David had already declined to speak, and so he settled uncomfortably down into his chair at the table that had been reserved for the six of them, along with the provost, President McCarren, and Mrs. McCarren, a tidy woman who tried to make polite small talk with David until, at last, she gave up hope.
David’s posture was slumped; his head hung low; when people spoke to him he did not meet their gaze, but turned his own to hover someplace around their mouths, as if trying to read their lips. He did not eat until he was reminded to by Ada. He smiled politely as, one after another, his colleagues at the Bit, and some from other institutions, spoke about his achievements and intelligence, his wit and generosity; but the naming of these qualities was, to Ada, only a cruel reminder of their recent disappearance. David got tired easily now. Once or twice his eyes closed completely, and Ada jostled him as subtly as she could.
Ada was due to speak last. She felt in the pocket of her coat, which she had insisted on hanging over the back of her chair, for her speech. The paper, by then, was soft with the wear of being handled, being worried over. She produced it and put it in her lap, glanced down at it when she could. But as dessert was being served, and while the provost was speaking, David turned to her and asked, too loudly, if she was ready to leave.
Ada shook her head once, quickly. President McCarren had heard him. Ada was not certain how much the rest of the university knew about the reasons for his retirement—certainly the other members of the lab were protective enough of David not to have said too much to anyone—but in that moment she realized that everyone must have known that something was wrong with her father.
“Come now, Ada,” said David. “Really, let’s go.”
Politely, McCarren averted his gaze.
Ada leaned toward him and whispered to him urgently. “It’s for you,” she said. “The dinner is for you. We can’t leave yet.”
David was shaking his head slowly, as if he had not heard her. “I’ve got to go,” he said, and unsteadily he stood up from his chair. He held a hand up to the rest of the table. “Okay,” he said, “bye to all, now.”
Ada stood up, too. She wanted to reach out to him, to pull him forcibly back by his elbow, but she felt that that would be worse. Her speech fell from her lap onto the floor and she bent to retrieve it. Without meaning to, she caught Liston’s eye as she rose, and on her face Ada saw a look of such sadness, such pity, that she quickly turned away. Together, she and David left through a side door. And behind her, Ada heard the provost stutter and then pause.
“Well,” he said, “I guess our guest of honor is indisposed . . .”
Then they were outside, and they stood together for a while on the sidewalk while Ada decided what to do next. The rain had stopped but it was bitterly cold, too cold for April.
“Can we take a cab?” Ada asked—something that David abhorred. To him, taxis were for the lazy, the fiscally irresponsible. But she thought it was worth asking, for she was shivering even in her ski parka, and that night he immediately agreed.
In the taxi, Ada was silent, furious. She said nothing except to give the driver directions, when David failed to. David rested his head against the headrest, closing his eyes for a while. She looked over at him resentfully. In the yellow light from storefronts and streetlamps, he looked sickly and old. She had been noticing lately that his physical size was shrinking: although he had always been thin, he had seemed shorter, recently, more stooped: as if he had aged five years in a week. His eyes had dark circles beneath them. She supposed he had been handsome once; his stature had helped him to be so. He was uncommonly old when she’d been born, yes, but he’d always seemed young for his years. He was tall and well built, at least, with fine features and bright, inquisitive eyes. When he felt like it, he was capable of listening intently for hours on end. Women had always liked him: Ada was not oblivious to this fact. But he was changed now. More like a grandfather than a father. Someone incapable of offering her protection. She felt unsteady and unsafe.
At home, Ada retreated to her room without saying good night. She turned on her computer, pulled ELIXIR up to have a talk. And then she heard the sound of David’s footsteps on the stairs, heard a faint knock on her door.
It was rare for David to come into her room: she had no memories of him sitting on the edge of her bed, reading her a story as she drifted to sleep. Though he read to her, it was always downstairs, in the living room, in a somewhat businesslike manner: she sitting in one chair, he in another; and when she tired, Ada would trot upstairs and put herself to bed. At four years old she knew how to brush her teeth, wash her face, comb her hair so it would not tangle; she knew how to don her nightgown, to tuck her little body into bed.
Now she went to her bedroom door and opened it a crack. She was still wearing her ridiculous outfit, banana-colored dress, heavy black tights.
David looked distressed. The light in the hallway was off. She could see him only in the light cast upon him by her little desk lamp.
“May I come in, Ada?” he said.
She opened the door a bit more. There was only one chair in her room, at her desk; David claimed this, so she sat down on her twin bed, across from him. He looked at her seriously.
“I want to apologize,” he said.
Ada was silent.
“I’ve spent a great deal of time denying what’s become undeniable recently,” he continued. “That my mind is most certainly being taken from me, slowly. This is a truth that I have found it difficult to confront.”
She looked at him. She felt recalcitrant, unswayed.
“I can tell you’re upset. While I have my wits about me,” said David, “while I am relatively mentally intact, I want to tell you what it has meant to me to have you as my daughter, Ada. You cannot imagine.
“Now—” he said, holding up one hand to stop her as she opened her mouth to speak, “Now. It is true that great innovations in the field of medical research and technology are becoming . . .” He trailed off, looking down at his palms, as if wishing for notes.
“Innovations in medicine and technology,” said Ada.
“Yes,” said David. “There is a chance that some intervention will occur in my lifetime that will reverse the course of what I now see as my inevitable decline. A small and improbable chance, but a chance nonetheless. That said, I don’t think you should cling to this hope. Because, as we both must accept, the likeliest course of events is that I will die before you’ve reached adulthood. And therefore that is my prediction, and that is the path for which you should prepare yourself.”