’m suffering some kind of psychopathology. I’m also comfortable with the elderly. I grew up in a small Maine farm town that was impoverished and that didn’t have a lot of young people. All around me were older folks—grandparents, great-aunts and great-uncles, and neighbors who were surrogate grandparents to me. The only doctors I remember were those who cared for older people. In fact, I grew up thinking that all doctors were gerontologists. Besides, somebody has to take care of them, right?”
    “That’s hardly psychopathology.”
    She was silent for a moment. “Well, there’s a personal motive, I suppose. My father died of Alzheimer’s.”
    “‘You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss, a case of do or die …’”
    “I see. So you’re trying to help others cope with the dragon.”
    “Something like that.”
    In the lights of the other cars she could sense him turn something over in his head that was making him grin slightly. “Was it bad—your father’s demise?”
    “‘No matter what the future brings …’ Dad, you’re punking out.”
    “Ever treat a good case of Alzheimer’s?”
    “I meant, in the severity of the disease.”
    “It was fast toward the end, and worse on us than him.”
    Punking out.
    “How old was he when he was diagnosed?”
    “Seventy-two.”
    “Not very old.”
    “Only seventy-two, Dad. You’re not getting senile. You’re not! You’re not. ”
    “He died seven years