by Erich Segal
At this moment Muriel, overcome with emotion, grasped Isabel’s hands. “There’s something you have to know,” she said. “This affects you in a way you never realized.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re in danger, darling. I mean, it’s my fault.” She began to weep. “I don’t know how to say this.”
Isabel grew alarmed. “Mom, for God’s sake, what are you trying to tell me?”
“It’s actually the truth, Isabel. Edmundo is your natural father.”
At first, praying she had misunderstood, she gaped at her mother.
“Darling, try to understand. My marriage was falling apart and Edmundo was so warm and caring. He genuinely loved me.…” She hesitated. “We had an affair and”—her voice lowered to a barely audible whisper—“you were conceived. After Ray became so obsessed with you, there was no way I could ever tell him.”
“Stop it! I don’t want to hear any more of this.”
She had let go of her mother who, by now, was weeping uncontrollably.
“In fact, if you must know, one of the reasons I let him manipulate you was because I felt so guilty.”
“I can’t believe this, I simply can’t believe this,” she repeated in a paroxysm of denial.
She was staggered, stricken with self-doubt, racked with a terrible uncertainty as to who she really was. For emotionally, she had always defined herself as Raymond da Costa’s daughter. She had lived with him. And for him.
At this point she again grew aware of the Russian doctor’s presence.
“My dear Dr. da Costa, I am a physician. I will hold all of this in confidence.”
“Professor Avilov,” Isabel declared. “I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be a party to this unethical travesty.”
He straightened himself, manifestly taking offense. “But it is now urgent that you yourself be tested.”
“I don’t give a damn,” she snapped.
“But Isabel,” her mother pleaded, “don’t you realize you’re in danger?”
Abruptly, Isabel buried her head in her hands.
“You owe it to the world,” the Russian argued unctuously. “You are perhaps the greatest scientific mind in modern physics, and have a fifty-fifty chance of carrying the gene for Huntington’s disease.”
“Thank you,” Isabel retaliated furiously. “You’ve just cast a giant shadow over my entire life.”
“Not necessarily,” Avilov remarked with an incongruous grin. “I can draw your blood and within a week you will know your fate. After all, it could be good news.”
Though Isabel stood motionless and silent, he could sense that his words had struck home.
She still did not reply.
“Perhaps I should leave you two alone to talk about this,” he suggested, feeling a sudden urge to retire.
She glared at her mother, who was living in her own private hell.
“You expect me to talk to the woman who screwed up my life—and my father’s? What she did was unforgivable.”
“But if there hadn’t been Edmundo,” Muriel said pleadingly, “you wouldn’t be you!”
Isabel seared her mother with eyes of fire. “Do you expect me to thank you for that?”
She stormed out of the doctor’s office.
57
ISABEL
Though the heat was sweltering, Isabel walked the entire distance home from Avilov’s office.
What she had experienced was like the turning point in a Greek tragedy. In a matter of seconds she had gone from a person whose whole life had been blessed to one not only cursed, but possibly doomed to death.
She didn’t hurry. There was so much to think about.
Curiously, it was not her own uncertain destiny that was preoccupying her most, even though it was possible that on some day in the future she would turn a corner and come face-to-face with the Angel of Death. At this moment her principal concern was the fate of the man who, from her earliest memories, had loved, cherished, and protected her.
And she was not even his biological daughter.
Isabel knew in some sense it would no longer matter to him. After all, love is not genetically transmittable, and he had lavished it upon her for years. And reciprocally, she had given him all the affection a natural father could have dreamed of.
During the lengthy exploration of her thoughts, she resolved to make things right again. To give Ray what he had earned by sacrificing his own life.
She swore a fervent oath that he would never, never learn of Muriel’s betrayal.
And now when she thought of Jerry, she was pierced with aching loneliness.
The happiness he had brought her was real. Yet how could their relationship continue? She felt tainted, no longer worthy of him.
She arrived back at the flat—overheated and drenched with sweat.
There was an eerie feeling that the apartment was somehow emptier. Her father’s bedroom door was closed. Perhaps he was escaping from the brutal Cambridge heat by taking a siesta.
Suddenly, feeling parched from her long hot walk, she went into the kitchen, opened up the fridge, poured some lemonade, and went back to the main room, which was the coolest because they had kept the shutters closed.
She sat down, took a swig and looked around. The place looked unusually tidy. Magazines and journals that were normally scattered everywhere were piled up neatly.
Glancing at the table they used for work and meals, she noticed a long sheet of lined yellow foolscap propped up between the salt and pepper.
Knowing instinctively what it would say, she picked it up with dread.
Dearest Isabel,
You have been a wondrous, loving daughter, more than someone mediocre like myself could ever have deserved. You are a blessing and a gift that I was honored to enjoy for all those years. Too many years.
I realize that I’ve overstayed my welcome in your life and that your rightful place is with people of your own age—like Jerry, who’s a wonderful boy.
I don’t deny that what I am doing hurts me deeply, but I do it out of the profoundest love I have for you.
Among the many offers Pracht passed on (perhaps to get rid of me?) there was a last minute opening for a physics teacher in one of those fancy prep schools for future Ivy Leaguers who are already full of themselves.
I guess my claim to fame as your father is my best recommendation. When I called him this afternoon, the headmaster said he would take me sight unseen.
As soon as I get settled, I’ll make contact and give you my new address and phone. (Remember, I may be letting you go, but I’m not completely letting go of you.)
From now on, I’ll be acting like a grown-up parent with grown-up children. I’ll look forward to Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, and whatever festivals we can concoct.
I leave behind the only gift I withheld from you—your freedom.
Be happy, my beloved daughter,
Your loving father
Isabel was at a loss for words. She knew—the way a patient on a local anesthetic knows—that a part of her flesh was being torn away. But all she could sense was the anguish she would feel when the shock wore off.
She put her head in her hands. Suddenly her world was spinning in a centrifuge, whirling all her thoughts asunder. She, who had always played the indomitable Miss da Costa, ever cheery and composed even in the most pressured of circumstances, fell apart and began to sob.
She was not aware of the passage of time, and was jolted by the piercing ring of the phone.
“Isa, I waited so long the breakfast rolls got stale. Did you meet some cuter guy or something?”
She was overwhelmed with relief to hear his voice. “Oh, Jerry, am I glad to speak to you.”
“Well, you didn’t give me that impression all day,” he chided playfully.
“Please, Jerry, listen. It’s been the worst day of my life. Traumatic would be an understatement. Can you come over for dinner?”
“Why don’t you let me take you out f
or a change? I mean, we could be alone.”
She paused for a moment and then said softly, “We’ll be alone. Dad’s gone.”
“What the hell happened, Isa?”
“I’m still in such shock. I’m not sure I understand yet, but I think he had a sudden attack of guilt. Anyway, he’s taken a job in a prep school.”
“Well,” Jerry argued, trying to see the bright side, “this could be the best thing that ever happened to both of you. Is that why you’re so upset?”
“Would you believe me if I told you that’s the least of the earthquakes?” she replied. “But why don’t you let me tell you in person. My invitation was a very special one—I mean, in my whole life, I’ve never really cooked for anyone but me and Dad. Is it okay if I make something basic? I mean, I’m not exactly Julia Child. Will you settle for spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Fantastic. I’ll come by at seven.”
Still in a hypnotic daze, she went out to the supermarket and bought the ingredients for dinner, not forgetting Sara Lee brownies, should all else fail.
The phone was ringing insistently as she opened the door. Quickly setting down her packages, she hurried to answer it.
“Isabel—please don’t hang up. We’ve got to talk.” It was Muriel. “I’ve checked into the Hyatt Regency. Would you have dinner with me?”
“Sorry, I’ve got other plans,” Isabel said tonelessly.
“Yes, of course—Ray—”
“No, Mother, not Ray,” she replied pointedly. She resented the inference that everyone in her life regarded her as a social misfit.
“Well, when?” Muriel asked helplessly. “I mean, now that this terrible thing is out, it has to be dealt with.”
“Look, I can’t think about it now. I’ll call you back in the morning.”
“Can’t we even set a date for breakfast? Say eight o’clock?”
“All right, fine,” Isabel replied exasperatedly. “I’m sorry, I have to go now.”
Just when Isabel had reassured herself that the worst was over and she could now unburden herself to Jerry, she realized that yet another dark cloud had fallen on her life.
She was in love with him and secure in the fact that her feelings were reciprocated. She had always assumed that their relationship would develop in time and that he would eventually ask her to marry him.
But not now. Not with her appalling heritage.
The doorbell rang. And suddenly, despite what was weighing heavy on her heart, she laughed with joy. He was that dear to her.
Jerry had a bottle of that sparkling red concoction known as Cold Duck, as well as a bouquet of roses, but his most precious gift was irrepressible good humor.
Impulsively she threw her arms around him.
He smiled. “Hey, I think I’ll go out and come in again for more of the same.”
“Don’t be silly,” she coaxed him. “Sit down so that I can depress the hell out of you.”
“Where’s Ray?”
She handed Jerry the note, and watched his expression as he read it. He was clearly moved.
“God, it took a lot of guts to write this. He’s a hell of a guy. You should be very proud of him.”
Somehow the approval of the man she loved, his words of unabashed affection, had a paradoxical affect on Isabel. She began to cry.
“Isa, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve just found out he’s not my father.”
“I don’t understand.”
She gathered the courage to tell him everything. About who Edmundo really was. And who Ray really wasn’t.
“You know something,” Jerry remarked. “The fact that he doesn’t even know, makes what he did all the more—generous.”
For the moment Isabel did not have the courage to mention Edmundo’s illness; selfishly perhaps, since she did not want to run the risk of scaring Jerry away on this of all nights.
“Does it sound crazy that I’m angry with my mother for giving birth to me?” she asked.
“That’s a real tough one,” Jerry replied. “Frankly, I can’t help feeling at least a little grateful …” He held both her hands and squeezed them affectionately.
Oh, if you only knew the worst part, she thought.
By the middle of dinner, with some credit perhaps to the wine, they managed to talk of things other than parents, heredity, and fidelity.
It was growing late, nearing the time when Jerry usually made his chivalrous departure.
He stood up, moved closer and put his arms around her.
After they had kissed for a few moments, Jerry asked gently, “Isa, last time when your dad was ill, I spent the night here on the sofa.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay again, but this time with you.”
Their eyes met and, without any touch of hesitation or scintilla of fear, Isabel answered softly, “Please, Jerry, I’d like that very much.”
58
ADAM
In a way, Alzheimer’s disease is like going through the torture of drowning—again and again. Just when the victim has lapsed into unconsciousness, he suddenly succeeds in finding his way above water to snatch a breath of reality. This is simply another reminder that he is not dying … yet.
Paradoxically for the sufferer, it is more painful at the beginning when his periods of lucidity are longer. In the end those around him become the victims. For they know that though he is not lost to the world, he is lost to them.
But even before the light completely fades, there is an unending series of humiliations.
Adam fought like a demon when they tried to take away his driver’s license. He was determined to preserve this tenuous symbol of independence.
Since she had so much to do to protect him, Anya enlisted the help of Terry Walters, a beefy black male nurse with considerable experience in dealing with this ruthless disease.
He was so skillful and good-natured that it was not clear whether Adam knew precisely why he had been hired.
As the disease advanced, the patient became more depressed and lethargic, but Terry convinced him to jog, matching him stride for stride, alert and ready to catch him if he stumbled.
The addition of a nurse also enabled Anya to go about the difficult business of living two lives: hers and Adam’s. She visited the lab daily, collecting the data gathered from various experiments and bringing it home, explaining to the staff that the prof had picked up a nasty virus on the journey that he simply could not shake.
In lucid moments he wrote comments in the margins of the reports, and Anya made sure his modifications were adopted. If his mind was blurred—as was the case with growing frequency—she would pretend to talk to him. And when he stared glassy-eyed, unable to understand the problem, she tried to imagine what the old Adam would have done and conveyed the response to the staff.
In the brief time they had spent together, they had learned to think as one—which gave Anya the courage to enter areas where she would never have trespassed.
She had no alternative but to tell Prescott Mason. He was genuinely shaken. Perhaps behind that PR man’s facade there was a human being after all.
Moreover, he added, for what it was worth on the scale of things, he would continue to work on their behalf because he believed in what they had done.
Ever the pragmatist, Mason chose to regard his client’s tragic circumstances as just another kind of deadline. Up till now, he had been subtle and low-key, operating on the assumption that he would make his big move in three or four years. But after what he had just learned, he had to go into high gear.
In some areas Anya proved to be an undreamed-of asset. As MR-Alpha became more and more widely used and its effectiveness recognized, there were increasing requests to interview Adam. But it was clearly too dangerous to allow him to talk to the press.
Mason easily convinced the papers that mattered to interview this wife of the nineties, not walking a humble ten paces behind, but standing together with her husband
in the vanguard as they charted new territory and made medical history.
In private, Anya longed for those fleeting—ever rarer—moments when Adam would be himself. It was like a reunion with someone resurrected for a quarter of an hour. But the price was going through the agony of watching him “die” again.
Prescott Mason labored tirelessly. On more than a dozen occasions in the most important research centers in the country, Mason took previous Nobel laureates and respected nominators into his confidence and explained that Adam Coopersmith was dying.
Naturally, he argued, Adam would have been chosen in due time. But perhaps the cruelest and most arbitrary Nobel rule was that the award could only be given to a man alive at the time of the voting—though ironically, if the recipient died of joy one second after receiving the official news, his widow could collect the prize.
By the spring, Mason had made considerable headway. He had obtained almost forty “congressional suggestions” that he knew of, and nearly twenty recommendations, sent by letter and fax to Stockholm.
Except when she had to be at work, Anya never left Adam’s side. Sometimes she would drive him to the lab, and, though he was occasionally confused and disoriented, she would walk him swiftly down the corridor, encouraging him to respond to the friendly waves and greetings, “Hi, Prof.”
Previously an annoyance, the glass wall in Adam’s office now served a useful purpose. It proved to the staff that, in some sense at least, he was still there, “on the job.” Anya seated him behind his huge desk, always made sure he had a book in his hand.
But members of the staff, accustomed to bringing their problems directly to Adam, began to resent what they thought was Anya’s usurpation of his role. She would take their reports, assure them that the prof would look them over that evening and return them with comments in the morning.
Why, they wondered, was he letting her take over?
Anya was aware that she was unpopular. But she counted it as a small price to pay. Because on the larger scale of things, they seemed to be getting away with it.