by Erich Segal
Whenever possible, she would go to her own work station in the lab while simultaneously keeping an eye on Adam through the glass, should someone try to reach him directly.
Yet with each passing week, they had to deprive Adam of more and more of the trappings and privileges of adulthood. In moments of distraction—for Terry, though dedicated, did not work around the clock—Adam had occasionally wandered to the garage and tried to drive off.
It was not enough that they had appropriated his license, they had no choice but to confiscate his keys. At first he was angry and resentful. Then, as his perception continued to blur, he barely noticed the infringements on his autonomy.
Finally, Anya had to resort to the ultimate pacifier. She now came into the lab at midnight and tried to do some serious work for three or four hours, while Adam sat in his office in front of an electronic baby-sitter, staring at the screen of a portable television that he had long ago bought her.
At that hour the place was all but deserted. At an appropriate moment, when the two or three remaining workers popped out for a late snack, Anya would help put on his coat and walk him quickly to the car. But she knew this charade would not last for long.
His condition worsened. In fact, one night Adam was so agitated that Anya begged Terry to work overtime and stay with him while she went to check on their various projects.
Just as she was waiting for the down elevator, she was accosted by Carlo Pisani, Venice’s gift to the women of Boston.
“Hello,” she answered his greeting. “How’s your work coming?”
“You should know,” he said pointedly. “You’ve already critiqued it.”
“Well,” she reacted, flustered, “it sounds very exciting. I mean, naturally, Adam’s told me something about it.”
“Please, Anya,” he protested, “don’t treat me like a fool. It’s you who told him.” He paused for a moment and then asserted, “I think the two of us should talk.” His tone was knowing, but she was unable to tell how much he had discovered.
“Why, of course, Carlo,” she said uneasily. “Any time it’s convenient.”
“Now,” the Italian said insistently.
“At this hour?”
“What we have to say is long overdue. I want to know why you have kept me in the dark.”
“I don’t understand,” she responded with growing panic.
“You could have trusted me,” he persevered. “In fact, if you had, it would never have come to this. I respect you as a scientist. We could have worked together.”
She shrugged, at a loss for words.
“Anyway,” he said, “since you locked the front gate, I had to resort to the only approach that would be off limits to you.”
He then continued, with a trace of satisfaction, “Last night I waited nearly two hours in the men’s room hoping he’d come in to use it before going home. And, of course, he did.”
Still trying to maintain an outward calm, Anya casually asked, “And what did he say to you?”
“He didn’t have to talk, his actions said everything.” Pisani spoke with something approximating compassion. “I almost cried when I saw it. This brilliant, splendid man, was so pathetically disoriented … that he pissed in the middle of the floor.”
“Oh Jesus,” Anya said, letting down her guard and covering her face with her hands.
“He’s a very sick man,” Carlo murmured in a tone that sounded strangely conspiratorial. “We have to talk now.”
Anya could merely nod. She was crying. Not for herself, but for Adam’s degradation. “Why the sudden urgency?”
He hesitated and then said softly, “Because there are other people waiting.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Carlo could not suppress a touch of pride as he pronounced a single word, “Stockholm.”
A million volts of electricity struck her dumb. She was terrified that all was lost. Finally, she managed to say, “You—you’re their spy.”
“I could think of nicer ways of putting it, Anya.” He then added mildly, “Now, don’t you think we should continue this in Professor Coopersmith’s office?”
She nodded in defeat.
As they entered Adam’s sanctum, even Pisani was impressed by the number of citations lining the walls. On previous visits he had been too focused on seeking his mentor’s opinion to notice the decor.
She placed herself behind the ramparts of Adam’s desk and asked, “What are you going to do?”
“That depends on what you tell me.”
Anya was torn. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to lie to him, for he had medical as well as research credentials. She had to take the risk of appealing to his sympathy—if he had any.
“You’re correct,” she whispered. “My husband is ill.”
“We already know that,” Pisani replied quietly.
“Well,” she asked anxiously, “what does ‘Stockholm’ think it is?”
“I’m not sure. But I do know they’ve heard he’s … degenerating.”
For a moment Anya’s fear gave way to anger. “Why is the committee so worried? Even if he were short-listed and died before the voting, their stupid rules would make him ineligible. As if death could diminish a man’s achievements.”
“True. But in this case it might depend on the cause of death. If, for example, he were suffering from something like AIDS, that might pose problems.”
“I don’t believe it,” she protested. “How could that possibly affect his suitability for the Nobel Prize?”
“Let me put it this way,” he explained. “If Adam had cured the disease, they would give him the prize and a twenty-one gun salute. On the other hand, if he died of it, in some quarters that might reflect on his moral suitability.”
“You mean, even if he were a hemophiliac and caught the virus from a blood transfusion?”
“That might still be a negative image. The cynics would always say the transfusion was a cover-up for something worse.”
Rather than engage in protracted debate, Anya concentrated on helping her husband. “Well, Carlo, I can assure you that Adam’s illness has absolutely nothing to do with the HIV virus.”
“Of course not,” Carlo pronounced. “In fact, all the external signs and symptoms seem to point to a brain tumor. I assume he’s been scanned.”
Anya nodded. Let him draw his own conclusions, she thought.
“Is it operable?”
She shook her head.
“Oh Dio,” the Italian moaned. “He’s so young. He had so many years of achievement in front of him.”
“Forget the eulogies,” Anya retorted. “He’s done more than enough to qualify for the prize.”
“I agree. I quite agree.”
“Then what will you say in your report—or however you communicate?”
“I will tell them … it is now or never.”
“How did you get here, sweetie?”
Adam was propped up in bed, freshly shaven by Terry and dressed in elegant pajamas.
“Lisl picked me up,” his daughter replied. “Say, Dad, you look terrific.”
“I feel terrific,” Adam replied. “I mean, I hope you don’t believe those rumors about my being sick. I’m just taking a long time to get over the jet lag from Australia. By the way, did you get our postcards?”
“Yeah. The best photos were from Fiji. Did you guys have a good time?”
“So-so,” Adam answered, and then whispered emotionally, “I missed you like hell, honey. I wish you could have come along. How’s school?”
A look of fear crossed Heather’s face and she was barely able to speak loud enough for him to hear.
“Hey, Dad, stop trying to make it easy on me. I realize I’m not supposed to know what’s going on, but I’m getting the distinct impression that you might not be around for my college graduation.”
Adam lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry, Heather,” he said with anguish. “I really am. I can’t bear the idea of … not being there for
you.”
His daughter covered her face. “Oh, shit. That’s such a brutal way of putting it.”
He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what else to say.”
She looked at him and was engulfed by a tidal wave of love. “Oh, Daddy,” she cried, “please don’t die. Please don’t …”
She moved closer to the bed, putting her head next to his on the pillow, and sobbed uncontrollably.
After a moment she felt that something had changed. She looked at her father and realized his face had suddenly frozen.
“Dad—are you okay?”
Adam stared at her for a moment longer and then burst out irascibly, “Who let you in here? This isn’t Harvard Square, you know. What do you want?”
In an instant Anya was there and put her arm around Heather’s shoulder. The young girl did not refuse the gesture of comfort.
“What’s wrong with him?” Heather gasped, terrified.
“It’s part of his condition. Try not to be upset,” Anya said as reassuringly as she could, inwardly castigating herself for not cutting off the conversation just a few moments earlier.
“Does this mean he won’t know me anymore?”
“No,” she replied, trying as hard as possible to sound convincing. “In fact, if you come to the kitchen for a cup of tea, he might … calm down again in a little while.”
Heather and Anya sat at the table as the last rays of the sun retreated from the garden. Heather looked at Anya’s soft, sad face and murmured, “You live with this all the time. How the hell can you bear it?”
The older woman let her glance drop and confessed in a whisper, “Sometimes I don’t know.”
59
ISABEL
Jerry Pracht awoke to the sound of quiet sobbing. He got out of bed, covered himself incongruously in Isabel’s paisley bathrobe, and went into the living room, where he found her seated by the window staring out at the rising sun and apparently grieving at the prospect of a new day. He went over and tenderly touched her shoulder.
“Isa, what’s wrong?” he asked softly. “Is it something about last night?”
She put her hand on his. “No, Jerry, that was beautiful. I just wish it could have lasted forever.”
“But it can—”
“No,” she interrupted. “It’s what I have to live with starting today.”
She turned and looked at him. His expression told her unambiguously that she could trust him completely.
“Listen, I told you a lot of terrible things last night. Things I wanted you to know. But I left out the worst.”
“Go on,” he said lovingly. “Nothing could ever scare me away.”
“Want to bet?” she challenged him. “Try this.”
She then told him the truth about the specter of her heredity.
“So you see,” she said with a gallows humor, “instead of being supergirl, I turned out to be a leper.”
He put his finger gently on her lips. “I don’t want you talking that way, Isa. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the same person I’ve always known and loved. And nothing you’ve said will make me walk out on you.”
She threw her arms around him passionately. “I won’t hold you to that,” she whispered. “But it’ll be nice to have you around as long as you can bear it.”
“I’m going to do more than that, I’m going to help,” he insisted. “Now, let’s deal with things in chronological order. First there’s your mother.”
“Whom I hate.”
“At this moment, anyway,” Jerry acknowledged. “But the fact remains she’s waiting for you in the hotel dining room, and I think the best thing is to get her on a plane home as soon as possible.”
“That’s for sure,” Isabel replied. “I just don’t know how I’m going to face her without—I don’t know—doing something violent.”
“We’re going to face her together, Isa. I’ll stick with her till she has to go to Logan, and I’ll make sure she gets on the plane.”
“But what do I say to her?” Isabel pleaded, at her wit’s end.
“As little as possible. I mean, be sensible, there’s no way you can undo what she’s done. But there might be steps you want to take.”
“You mean to save Edmundo?”
“The hell with him. I’m only thinking about you.”
At first Muriel was annoyed that Isabel had not come alone. But it did not take long for her to realize that this young man was an important part of her daughter’s life. In fact, she now recalled many veiled allusions in their phone conversations to “this terrific tennis player.” And despite her feelings of apprehension and dismay, it gave her some comfort. She accepted his presence without question and motioned for him to sit down and join them.
Correctly assuming that Isabel had told Jerry everything, she spoke freely.
“Professor Avilov must have called me a dozen times since we last talked. Needless to say, he’s anxious to try his therapy on Edmundo. But I think the price is your letting him test you.”
Isabel shook her head in confusion while Jerry answered firmly, “I’m not sure I’ll allow her to do it, Mrs. Zimmer. I mean, first of all, if she tests positive, there’s nothing she can do about it except live in constant fear of an early death.”
“You’re not a doctor,” Muriel objected firmly.
“Mom, he’s my best friend,” Isabel rejoined emphatically.
“I appreciate what he means to you,” Muriel said diplomatically, longing to regain her daughter’s good graces. “But even if Avilov weren’t making it the pre-condition for treating Edmundo, wouldn’t you want to know for yourself?”
Again Jerry seized the initiative. “Excuse me, but there’s a whole ethical question involved here. This is not something like AIDS, where Isa’s being positive or not might endanger other people,” he insisted. “And I don’t see where she owes Mr. Zimmer—or you, for that matter—any sacrifice.”
“But what if you had a family history of Huntington’s disease,” Muriel argued. “Wouldn’t you want to find out?”
“No,” he retorted. “I wouldn’t want anyone to find out—least of all my insurance company. At the risk of sounding sanctimonious, I think these long-term predictive genetic tests will open a Pandora’s box of medical abuses.”
“That’s very high-minded of you, young man,” Muriel fought back angrily. “But you don’t have anything to lose.”
Jerry rose furiously. “On the contrary, Mrs. Zimmer, the most precious thing in my life’s at stake,” he said softly, putting his arm around Isabel. “The girl I’m going to marry.”
Even in the depth of depression, Isabel was thrilled by Jerry’s declaration. She took his arm as he continued to address Muriel.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve taken the liberty of booking you on the noon flight to San Diego. I’ll go downstairs and wait in the car so you two can have some time to talk.”
He kissed Isabel and left mother and daughter to face each other.
Muriel tried to break the ice. “He’s quite a fellow, that young man of yours. How long have you two known—”
“It’s none of your business,” Isabel snapped.
“You must be very angry with me.”
“I don’t think that word is adequate, Mom,” she said sharply. “You betrayed Dad’s trust.”
“But can’t you look at it another way?” Muriel countered. “Edmundo is not just your natural father, his genes are very likely the reason for your gifts.”
“Come on,” Isabel said bitterly, “you surely don’t expect me to thank you for what you did.”
“All I would ever ask for is a modicum of understanding. God knows I did something wrong, but I’m certainly being punished.”
Just then an alien voice interrupted them.
“Good morning, ladies, may I join you?” It was Avilov himself, jovial and expansive.
Muriel looked up and answered helplessly, “Of course.” Ever observant, the Russian professor noted the place setting tha
t had been Jerry’s and could not keep from probing.
“Or have I interrupted something important?”
“Oh, don’t worry, Professor,” Isabel remarked sarcastically. “My mother’s not seeking a second opinion. No one’s going to try to steal your thunder.”
“I was not interested in my ‘thunder,’ Dr. da Costa. I am after all a physician, and my prime concern is saving lives.”
“And getting a lot of publicity for yourself,” Isabel added.
“I think you’re being unfair,” Avilov protested.
“Frankly, I don’t care what you think,” Isabel rejoined.
Muriel could not bear it any longer. “Can’t you two stop bickering—a man’s life’s at stake.”
Isabel was about to protest that there was more than one potential victim in this medical tragedy, but Avilov anticipated her intervention.
“Quite correct, Mrs. Zimmer. That’s why I’ve come to announce my decision.”
He paused dramatically to increase their concentration on his words.
“I’ve made special arrangements to treat Maestro Zimmer with my new therapy.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Muriel replied.
“Of course, I can give no ironclad guarantees. But nowadays, many advanced medical techniques are being practiced in highly modern clinics in the Caribbean. There you do not need FDA approval to administer experimental drugs. I suggest that we all make arrangements as soon as possible to fly to St. Lucia.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Thank you.” Muriel was close to tears.
“Fine,” the Russian stated, standing as abruptly as he had seated himself. “I will liaise with all parties concerned.” He added, “And that of course includes you, Dr. da Costa.”
“Please don’t, Professor Avilov. If I never hear from you again, it’ll be too soon.”
Jerry Pracht knew there was only one absolute way of reassuring Isabel.
“Isa, let’s get married right away.”
“What?”
“You heard me. And if you want me to, I’ll even ask your father’s—and by that I mean Raymond’s—permission.”
“There’s no way I’d let you. I’m a genetic time bomb.”
“But Isa, I love you.”
