“Father, we all want nothing more than to find a real, long-term cure for mental illness. That is why Charles Hayden and I are so excited about this incredible breakthrough. I am not sure why you refuse to even listen . . . If only . . .” Ruth’s eyes welled with tears. “If only Harry had been here now, he might . . .”
“Enough!” Bernard bellowed. Ruth startled, almost knocking over her wineglass.
“Father, I lost him too, you know.”
“You leave him out of this.” Bernard’s voice caught in his throat, and Helen reached to grab hold of his hand, scowling at Ruth. Just the mention of Harry elicited more emotion from her parents than they had shown for Ruth over her entire lifetime.
“Mr. and Mrs. Emeraldine, if I may.” Edward cleared his throat nervously and Ruth watched his ears turn red. “This was an inappropriate moment for you to learn about lobotomy, that is certain. However, as a doctor with a naturally conservative orientation, I can assure you that what Robert has pioneered has proven, in initial results, to be both safe and effective at treating severe mental illness. I think we all wish that you were not learning about it at such a lovely dinner”—he smiled sheepishly at Helen—“I know that was not your daughter’s nor Mr. Hayden’s plan. But I do want to reassure you that when you learn more on Monday, I believe you will be quite pleased.”
“I doubt it.” Bernard wouldn’t yield, and Ruth had had her fill.
“All right then, it is getting late and clearly we aren’t going to be able to move beyond this tonight.” Ruth stood, grabbing Robert’s hand. It was time to accept defeat, at least for today. There were so many things her father would never acknowledge: for Bernard, Harry’s death would always be about the loss of a rightful heir. No one to take over the family business. No one to carry on the Emeraldine name. But she would show him.
“Please do not blame Charles for your learning of this tonight. He has a thorough report that will explain every benefit, including the thesis of the paper Robert and Edward will be presenting to the Medical Society of the County of New York. I imagine when they laud this great achievement, as they most certainly will, you will feel compelled to do the same. Mother, I apologize for ruining your meal. And safe travels.”
“Helen. Mr. Emeraldine.” Robert gave a small and obsequious bow as he stood.
“So sorry for the commotion, you are a wonderful hostess.” Edward shook Helen’s hand awkwardly. “Mr. Emeraldine, thank you and sorry.” He stooped his head as he followed Ruth and Robert out of the dining room.
When they got outside, Ruth’s whole body wilted. Robert scooped her up and whispered softly, “Darling, it’s okay. If your father would rather sit idly by as we change the world, let the codger do just that. Once the medical board praises our discovery, it will usher in a new era of lobotomy and leave narrow-minded men like your father looking the fool.”
Ruth held tight to her husband, her anger at his recklessness transforming into appreciation for his unflappable confidence and unbridled genius. He was right; they didn’t need her father’s support. They had each other, and together, they were going to change the world.
INTERLUDE
MARGARET: 1952
Margaret roused suddenly. Had she heard a thud? She was disoriented, and as she turned on her side, the plastic edge of a curler hit her cheek. When had she set her hair? Her mouth tasted sour and felt pasty, like someone had painted stale coffee onto her tongue.
She was so tired. She would just close her eyes again and stay in bed a little longer. As she nestled herself deeper into the pillows and began drifting back to sleep, she could make out the sound of a baby wailing in the distance. It was far enough away that she was certain she didn’t need to worry about it. She would just pull the covers up, surrender to the pull of exhaustion, let the clouds carry her back to sleep. Back to sleep.
“Margaret Abigail!” Her mother threw open the door of her bedroom, William crying in her arms. “What in heaven’s name are you doing in here? It is two o’clock in the afternoon! Your son is starving.” Sara Davidson stomped toward her daughter, whipping the coverlet off and giving her a firm tap on the cheek. “You’re still in your housecoat? Have you even left your bed since I was here this morning?”