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:
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.