Despite his vigorous protestations, Raymond da Costa had been deeply shaken by his heart attack. He could take no comfort from the pious platitudes mouthed by Dr. Gorman or even from reading the articles on which the cardiologist based his optimistic prognosis that, with a healthier lifestyle, he “could live to be a hundred.”
One afternoon as they were walking home from classes, father and daughter stopped in at the university store, where he bought track suits and shoes for both of them. While he chose the least ostentatious for himself, he gave Isabel free rein, and she opted for a slightly bolder outfit emblazoned with U.C. BERKELEY.
Thereafter, he would set his alarm for five-thirty A.M. and wake Isabel so the two of them could jog inconspicuously on the track at nearby Edwards Field. He was damned if he’d let himself die without seeing his cherished daughter mount the podium in Stockholm.
While rummaging through the Medical Reference Library on his computer database, he had come across an article asserting the theory that regular physical activity could raise a child’s IQ between five and ten percent. Imagine how high that would put his Isabel! He made sure that she never missed a day.
Isabel was painfully stiff during that first week, and was so out of shape that she could not do more than one lap without slowing down to walk and catch her breath. At last she was hooked and began to feel the high that running brings. It was not long before she could go two miles without stopping.
Yet she never tried to progress beyond this point, because it seemed to be the limit of her father’s ability.
Early one morning several weeks after their exercise routine had begun, Raymond emerged in his track suit to find Isabel seated at the dining table, still in the jeans and sweater she had been wearing the night before.
“Hey,” he said with mock severity, “how come you’re not ready for our pre-Olympic workout?”
She glanced with surprise at her watch and exclaimed “Ohmigod, is it morning already?”
“You mean you haven’t been to bed?”
“No—I got addicted to the fiendish problems in this book. They’re like Cracker Jacks—once you start, you can’t stop. I was so involved that I guess I didn’t notice the time.”
“Really?” Raymond remarked with satisfaction. “For what course?”
“None,” she replied, showing him the cover of J. D. Jackson’s Electrodynamics.
“But you’re not taking Electricity and Magnetism this term,” Raymond objected. “What’s the rush?”
“It’s just for fun,” she explained. “Karl told me that most of his Ph.D. candidates couldn’t do half the questions, and I was so intrigued that I begged him to lend me his copy.”
“Who’s Karl?” her father asked suspiciously.
“Professor Pracht, my new adviser.”
“Since when?” Raymond demanded uneasily. “What happened to Tanner?”
“Well, Elliott’s going on his last sabbatical next year,” Isabel replied matter-of-factly. “And, as he put it, he wanted to leave me with a good baby-sitter.”
The chairman’s phraseology did not reassure Raymond “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” he asked, trying to mask his apprehension.
“Well, when I got home last night, you were speaking to that reporter from Sacramento, and then your first pupil came. Besides, it’s hardly headline news.”
“That’s not the point,” Raymond objected. “He’s much too young. I mean—”
She laughed. “Dad, I’m all of fourteen, and Karl’s nearly your age. Besides, he’s really with it. He’s a specialist in particle physics.”
Raymond forced himself to smile and then prudently changed the subject. “Coming to work out?”
“I don’t think I could go one lap.” She yawned. “I’ll have breakfast ready when you come back.”
“Are you sure you’re not going to use the time sitting over another of those problems?”
“Well,” she grinned, “I might—if you run long enough.”
Raymond nodded and left for his workout.
Jogging seemed especially difficult for Raymond today. Perhaps, he thought, because he was still in a state of shock. The sight of Isabel playing with that text had been traumatic, for though he had never confided this secret even to Muriel, electromagnetic theory was one of the fields he had flunked on his own Ph.D. qualifying exam.
He himself had deliberately ignored Jackson’s book, knowing the problems at the ends of each chapter were far beyond his abilities.
The moment Ray had been dreading for years had finally arrived. His daughter had transcended the limits of his own intellectual capacity. How could he now justify his role as her mentor?
Ray trembled at the prospect of his daughter forming a relationship with a greater mind than his.
In a strange way, it was not unlike a mother having to let go of her child at the nursery school gate.
Except that Raymond da Costa was determined to postpone their separation as long as possible.
“I object, Professor Tanner. I most strenuously object.”
“On what grounds?” asked the grandfatherly chairman of the Physics Department.
“Well, with due respect, compared to some of the world-class scientists on your faculty, Pracht’s too young and inexperienced.”
The chairman was bemused. “Surely I don’t have to tell you, Mr. da Costa, that math and physics prodigies bloom early.”
“Well, maybe. But, to put it mildly, my daughter is a rather special student, wouldn’t you agree?”
Tanner leaned across his desk for emphasis. “Mr. da Costa, all of us share the same respect for Isabel’s intellectual gifts—and that’s precisely why I thought Pracht would be the perfect choice. He’s so well-regarded that we almost lost him twice last year, and only kept him by giving him the highest raise we could. But what’s most important, he and Isabel get on like a house afire.”
Raymond was satisfied. But not happy.
Toward the end of Isabel’s second trimester at Berkeley, Raymond received a letter from the Dean’s office, acknowledging his request that, based on Isabel’s advanced standing in the Scholastic Achievement Tests, she could, by remaining at Berkeley for the summer sessions, attain her Bachelor of Science degree in two and a half years.
Yet the dean added a personal note, imploring Raymond to dissuade Isabel from undertaking this acceleration. In his view, it would once again call attention to her precocity and bring the swarming journalists out of their hives.
Weary of such homilies, Ray took the advice with a grain of salt. When he picked Isabel up at Le Conte Hall that afternoon, he conveyed only the good news, without the cautionary addendum.
She was pleased—mostly because it made him so happy.
In mid-June 1986 father and daughter drove back to San Diego for Peter’s high school graduation. He urged his daughter not to reveal their plans for the summer. “We don’t want your mother to talk you out of it,” he said as lightly as he could.
Isabel was more concerned with how Peter would react to seeing her, especially since she was so far ahead of him academically.
Yet all her anxiety dissipated as they drove up to the house and her brother ran out to the car to embrace her, carrying a “Welcome Home” balloon.
Isabel felt happy to be home, to be sleeping in her own bed surrounded by the dolls and furry animals she had been obliged to leave behind. There was a special kind of happiness just being in that room.
She lay awake trying to imagine how her life would have been had she never left, but gone to junior high school instead. Yet there was no use dreaming—she had already traveled too far on a different road. And there was no turning back.
The graduation exercises took place the next morning in the high school stadium. Although there was hearty applause as he came up to the podium, Peter’s brief moment of glory was dimmed when the spectators suddenly realized that, if he was on the rostrum, his celebrity sister would surely be somewhere nearby.
Dozens of eyes scanned the audience and discovered the famous prodigy. So enthusiastic were they to see her in the flesh, they did not even wait for the ceremony to conclude.
Several of those seated nearest to her badgered Isabel to autograph their programs. She was caught off guard, and did not know what sort of reaction would least detract from a day that rightfully belonged to her older brother.
At the outdoor picnic that followed, Peter did not seem resentful. He merely kissed his family and ran off to join his classmates, who, it was rumored, had smuggled in a case of beer.
That night, elegantly dressed and painstakingly groomed, and smelling as if he had splashed the latest macho cologne on every inch of his body, Peter set off.
Muriel had loaned him her car so that he could pick up the girl he referred to as “my woman” and drive her in style to the graduation dance at the gym.
When he returned in the early hours of the morning, he headed to the kitchen and was surprised to find his young sister still awake, leafing through a copy of Cosmopolitan, of all things.
“My God, Isabel,” he joked, “I never imagined you’d read stuff like that. Are you sure you’re not using it just to hide some highbrow physics journal?” He reached into the fridge and withdrew a can of beer.
“Come on, Peter, I’m not a complete freak,” she answered amiably. “Don’t you think I have any fun at Berkeley?”
Her brother sat down and, irreverently placing his feet on the table, pulled open the beer tab and replied, “No. From what I see about you in the papers, you devote every minute of your life to the pursuit of knowledge.”
“Well, you should never believe what you read.”
“And what exactly do you do for recreation?” he asked.
“Go to the movies a couple of times a week.”
“On dates?” her brother probed gently.
“Of course not. I’m just fourteen years old.”
“Well, that shouldn’t stop you from having a sixteen-year-old boyfriend.”
“Gosh, you seem to view the world as one big dating game.”
“Well, at your age that should at least be part of it.”
Isabel was confused. She could not tell if he was mocking her or—as she increasingly hoped—offering her a chance to open up and vent her feelings.
“Look, Peter,” she explained, as much to convince herself as to persuade him, “I’m taking graduate seminars. I love the work, but there’s a heck of a lot of it.”
He took another sip of suds and asked point-blank: “Does Dad have a social life?”
The question stunned Isabel—and embarrassed her. “Of course not, he’s married to Mom.”
“Are you serious? It’s more like a long term ceasefire. Actually, I’m happy she doesn’t sit home and mope.”
“You mean Mom goes out with other men?” Isabel asked, upset by the thought.
“In a word, yes. Now, I can’t tell whether they’re platonic relationships or not. But she’s definitely not letting herself wither on the vine.”
“Uh, is there somebody special?”
“Well, she goes to a lot of the musical evenings with Edmundo.”
“Isn’t he married?” Isabel asked.
“My God, what planet do you live on, Isabel? This is California—divorce is more popular than baseball. But actually, even though they haven’t seen each other for years, Edmundo’s wife is very Catholic and still refuses to give him a divorce. Mom likes him and they have a lot in common.”
“I don’t know whether I want to hear any more of this,” Isabel complained, uncomfortable with her brother’s matter-of-fact description of their mother’s private life. “Do you think Dad and Mom are going to, you know, break up?” she asked apprehensively.
“Well, they’re hardly together now, are they?”
She was silent for a moment. Peter removed his feet from the table, stood up and put his arm around her.
“Listen, Isabel, I’m not saying any of this to freak you out. But what are brothers and sisters for? Besides, you’re the only person in the world I can talk to about this.”
Isabel was moved. She looked at him with affection and whispered, “You know, I didn’t realize how much I missed you until tonight.”
“I’m glad.” He responded with a quick hug. “I’m really looking forward to this summer, when we’ll be together. Mom’s booked a cabin in Yellowstone and—” Peter suddenly realized that Isabel had stopped smiling. “Shoot, you don’t mean to tell me that you’re finking out?”
She nodded but could not look him in the face.
“No,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “He couldn’t do that to you. I was looking forward to—”
“So was I, Peter,” she said plaintively. “But the department granted my request to get an early B.S.”
“You mean his request, don’t you?”
“Peter, it doesn’t matter who wrote the letter. We both agreed that it was the right thing to do.”
Her brother’s face reddened with anger and disappointment. “Isabel, if you’ll allow my plebeian comparison, you’re going to be like the bear who climbed over the mountain. Only after you get your Ph.D.—which no doubt will take a mere four to five weeks—there won’t be any more mountains.”
“There will, Peter. The sooner I finish my courses and get my degrees, the sooner I’ll be able to do my own research.”
“Sis, he doesn’t really love you for yourself. He’s only using you to compensate for—”
Isabel rose to her feet. “I’d prefer not to discuss this any more,” she said firmly.
“Why, are you afraid you’ll believe it?” She had begun to march off when Peter called gently, “Isabel, let me say one more thing.”
She stopped and turned to him. “What?”
“Someday you’re gonna open your eyes and realize how unhappy you are. I just want you to know that whenever that happens—at any time of the day or night—I’ll be at the other end of the phone.”
Peter knew she could not answer in words. To do so would be to acknowledge that he was right. But he could tell from her eyes that she was touched.
Isabel grew increasingly anxious in the days that followed, knowing that her parents were headed on a collision course. But when the terrible moment came, it was uncannily silent—like an emotional implosion, for her mother had resolved that she would not let anything imperil her already tenuous relationship with Isabel.
Two days later, as her daughter was packing to leave, Muriel came in and tried to broach the subject casually.
“Need any help?” she asked.
“No thanks, Mom, I didn’t bring much down.”
“Listen, darling,” Muriel began softly. “Your father’s told me of the new supersonic academic plans. I’ve given up trying to reason with him. He’s dealing from a position of strength. He knows that—even though I’m dead set against it—I’d never try to take you away from your studies.”
Isabel looked at her mother’s anguished expression and was at a loss for words. The best she could manage was a simple but sincere, “Thanks, Mom.”
But there was more to say. “On the other hand,” Muriel continued, “Your father and I have our own business to settle, and we’ve come to the conclusion that we might as well ring down the curtain on what isn’t really a marriage anymore. We’re going to file for divorce.”
Isabel was rocked. For though the rational—scientific—part of her had observed the outward dissolution of her parents’ marital bonds, she had nevertheless taken wishful comfort in the illusion that they had maintained for her benefit.
Yet now that it had been brutally shattered, she felt compelled to confess, “Oh, gosh, Mom I’m so sorry. I mean, I know it’s all my fault.”
“What are you talking about, darling?” Muriel asked.
“Wherever I go I seem to mess things up.”
“I don’t know why, Isabel, but I somehow suspected you’d want to take the blame. That’s the crazy thing about divorce. Even the most aggrieved party feels guilty. But as strange as this may sound,” she continued more softly, “one of the most important reasons I wanted to put an end to the unspoken tension is that—at least for the time being—you’re the only thing keeping Ray alive.”