by Erich Segal
“I’ll give you something really novel,” Jerry suggested. “Tell him you want to take a sabbatical and come with me on the indoor tour.”
“Come on,” she protested. “If you keep bugging me about that, I’ll encourage him to pressure you into going back and taking your high school exams.”
He reacted in mock horror. “Anything but that! Now, when am I going to see you in person?”
“I don’t know,” she answered earnestly. “I’m trying to figure something out.”
“Well hurry the hell up,” he urged. “Take a look at my father’s forehead. The men in our family lose their hair early. Don’t you want to know me before I’m bald?”
By mid-February, Isabel was putting in so many hours in the library after dinner that she looked haggard and on the verge of exhaustion. Uncharacteristically, even Raymond began to plead with her to ease up, but her only reply was, “I can’t yet, Dad, I’m into something really important and I’ve got to finish it as soon as possible.”
“Any little hints for your poor old father?” he asked with mock pathos.
“Sorry, Mr. da Costa.” She smiled mischievously. “This item is still strictly classified.”
Raymond was disappointed but did not press the issue, though this was the first time she did not share the totality of her thoughts with him. She had never before been secretive with any of her projects—and yet she had never been so deeply involved as she was now.
He consoled himself with the thought that she was nearing a breakthrough that would bring her recognition transcending the now tired journalistic superlatives like “child prodigy” or “girl genius.” They would simply trumpet, “Isabel da Costa, the renowned physicist, today announced …”
One evening just after nine P.M., while Ray was finishing a session with one of his pupils, the phone rang. He assumed it was one of his students, pestering him about something trivial.
He could not have been more wrong.
“Dad, come to the back of Le Conte and pick me up right away. I’ve got to talk to you.”
Her tone was urgent. There was even a touch of fear in her voice.
“What is it?” he asked anxiously. “Are you all right?”
“I can’t talk on the phone. Please hurry.”
Terrified, Ray summarily dismissed the pupil he was teaching, and rushed for the car.
During the short drive to the campus, a worried Raymond tried to imagine what might be wrong. He could only conclude that his daughter was truly ill. All the way to the Physics building he berated himself for not heeding the signs of her fatigue.
The moment she saw the car, she rushed out laden with a pile of lab notebooks. Far from being pale, her face was flushed, and, with an air of what seemed like apprehension, she demanded, “Quick, Dad, open the trunk and put this stuff inside.”
He obeyed wordlessly as Isabel climbed into the car.
“Let’s get out of here,” she urged like an escaping prisoner.
“Relax, honey,” Ray said gently. “We’ll be home in a minute—”
“No,” she interrupted. “Let’s go someplace where we can speak really privately.”
“What’s wrong with home?”
“Dad, you don’t understand. This is something really top secret.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, we’re not being bugged or anything,” he countered. And then, looking at her frightened expression, he relented. “Okay, I’ll think of something.”
Ray racked his brains and finally decided on Oscar’s Den in Oakland, which was usually not student turf.
They sat down at one of the booths, separated from its neighbors by tall wooden partitions.
“Now, Isabel, I insist you order something to eat.” He was genuinely concerned, since lately her appetite seemed to have vanished.
“No thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“Hey, listen, I humored you, now you humor me by at least having a hamburger.”
“Okay, Dad,” she said with exasperation. “And a cup of black coffee. I just want to talk.”
Raymond quickly ordered. The moment the waitress bustled off, he leaned toward her and whispered urgently, “Now, what the heck is all this about?”
She replied with a single enigmatic syllable. “Karl.”
“I don’t get it,” he said. “Has Pracht done anything … improper?”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that.”
“Then for God’s sake, what’s the matter?”
Isabel’s face revealed the gravity of what she was divulging and the pain it had caused her.
“He’s wrong,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“Karl’s off base. His theory doesn’t wash. I’ve gone over all his calculations again and again, and they don’t jibe with his conclusions.”
“But he’s a world-class figure in the field,” Raymond protested.
Isabel slapped the table. “Dad, I don’t deny he’s got a great mind. And he’s already done important work that justifies his reputation. But this time he’s wrong—dead wrong.”
Raymond shook his head, worried—and confused. It was the first time he’d ever doubted his daughter’s abilities. For he was concerned that she had made an error in her own computations.
He tried to be calm and objective. “Isabel, why is this so important to you? Isn’t it Pracht’s problem?” He looked at her squarely and could see she was clearly hiding something more.
“Dad,” she murmured, “I’ve come up with some ideas of my own, and I think my data argues conclusively against the existence of any Fifth Force.”
Raymond was silent for a moment, aware—as perhaps she was not—of the potential danger in what she was saying.
“Do you realize what you’re doing?” he finally asked. “Instead of taking a leap into uncharted territory, you’re throwing a firebomb into a roomful of some of the most important scientists in the world.”
She nodded. “I know, Dad, I know. But I’ve never in my life been more sure of what I’m saying. I mean, the refutation isn’t complex—its greatest strength is its simplicity.”
Raymond da Costa was gradually finding the courage of his daughter’s convictions. After all, she had never been wrong before. “Who else knows about this?”
“No one, of course. That’s why I wanted to speak to you so desperately.”
“Where’s your proof?”
“In my notebooks in the trunk of your car. But if you want to see it boiled down into the basic formula, take a look at this.”
She reached into the pocket of her flannel shirt and handed him a piece of paper that had been folded many times. As he quickly scanned the data, Raymond found his anxiety rapidly transmuting into intense euphoria.
“Jesus,” he murmured half to himself. “This is unbelievable.”
“Trust me, Dad, I’m right. My theory will stand up to the most minute scrutiny.”
“I know, Isabel. That’s why I’m so knocked out. Just imagine what an impact this will have. What a debut—”
She lowered her head.
“What’s the matter?” Ray asked.
“You don’t get it! Can you imagine what would happen if I refuted my very own thesis adviser?”
Yes, Raymond thought to himself. That will really make headlines.
Isabel shook her head. “God, this is so painful. I don’t think I can do it to him.”
Raymond had his work cut out for him. He launched into a homily. “Isabel, scientific truth is no respecter of rank or eminence. Its only criterion is integrity. You’ve got to publish your findings.”
“I know—but it doesn’t have to be right away.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“If I let the deadline for this year’s conference go by, then there’s no way of endangering Karl’s appointment at MIT. I mean, what’s my rush?”
“Isabel, you owe the man absolutely nothing.”
“That’s not true. He’s a great teacher. He’s been more
than generous to me.”
“Come on,” he remonstrated. “If Pracht were in your place, would he withhold publication of something that would be so important to him?”
Isabel reflected for a split second and then answered quietly, “I think he would. I honestly think he would.”
Ray shifted gears. “It’s getting late, and you’re incredibly wired. Why don’t you get some rest and we can discuss it again when our minds are fresh?”
“Okay, Dad,” she replied, inwardly grateful to postpone the moment of decision.
They drove home in total silence.
Knowing his daughter as well as he did, Ray could easily sense her sadness and disappointment. But then, he convinced himself, that was why he had continued to remain by her side.
Once more he was playing the central role in her life.
36
ADAM
For Adam Coopersmith the process of divorce was more agonizing than anything he could have imagined.
Three days after their telephone conversation, Toni had gathered her emotional resources sufficiently to invite him back to the house that evening, so they could both tell Heather.
The experience was all the more difficult because everyone involved felt wronged or guilty—or both.
There had even been initial periods when Toni suffered fleeting pangs about not having been a good enough wife and mother, perhaps concentrating too much on her work to be what her family needed.
Yet she convinced herself that this was not a case of her own negligence, but rather Adam’s unilateral withdrawal of the love he had pledged at their wedding and had now transferred to another woman.
Heather’s reaction shook both her parents. Surprisingly, upon learning that he was leaving, she had burst into tears, thinking Adam was abandoning her for a nicer family.
Her anger, curiously, was aimed at Toni.
“You did this, Mom. You’re so caught up in your goddamn career. You blab about it so much, you never pay any attention to him.”
She then turned to her father and, lapsing from prosecutor to wounded child, implored, “You’ll let me live with you, Dad, won’t you?”
Adam melted with remorse.
During this entire conversation he was unable to look Toni in the eye. Yet she herself uttered not a single syllable in rancor. That is, not in front of their daughter.
Finally the wounded girl went upstairs to telephone her best friend, who had gone through the very ordeal Heather had just begun to suffer.
Adam was now alone with Toni, who did not raise her voice, but nonetheless spoke barbed words. “Just don’t let her farewell speech give you any ideas, Dr. Coopersmith.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s got as much chance of living with you and Mata Hari as a snowball in Hell.”
“Wait a minute—” Adam protested.
Toni continued and all but ignored him as she spoke with what sounded like a computerized voice. “The court always finds in the child’s best interests, and whatever you think of me, I’m still the primary parent. That woman’s not going to get near my child.”
Adam was baffled. “Toni, can you be honest with me—and yourself? Heather’s never been at the center of your life. Why are you so insistent on custody?”
“I’m her mother, dammit. Do I have to say anything more?”
“Yes. You could say you love her.”
“That goes without saying.”
“No, Toni. In your case, I don’t think it does. You regard her as a possession, and you’re hanging on to her just to spite me.”
She hesitated for a moment and then conceded quietly, “That’s part of it. But frankly, is it in Heather’s best interest to live with some Russian babushka she doesn’t even know?”
“Anya’s a caring person,” Adam protested. “She’d be good to Heather.”
“Does she have any experience with children?” Toni asked with an edge of cruelty in her voice.
“Do you?” he lashed back in anger.
His unexpected hostility was actually making it easy for Toni, hardening her resolve. “Don’t push me too far, Adam. You can’t win.”
“I’ll call character witnesses.”
“If it comes to that, the Boss will call everybody from the man in the Oval Office to the Pope himself. But you’ll end up damaging Heather more. And I know you’d never want to do that.”
Adam paused to weigh what she had said. She sensed she’d stopped his assault, and now began a velvet-gloved counterattack of her own. “Adam, believe me, the mere act of having people testify to our respective unfitness—which is what it all boils down to—will be a worse trauma than settling this privately. Because, even if it’s only in his chambers, the judge is going to make Heather choose between us in our presence.”
“Why are you being so vindictive?”
“Can’t you see, Adam? Can’t you even see that I’m the real injured party in this? My father was right after all. I should never have left Washington. And yet, do you know something? I’ve never had a moment’s regret … until now.”
Adam shrugged. “I guess you’ve got every reason to hate my guts.”
“Oh no, that’s putting it too mildly. All that’s stopping me from murdering you is that Heather still needs you to be a part-time father. And let me tell you, buster, if you step out of line, I’ll come at you with guns blazing.”
He gathered the strength for wrath that he did not have for apology. “Wait a minute! There are norms for parental visitation, and I expect us to go by the book.”
“Don’t count on it,” she replied in a whirlwind of hatred. “You may not have respected me as a lawyer up till now, but when you see what you’re left with after this litigation, you’ll be sorry we ever met.”
Adam slowly climbed the stairs carrying two old suitcases he had dusted off and brought up from the cellar. He shuddered as he passed Heather’s closed door, through which he could hear muffled sobs. And hated himself for what he was doing to her.
He knocked. There was no reply.
He knocked louder and called, “Anybody home?” And heard Heather’s hysterical voice: “Nobody important.”
“There’s you, darling,” Adam said affectionately.
“And nobody gives a damn about me.”
“I do. May I come in?”
“No. You can go to hell.”
Adam spoke quietly but firmly. “Listen, Heather, I’ll be leaving soon, and I want to talk to you before I go. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes and I expect you to open this door.”
In the quarter of an hour he was gone, she washed her face, combed her hair, and heroically pulled herself together. Her door was open.
Adam sat down next to her on the bed. “Hey, kid, I know it may sound terrible and self-serving, but this is going to turn out to be the right thing. Your mother and I were making each other very unhappy.”
“That was no secret,” his daughter muttered. “I wasn’t exactly overjoyed either.”
“Well, I guess we’ll all have to start to rebuild our lives.”
“Are you already involved with someone?” Heather asked. It was clear she dreaded the answer.
He hesitated and then said softly, “She’s a very good person. I think you’ll like her.”
“Is it that Russian woman I heard you and Mommy fighting about?”
Adam nodded.
“Why is she so important that you have to abandon us?”
“But I’m not disappearing from your life, honey. On the contrary, I’m going to put up the best custody fight I can, because Anya really wants you to come and live with us too.”
“Really?” she asked. “Why?”
“Well, I’ve told her so much about you that she almost feels she knows you. Trust me, Heather. She’s a lovely, gentle, caring woman.”
There was a pause. Finally, Heather found the courage to ask, “Tell me, Dad. Why did you marry Mom in the first place?”
He hesitated for a moment, an
d then answered, “To have you.”
Suddenly they were embracing, Heather in tears, he crying inwardly.
“Please, Daddy, don’t leave me,” she begged. “I’ll be good, I swear. I won’t make any trouble for anybody.”
Adam felt as though he had been kicked in the stomach. For a moment he even thought of capitulating and remaining. Anything that would not hurt his daughter more. But then he thought of Anya and the words exchanged with Toni, which could never be taken back.
After a final moment, he closed his eyes and hugged her. He could feel her heart pounding.
Half an hour later he came down the stairs with new resolve. Toni was in the living room, reading. She looked up as he entered.
“Well?” she said calmly. It was clear she had regained some mastery over her emotions.
“I’ll see you in court,” he answered.
Toni was true to her word. In the negotiations with her lawyers—no doubt quarterbacked by the Boss—Adam was almost skinned alive.
Naively, he had chosen an old friend, Peter Chandler, to represent him, unaware that compassion and sentiment are not positive traits in divorce lawyers. Adam had testified as expert witness for Peter in two malpractice suits. This very fact should have warned him that the attorney’s specialty was fighting on behalf of patients who had been maimed, crippled, and killed—the victims.
Adam’s only instruction to him was to ensure his visitation rights. For many reasons, he wanted Toni to have everything.
“Let her keep the house, the cars—I don’t give a damn. I’m pretty sure the court won’t give her alimony since she earns more than I do. But I’ll pay Heather’s tuition and some child support—as long as it doesn’t break my back.”
“Hold it, Adam,” Chandler intervened. “I don’t want to make you into a monster, but I have to negotiate with her people. If you walk in and surrender everything right off the bat, they’ll take that as a starting point and we’ll get hit for even more.”
“I don’t believe it, Pete. I mean, Toni’s a reasonable person. She’ll see that I’m being decent.”
