Medicine Cup (2 page)

Then they drained the life from Colleen Brady.

May 3, 2000

P
hillip Baxter looked over the employment applications, scrutinizing each one carefully. He was extremely circumspect when it came to hiring new nurses. He had to be. His was a unique institution, the only one of its kind. The only nursing home where patients
actually got better
instead of worse. That was due, in large part, to the selection of nurses he hired. They had to fit his exact criteria. A rap on his door interrupted Baxter’s thoughts.

“Dr. Baxter, Paul Grant, the new nurse is here”

“Thank you, Margaret, send him in.”

“Right away.”

Margaret Melvin came back to the reception area and smiled at the tall blond man. He certainly was a fine specimen, she thought. With his mop of blond hair, Paul looked like a young version of TV actor John Schneider. The combination of good looks and good-humored charm would make him an object of desire in his female dominated profession, Margaret imagined.
Too bad I’m old enough to be his... oh forget it!

“Mr. Baxter will see you now, Mr. Grant.”

*   *   *

A moment later, a light tap sounded on Baxter’s door.

“Mr. Grant, come right in. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Baxter stood and extended his hand.

Paul Grant was surprised when he saw Phillip Baxter. He expected a fat bald man, the typical administrator who rarely came out from behind his desk. In his experience, those types ran most nursing homes.

Baxter, however, possessed a full head of jet-black hair and had the body of a marathon runner. His tan face didn’t own a line. And he had a grip like a bear. He wore blue slacks, a white Polo shirt and casual loafers.

“Paul, I like to be very informal here with job interviews. No need to be nervous.”

Paul smiled. “I’m glad you told me that, I tend to be a bit jumpy when it comes to these kinds of things.”

“I understand,” Baxter said, sitting back down in his chair. “Tell me a little about yourself.”

Paul stiffened a little.
This is it.
He had to sell himself to this guy.

“I’m originally from Montana, but for the past ten years, I’ve been a travel nurse for several agencies. I’m single, no family to speak of... Dr. Baxter, I hope I’m not rambling here?”

“No, Paul, you’re doing fine.” Baxter sat forward. “You say you don’t have any family?”

“Yes. Both my parents are deceased. I’m an only child. I do have a couple of aunts and uncles I’ve never met. I doubt they even know I exist.”

“I see,” Baxter said. “Well, what brings you to this part of the country? This is a far cry from Montana.”

“I love New England. I did some travel nursing here seven or eight years ago and fell in love with the place. When I saw your ad in the nursing magazine, it caught my attention and, well... here I am.”

They talked for another half hour until Baxter finally leaned back in his chair and smiled.

“Paul, I must say, your resume speaks for itself. And all your references were glowing. I think it’s safe to say we’ll be quite happy with you. The position is yours.”

“Great! When do I start?”

“Margaret, the lady who let you in, handles all the employee arrangements. You can see her and she’ll show you where your living quarters are. I’m sure you’ll find it to your liking. We take special care of our employees here.”

“Sounds fantastic.”

Baxter stood and shook Paul’s hand. “Paul, thank you. Now go see Margaret. She’ll fix you up. She will also give you your schedule. Now, you’ll have to excuse me, I have some meetings to attend.”

Paul was elated. He had actually secured himself a position at Harbor View. He had thought about it and thought about it for months. In preparation, he had taken jobs at the nursing agency that normally he wouldn’t have taken, and used them in his resume to further add to his legitimacy. And though he had his own agenda, Paul had to admit, the facility itself was the most magnificent he’d ever seen. It looked more like a cruise ship than a nursing home. Even the bathrooms were decorated with expensive artwork and antiques that dated back to the eighteenth century.

More impressive yet, the residents he had seen so far all looked extremely healthy.

Why would they even need a nurse?

Maybe this
was
the assisted living area? Surely, they must have some infirm patients somewhere.

Baxter had confided in Paul that no one in the facility was on any medication.

That was truly incredible.

Unbelievable actually!

A
fter Paul left, Baxter mashed the intercom button to call his secretary, Margaret Melvin. She picked up immediately.

”Yes, sir?”

“Margaret. Give Paul the usual nurses’ quarters, and show him around the authorized areas. He’s going to work out perfectly.”

“I understand.”

Baxter turned off his intercom and leaned back in his chair. What a great choice he’d made when he had selected Margaret as his personal secretary so many years ago. She was so dependable.

She had been at death’s door when he brought her to Harbor View and gave her “the treatment.” She was a three-pack-a-day smoker with a gravely voice and the skin of a reptile. Her lungs were useless sacs that did little more than accumulate thick, black mucus that kept her coughing twenty-four hours a day. Her only companion was a 40-liter oxygen canister that sat beside her bed while she waited for the inevitable.

Once, Margaret was a Vermont socialite, married to one of the richest men in the state. He was a railroad executive who, ironically, was run over by one of his own trains. Margaret received a huge settlement and invested it wisely, managing to add even more wealth to her already sizable bank account. Unfortunately, her considerable assets did little to curb her insatiable lust for cigarettes. She once said she would rather hold a cigarette than a man.

She contacted Harbor View in 1956, when her doctor recommended she go there to live out her last few months. The tobacco had done its work and she needed round-the-clock care just to breathe.

Then she came to the attention of Baxter. Or rather, her money did. Under his direction, she managed to recover all of her lung capacity, as well as her youthful appearance. Six months after she came to Harbor View, Margaret Melvin looked like a healthy forty-year-old woman. Trouble was, she was a sixty-seven-year-old woman with incurable emphysema. Her doctor would have questions. Baxter had thought of that.

Now, fifty years later, Margaret Melvin, like the others, repaid Baxter with undying loyalty.

Literally undying.

W
hile Margaret Melvin walked Paul toward his living quarters, he couldn’t help noticing the collection of old photographs on the corridor walls. One picture in particular caught his attention and he paused to examine it. It was an old black and white photo, yellowed over from age. A man in a fedora stood beside a small barge. Beside him were several natives who weren’t any taller than a small child. Bones decorated their noses and they held spears. Behind them was a dense jungle bordered by a river.

Margaret, noticing Paul was no longer trailing her, backed up a few steps. She called out to him, “Paul.”

“I’m sorry. I noticed this picture. Is this a relative of Dr. Baxter? It looks just like him.”

Margaret nodded. “Oh yes. That was his father, Charles. He was quite the adventurer. They took that picture in the Amazon in 1933.”

“What’s with the pygmies?”

“He was there to study them.”

“What ever happened to him?”

Margaret heaved a sigh. “Unfortunately, there was an accident, and he was killed. Young Phillip never knew his father. This is one of the only pictures left of him.”

“That’s a shame. I know what its like to lose a parent. Both of mine were killed in a plane crash some years back. It’s hard.”

An awkward silence hung in the air.

“I’m sorry,” Margaret finally said.

“It’s okay. I’ve accepted it long ago. Gives me more empathy as a nurse.”

As they continued down the hall, several residents passed them. Paul was amazed. Everybody looked so healthy. Voices echoed from a large room with a fully stocked bar where what looked like a cocktail party was in progress. Paul couldn’t believe his eyes.
This was more like a country club than a nursing home.

“Here we are,” Margaret said. She corralled a ring of keys from her jacket and opened the door.

“Here we go. You’re home away from home.”

Paul was impressed. A large living area complete with a spacious kitchen and dining area that opened to a large balcony overlooking the harbor. “It’s great,” Paul said.

“Yes, I think you’ll be very happy here. Feel free to look around. Just don’t get lost. Harbor View is a
big
place. Remember to turn right when you leave your room.”

“Why right?’

Margaret’s voice turned to ice. “The other way is the North Hall. The North Hall is off limits.”

W
ith his curiosity growing by the minute, Paul found it impossible to sleep. He sat up in bed and flipped on the nightlight. The conversation he’d had with Margaret Melvin had left him unsettled. Gracious and polite initially, when asked about the North Hall she suddenly seemed like she had been injected with refrigerant. Her eyes went cold and her voice was like stone.

Stay away from the north hall.

He had only asked out of professional curiosity. After all, if he was going to be working there, he had a right to know where things were located in case of an emergency.

Margaret explained that it was just a storage area that was off-limits to employees. An explanation Paul found peculiar at the very least. Sensing Margaret’s agitation, Paul had dropped the subject.

Now though, sitting in his bed, he had the distinct feeling her posture was more than just defensive. He decided to go for a walk and check it out. The North Hall was just a short way from his room, down two adjacent halls. The chances of anyone seeing him were slim. When he stepped out the door, he was surprised to see lights on, across the parking lot in the main building. It was long past time for the residents to be asleep. He could see shadowy figures moving about in the windows.

They sure keep late hours
.

Of course, as with everything else he’d learned about Harbor View so far, nothing was
normal
here. At least, not in the sense of the typical nursing or retirement home.

Making his way down the long corridor toward the North Hall, it became more obvious just how old the building was. The deeper he went, the less modern it became. The remodeling attempts had stopped short of the hall he was in. Antiquated water pipes and electrical conduit were visible in the ceiling above him. A mechanical thump startled Paul and his Adam’s apple lodged in his throat for a second.

A minute later, he regained his composure and continued on. He thought about all the people who had lived and died there and how primitive medicine must have been back then. He felt goose flesh pop up on his arms and he tried to redirect his thought to more pleasant things. He should be ecstatic. New England had always held a fascination for him.

All those tales of witches and the supernatural.

Something about it all, though, left him feeling uneasy.

The North Hall was just ahead and he took a quick glance to make sure no one was there. He knew the doors to the rooms would be locked, so he had brought one of his credit cards to jimmy the lock. Pulling it from his pocket, he took one last look around and slipped the card between the door jam and lock. The door popped open easily and he pushed it the rest of the way open and took a few cautious steps inside.

The first thing to assault him was the dust. It wafted through the air and choked him before he could cover his mouth. It was obvious no one had been in there in years. Cobwebs were strung from wall to wall and Paul heard squeaking on the other side of the room.
Mice? Rats?

He ran his hand along the wall and found the light switch. He flipped it on.

Nothing.

The light from the hall didn’t provide enough brightness to see much more than the outline of the room. It was piled high with antique furniture and old boxes. An image flooded his mind of being in his grandmother’s attic as a child. Then something in the center of the room caught his attention. It was an old steamer trunk. The kind people used to take on ships at the turn of the century. The light from the hall just barely reflected off the center of it, and Paul could see a large brass plate attached to the lid of it.

It was emblazoned with the initials C.A.B.

Paul thought for a moment, then it dawned on him. If he was right, those were the initials of Charles A. Baxter.

Disappointed that the light was not better, Paul vowed to come back with a flashlight. But not tonight. Tomorrow was going to be a big day and he needed to get some sleep. His first day on the job. But tomorrow night, he
would
come back.

He had the uneasy feeling Margaret had something to hide.

J
ennie Bradford turned off Interstate 70 at the Burlington exit and slowed her Volkswagen Beetle as she wound her way down the ramp. Now that she was almost there, a sense of excitement came over her. She had tied up all her loose ends at home, and was now headed to her first assignment as a Nursing Home Inspector for the State of Vermont. Although the job entailed a lot of travel, it was worth every mile. She was an advocate for the aged and infirm, and now she finally had the opportunity to make a difference. She’d heard the horror stories about bad nursing homes and experienced it herself when her grandmother was living in one back in Iowa. Jennie recalled her visits with her Nana; the awful odors of urine and feces that permeated the halls of the building, food that sat for hours waiting for hours for the overworked nurses to feed to the residents. It had left an indelible impression on the young Jennie and essentially chose her profession for her. She would make a difference in these people’s lives.