Prizes

by Erich Segal

  “But Isa,” Jerry said, “You have to realize how important your discovery is.”

  “Right,” his father echoed. “There’s a lot of talk nowadays about what occurred after the Big Bang. The current thinking is that everything was extremely hot and therefore energetic. And at this primal moment, all the forces of nature were united and mixed intimately together. And what you’ve done can actually prove it. This is so amazing—a real godsend. You’d better be prepared for the brightest spotlights you’ve ever faced.”

  51

  ADAM

  Charlie Rosenthal cried.

  He had been a doctor for more than twenty years, and the only other time he had lost control was when his son had fallen off his bike and lay unconscious in the hospital.

  “I’m sorry, Adam. I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “You’re my best friend. And what kills me is that there’s not a goddamn thing I can do to help you.”

  Adam put his hand on his colleague’s shoulder. “Hey, take it easy,” he said gently. “The worst is yet to come. Save your tears for then. Meanwhile, tell me what specialist is going to get the pleasure of my case.”

  “I’ve asked around and there’s no question about it—the guy you should see is Walter Hewlett at Mass. General.”

  “What makes him so special?” Adam asked phlegmatically.

  “He won’t be treating you from a textbook, Coopersmith. His own father died of Alzheimer’s.”

  Adam began to shout hysterically. “What the hell sort of doctor are you, Rosenthal? You know the worst part of Alzheimer’s is not dying.”

  “Right, Adam. Right,” Charlie responded nervously. “It’s just—well … the deterioration part—”

  “—is worse than death,” Adam finished his thought.

  But Charlie replied urgently, “Listen, except for AIDS, there’s no other area in medicine that’s being as thoroughly researched. This isn’t just a palliative pep talk.”

  “I know, Charlie. They’re already aware that one defective protein is made from a gene on Chromosome 21. But none of it’ll be in time to do me the slightest good.”

  “Well, old buddy, why don’t you talk that over with Walter? He’s doing some work with neurotrophic cells. I mean, somebody had to be the first to get a shot of penicillin and not die of an infection. Besides, Hewlett’s going to make history and pay a house call.”

  Charlie put his arm around his suffering colleague as they walked from his book-lined study into the half-furnished living room where Joyce was talking to Anya by the light of the gas-burning fireplace, which magnified their shadows against the bare wall.

  As the two women rose and started toward Adam, he suddenly exploded into ferocious rage.

  “What do you people think you’re doing?” he bellowed. “Coming into my house like this, invading my privacy—bothering Anya?”

  Charlie tried to calm him. “Take it easy, Adam. You’ve known Joyce for years. You were best man at our wedding.”

  Adam’s reply electrified Charlie like a lightning bolt. “Who do you think you are?” he ranted. “The two of you are probably here to poison me.”

  Anya tried to reorient him. “Darling, the Rosenthals are old friends.”

  But Adam snapped at her as well. “Don’t tell me lies,” he retorted. “Just get them out of here before I call the police.”

  Charlie addressed Anya, his eyes broadcasting shock and sorrow. “I think we’ll go now. Make sure he takes those pills. Hewlett’ll be here before nine. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Stop talking to my wife,” Adam shouted.

  Charlie and Joyce exchanged a quick glance with Anya, who left the room to show them out.

  Less than a minute later she was back in the living room with Adam. He was bent over, holding his head.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “My head, it feels like it’s splitting open,” he replied.

  “Don’t worry, Adam, the doctor will be here in a little while.”

  “What doctor?” Adam asked in continuing confusion. “All I need’s an aspirin.”

  “Just sit here and rest while I get you one,” she said aloud, inwardly realizing that she herself was now afraid to be alone with him.

  Anya returned with a glass of water, two aspirin, and the little yellow pill that—with luck—would becalm him till the doctor arrived.

  What most surprised Anya was that, for a senior scientist, Walter Hewlett was so young.

  “Thank you for coming over, Doctor.”

  “It was the least I could do, Mrs. Coopersmith. Your husband won’t remember, but I was his student when he had to take over Max Rudolph’s course in mid-year. He was a great lecturer.”

  Was, Anya thought to herself. I guess I must get used to having him referred to in the past tense.

  They entered the living room and found Adam staring at the fire. He looked at them quizzically.

  “Adam, this is Walter Hewlett,” Anya explained matter-of-factly. “He’s a neurologist at Mass. General. By sheer coincidence, he was a student of yours.”

  “Really?” he remarked in what seemed a normal tone. “Since I only gave an actual course when I filled in for Max, that must have been in 1979. Am I right?”

  Hewlett smiled. “That’s exactly when it was. You’ve got quite a memory, Dr. Coopersmith.”

  “Would either of you like coffee?” Anya inquired, hoping to placate Adam by giving the impression that this was a social call.

  “That would be fine,” the young specialist answered. And then, turning to the man who was both his host and his patient, asked, “And you, Adam?”

  “Watch out for caffeine,” Adam replied, shaking an admonitory finger. “It actually causes cholesterol.”

  He paused for an instant and smiled at Anya. “But I guess I don’t have to worry about that, do I, darling? Bring me a cup as well.”

  Hewlett opened his attaché case and pulled out a large manila envelope. “With your wife’s permission, I’ve looked over the reports and the photographs you brought along from New Zealand.”

  “New Zealand?” Adam asked quizzically. “Why would I go to New Zealand?”

  “Well,” Hewlett answered, “I know you’re tired and it may have slipped your mind. But as I hope you know, I’m a neurologist and I believe you have a problem.”

  “Really?” Adam reacted glassy-eyed.

  Walter nodded. “I mean, naturally we’ll want to take our own scan. But to my mind, the pictures you brought along substantiate Moody’s diagnosis.” The young doctor paused and then said tentatively, “I think you’ve got Alzheimer’s.”

  Adam’s reply was quite unexpected.

  Still staring into the fire, he answered in a monotone, “So do I.”

  In the days that followed, he was driven to communicate. All his waking hours became an incessant dialogue with Anya. He had a lifetime of things to tell her—and a cruelly short space in which to do it.

  Their lovemaking took on a kind of urgency, a sort of unspoken communion in which the intensity of his touch reassured her that he knew exactly what he was doing. And what he was trying to say.

  His hands were articulate in silence. They spoke with an eloquence that transcended words.

  When he kissed her, it was for all eternity.

  Certain people had to be informed. First and foremost, there was Heather. Since Adam was declining swiftly, she was doomed to lose him well before his actual death.

  That meant telling Toni.

  Anya called Lisl, who came over immediately, to “help put the house in order.”

  She proved a welcome source of strength for Anya, who up to now had had no one to support her.

  Lisl insisted on being the one to tell Heather and Toni. She reported her surprise on their reactions. Unexpectedly, Toni wept openly.

  And Heather was too stunned to cry.

  “May I see him?” Toni begged.

  “I don’t know,” Lisl answered candidly. “That’s something
I think Anya has to decide. But he wants to see Heather very badly.”

  She looked at her goddaughter and said gently, “Shall I pick you up tomorrow after school?”

  Heather nodded mutely.

  Anya—on whose shoulders the burden would weigh the heaviest—knew that the rest of Adam’s life would be a series of cruel ironies, for which she had to prepare herself as well as possible. One example was the letter received by Adam’s secretary at the lab:

  Dear Professor Coopersmith,

  I was flattered to receive your letter and read your proposal with enormous interest. You’re right in thinking that we are psychologically in tune.

  I’m especially interested in arresting cell degeneration—not with the aim of postponing death, but extending life.

  The ethics of your project pose no problem, Adam, because if the research is successful, we’ll be not merely prolonging life but delaying the aging process so that an eighty-year-old mother will be neither senescent nor a freak, but enjoying the same good health that a woman of fifty now enjoys.

  This sort of thing sounds outrageous to journalists, but then, they don’t take into consideration that in 1850 the average American died at forty-five; by the end of this century, life expectancy will already be double that.

  In this context, the notion of enhancing the time of a woman’s fertility would be altogether appropriate in the new biological lifestyle.

  In short, I would be most eager to discuss this with you further.

  Yours sincerely,

  Sandy Raven, Ph.D.

  Professor of Genetic Engineering

  Because she wanted to keep Adam’s mind alive as long as possible, Anya read him the letter and even went through the charade of discussing it with him.

  “He’s really interested,” Anya said with forced optimism. “I mean he wrote such a long and thoughtful letter.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?” Adam asked bitterly. “Tell him I’m taking early retirement?”

  She tried to smile. “I’ll think of something,” she said softly.

  He sat for a moment and then said, “Contact him, Annoushka, start the project with him yourself. Then you can work.…”

  His voice trailed off.

  52

  ISABEL

  Raymond da Costa was outraged.

  “How could you do such a thing? Don’t you think I deserved to know before anybody?”

  He had never gotten angry with her like this. Never had he fired off verbal bullets of recrimination.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Isabel said softly, “but there was no point in showing it to you until I knew I was on the right track.”

  “What you’re saying is that you thought it would be too far above my head.”

  Isabel was trapped. In truth, she could have explained it to Ray in terms he would have understood, but had balked at the prospect. And she herself could not comprehend why she had wanted to deny him the pleasure of priority.

  Suddenly her father was seated at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, crying.

  Isabel felt cold and frightened. Perhaps, in a reflex of self-protection, she had been too brutal, she thought. Was he going to crack?

  “Dad, I apologize. I realize now I should have told you first.”

  She stood motionless, painfully aware that their relationship had been torn in a way that could never be healed.

  Just then the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver.

  “Yes?” She listened for a moment and then said, “I told him.” She paused and added, “Of course he was happy. Anyway, eight o’clock’s fine.”

  As she hung up, Ray snarled, “Jerry Pracht?”

  Isabel nodded. “En route to Wimbledon. He’s invited me for dinner.”

  “He’s a kid. He hasn’t got a chance.”

  “He beat Becker—”

  “Who had the flu. He was playing with a 102-degree fever. The kid’ll get knocked out in the first round.”

  Isabel lost her temper and shouted, “Even if he doesn’t get the ball over the net once, it won’t make me care for him any less!”

  She looked at her father.

  “Please,” she said, taking the initiative. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly done a good job of it without trying.”

  “Come on,” she implored. “Let’s go out for a nice relaxing jog and I’ll tell you about my thesis idea.”

  Raymond’s feelings were almost instantly assuaged. “I’d like that, Isabel,” he said warmly, “but lately, I prefer to discuss my science sitting down. Can we do it over a glass of iced tea when you get back?”

  “Sure, Dad, sure, that’d be lovely,” she answered quickly.

  Moments later she emerged in her running clothes and went to kiss him on the forehead.

  “Now, don’t do anything foolish while I’m gone,” she cautioned.

  “What would you regard as ‘foolish’?” he asked, trying to be good-natured.

  “Like clean the house again,” she joked.

  She spent most of her run castigating herself for being so harsh with Ray. He had given her so many years. Couldn’t she have taken a few more days to let him down more gently?

  She entered the apartment and was genuinely relieved to see that his mood—at least superficially—had radically changed. He had prepared a huge glass pitcher of tea with sprigs of mint.

  She quickly showered and put on jeans and a shirt, unpacked her notes, placing various papers around the table, and prepared to deliver her second presentation of the day.

  Ray sat there enthralled by his daughter’s genius. It not only sounded right, but—like many great discoveries—seemed as if it had always been waiting there in full view.

  At the end of her exposition, he rose enthusiastically and said, “This calls for a celebration.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Tomorrow we can—”

  “I knew this was going to be brilliant,” he interrupted her. “So while you were out, I went and shopped for all your favorite things. I’m preparing the most fantastic dinner you’ve ever seen.”

  “But, Dad,” she protested gently, “Jerry’s coming over to pick me up.”

  “This is a great occasion for you,” Ray muttered frantically, still on his own wavelength.

  It did not escape her notice that, totally out of character, her father had not spoken in the first person plural.

  Clearly, he was determined to hang on at any cost.

  She spoke to him with emphatic calm, like a parent to a hysterical child. “I’m going to go and change now, Dad. And then when Jerry comes, we’ll be going out.”

  He appeared not to assimilate her remark and continued to set the table.

  Twenty minutes later she reappeared dressed in her best silk blouse and blue skirt. To her dismay, Raymond was still fussing with the dinner arrangements. Significantly, a third place had been set.

  “Dad, I told you—”

  “You can both eat here,” he said, the words tripping out in a tone bordering on hysteria. “I mean, Jerry’s a nice boy, a fine boy. There’s more than enough for him to …”

  Isabel stared at her father. The man she had once revered as omniscient and infallible was now reduced to a helpless frenzy. She was gripped with a pity that consumed her body. And, surprisingly, a feeling of anger. For she suddenly allowed herself to resent the cloistered isolation in which he had kept her nearly all the days of her life.

  The front door intercom buzzed then, and Isabel picked up the entry phone receiver, listened for a moment, and then said quietly, “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  She turned back to Ray, just in time to hear him gasp, “P-Please …” He clutched his chest and sank to his knees.

  “What’s the matter, Dad?” she asked with mounting terror.

  “Don’t leave me now.” Raymond’s face reddened and he began to sweat.

  Managing to keep a cool head, Isabel pressed the entry phone button and implored Jerry
to hurry inside.

  He took charge immediately.

  “I’ll handle this, Isa. You just call 911 for an ambulance.”

  “Don’t,” Ray murmured with difficulty, “I’ll—be—all right. Just stay—”

  He lost consciousness and fell back onto the floor.

  For Isabel it had been a horrible feeling of déjà vu.

  She remembered the trauma of Ray’s Berkeley attack and her fear while waiting for the doctors to pronounce their verdict. Only now there was one important difference. Jerry Pracht was by her side. And the news—at least the medical diagnosis—was far less ominous.

  “There was no cardiac implication,” the senior resident at Cambridge City Hospital explained. “I don’t know if he’s been taking his beta blockers regularly, but he must have had some sort of shock that drove his blood pressure sky high. We’ve sedated him and, considering his history, we’ll monitor him for two or three days.”

  Since her father would sleep till morning, Isabel acceded to Jerry’s suggestion that they have a bite. But, unable to exorcise her feelings of guilt, the highest gastronomic level she would allow herself was Dunkin’ Donuts.

  Jerry had been wonderful that evening. Strong and protective, revealing enormous compassion. She had never imagined she could … love him more. But she did.

  While they were on their third helping of French crullers, he affectionately broached another subject.

  “Hey, remember a million years ago, when we were originally going out to have something fancier than this?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I was going to make a big deal about it because I had something important—at least what I thought was important—to tell you.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “Events have somewhat diminished its significance,” he said. “I’ve come to the conclusion that our relationship has no future if we’re only united by a telephone wire.”

  For a moment Isabel misunderstood and thought he might be about to leave her.

  “Anything else?” she asked uneasily.

  “Yeah. We should live in the same city.”