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 that 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.”
“Me too,” she responded. “Which is why you can’t go through with this. I have no choice, but you do.”
“In that case,” he stated, “I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“About your taking the genetic test. At least that would give me half a chance of getting you to say yes.”
“To be honest, that’s the only reason I’d go through with it. Otherwise, I agree with everything you said to my mother. I haven’t been able to sleep since I heard the news. And even if the results are terrible, at least I’d know. On the other hand, if we let Avilov do it, there’s not much chance of keeping the results under wraps.”
“I agree. For all the bull about ethics, scientists can blab as much as anybody if a celebrity’s concerned.”
Isabel sighed with disappointment.
“But the field is not lost,” Jerry announced. “This may sound perverse, but I’ve asked around and located the one person in the world who’s least likely to divulge our secret to that fat Russian shit.”
“But what makes this individual so scrupulous?”
“It’s his first wife.” His eyes twinkled. “She’s now married to Adam Coopersmith at Harvard, and even though she’s working in immunology now, when they first came over, she worked as ‘Ivan the Terrible’s’ flunky, and actually helped him develop the Huntington’s test. Between you and me, I think she probably did most of the work. And from everything I hear, she’s a wonderful person. Apparently Avilov really treated her shabbily.”
“Actually, I can’t imagine him acting any other way.”
Fifteen minutes later Jerry had booked an appointment with Dr. Anya Coopersmith.
Preoccupied though she was, Isabel could not help but feel an inexplicable kinship between herself and the still youthfully attractive Russian doctor.
As Anya sat across the desk in her office at Harvard Medical School, her face—especially her eyes—seemed to emanate a sympathy that could only have been nurtured by a personal acquaintance with tragedy.
She fully understood the need for discretion, and even insisted on drawing the blood herself.
“Gosh.” Isabel flinched. “I’m really scared of injections.”
“Everybody is.” Anya smiled. “But before I passed my U.S. boards, I worked as a lab technician. I still pride myself on my needlework.”
Her concern for minimizing pain extended to the psychological as well. After taking the blood, she promised Isabel, “The very minute I learn anything, I’ll call you.”
“Day or night,” she pleaded.
Anya nodded understandingly. “Don’t worry. My husband taught me never to keep a patient waiting a second more than necessary for news.”
“He must be a very special person,” Jerry remarked.
“Yes.” There was a tinge of sadness in her voice. To keep up appearances, she said in parting, “I’m sure Adam would like to meet you. Perhaps we can have dinner or something.”
“That would be terrific,” Isabel responded. “But first things first.”
“You’re right,” Anya Coopersmith smiled wanly. “First things first.”
Earlier that week, they had gotten their first letter from Ray on the gold-embossed Coventry Prep School paper. The timing was perfect.
Rather than sit around all weekend waiting for the phone to ring, they drove down to see him. Despite the fact that they were obliged to hide so much, it was an enjoyable outing.
Perhaps the most surprising aspect of their visit was the fact that Ray had already begun to establish the rudiments of a social life. He probably was unaware of how often the name Sharon came up in the conversation. She was the head of the girls’ athletic program and a divorcée.
“She’s a lovely girl. You’ve got to meet her the next time you’re down,” Ray emphasized, perhaps an oblique way of requesting that the two of them come again soon.
Raymond’s change of heart seemed to be unshakable. For now, far from resenting his daughter’s relationship, he seemed to sense in Jerry someone who, like himself, was totally devoted to Isabel. He even embraced the young man warmly as they exchanged good-byes.
When they reached Cambridge, there was a message on the answering machine to call Dr. Coopersmith at her home.
“I thought you would be nervous, so I rushed the test through,” she explained. “Anyway, I’m overjoyed to tell you that Isabel’s chromosomal makeup doesn’t—repeat, does not—have a dominant Huntington’s gene. That means you can look forward to a long, productive—and reproductive—life.”
Nonetheless, Anya invited the couple to come back in for another personal chat.
This time she offered an extensive explanation of what the data meant. Not only was Isabel herself in no danger of developing Huntington’s, there was no risk whatever to any children she and Jerry might have.
“You’ll just have to worry about dying from something else,” Anya said. Again, like a shadow, that strangely sad smile crossed her face.
“I propose old age,” Jerry offered.
“That’s a very good one,” Anya agreed. “What’s more, there’s all sorts of exciting work being done on longevity. We’re not far from an average life span of more than one hundred years.”
“God,” Jerry blurted, “can you imagine an entire century of that asshole, Avilov?”
He caught himself too late, and quickly turned to Anya. “I’m sorry, Dr. Coopersmith.”
“No, not at all,” she concurred. “I agree. A few months of Dmitri is enough for a lifetime.”
They all laughed.
Twenty minutes later, as they were walking down the corridor hand in hand, Isabel whispered, “Do you know how many kids the Coopersmiths have?”
“Well, he’s got a girl from a first marriage, but I don’t think he has any with Anya.”
“I could tell,” Isabel commented sympathetically. “There was such a terrible look of loss in her face when she mentioned babies.”
She stopped and said with deep emotion, “Thank you.”
“For what in particular?” he smiled.
“For being you. And for being willing to stay with me either way.”