Buffalo Jump by Howard Shrier Page A

lips. Maybe he was another dissatisfied client like Errol Boyko, who feared something was amiss with his parent’s care. But Stockwell must have allayed his concerns because they finally shook hands and he headed out the glass doors.
    She came clicking over the tile floor toward us, hand extended, and we introduced ourselves without any flubs.
    “Did you have an appointment, Mr. Gold?”
    I shook my head apologetically. “Ms. Tunney did say we should call ahead but I’ve had so much on my mind since Mom’s stroke …”
    “Darlene Tunney referred you?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “She had great things to say,” Jenn added. “You should be proud.”
    “Then I don’t see any problem,” Stockwell said, all sympathy but for the one quick look she flashed Jenn: taller,younger, blonder than she. Like one Siamese fighting fish finding another in the same aquarium.
    “Before I show you the facility, tell me about your mother. You mentioned a stroke. Would you say the effects are mainly physical or cognitive as well?”
    I had decided to make “Mom” sound as incapacitated, and therefore vulnerable, as possible. “Both.”
    “Oh, I am sorry,” Stockwell said.
    “She can’t remember things from one minute to the next,” I said with a downcast look. “I’m afraid if she’s left alone she’ll turn on the stove and forget about it, or take her medication more than once—or not at all.” Jenn put her hand on my shoulder and patted it for support.
    “And she’s on so many medications,” I added. “Even before the stroke she was dealing with diabetes and high blood pressure. I take it the staff here is well trained in dispensing medication?”
    She smiled coolly. “As good as you’d find in any hospital.”
    Given the state of health care in Ontario these days that was hardly a ringing endorsement, but I smiled back as if reassured.
    “Let’s start our tour at the front desk, with our state-of-the-art security system,” Stockwell said. Big John took his cue and stared intently at his bank of monitors. “We watch every exit and entrance around the clock to ensure no one wanders. That’s very important for clients like your mother, Mr. Gold. If they leave the home—which does happen at less vigilant facilities—they die of exposure, hypothermia, dehydration. They get hit by cars. It’s terrible. And it simply will not happen at Meadowvale, will it, John?”
    “Not on my watch, ma’am.”
    The script was corny but I gave them points for tight execution.
    Stockwell led us across the lobby toward three glass doors, our steps echoing off the stone walls. “Through the door on the left is a locked ward where clients with cognitive deficitsreside. In addition to the cameras, all the doors in that wing are alarmed for extra security. Straight ahead through the middle door are the common areas: the dining room, day room, games room, clinic, dispensary and so on.”
    “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