Interstellar

Cooper sat on the bed. He had taken Donald’s advice to heart, and had been practicing what to say, staying up half the night. He hadn’t expected Murph to still be this upset, however. In his mind’s-eye rehearsal, he’d been having this conversation with a calmer, quieter daughter.

He still had to give it a go, though, and he thought he knew how to begin.

“After you kids came along,” he told her, “your mother said something I didn’t really understand. She said, ‘I look at the babies and see myself as they’ll remember me.’”

He studied Murph to see if it was sinking in.

At least she appeared to be listening. So he continued.

“She said, ‘It’s as if we don’t exist anymore, like we’re ghosts, like we’re just there to be memories for our kids.’”

He paused again before going on. The expression on Murph’s face was a little puzzled—and he didn’t blame her. It had taken him a while to get it himself.

“Now I realize,” he said, “once we’re parents, we’re just the ghosts of our children’s futures.”

“You said ghosts don’t exist,” Murph replied defiantly.

“That’s right,” Cooper said. “I can’t be your ghost right now—I need to exist. Because they chose me. They chose me, Murph. You saw it.”

Murph sat up and pointed at the shelves, at the gaps between the books.

“I figured out the message,” she said. She opened her notebook. “It was Morse code.”

“Murph…” Cooper said, gently.

She ignored him.

“One word,” she continued. “You know what it is?”

He shook his head. She held out her notebook so he could see it.

STAY

“It says ‘stay,’ Dad.” She peered at him, waiting for his response.

“Oh, Murph,” he said, his voice sad.

“You don’t believe me?” she said, her eyes flashing defiantly. “Look at the books. Look at—”

He reached out and took her in his arms, stopping her from saying anymore. She felt so little, and she was trembling.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “It’s okay.”

She pressed her face into his shoulder, sobbing.

“Murph,” he said, “a father looks in his child’s eyes and thinks, ‘Maybe it’s them. Maybe my child will save the world.’ And everyone, once a child, wants to look into their own dad’s eyes and know he saw they saved some little corner of the world. But usually, by then, the father is gone.”

“Like you will be,” she said, and she sniffed. Cooper gazed at his daughter, at the fear and pain written on her face.

“No,” he said. “I’m coming back.” Even as he said it, he understood he’d done just what Donald had told him not to. But he had to say something. To get her through it. To get both of them through it.

To give her hope.

Yet he dreaded her next question.

“When?” she asked.

Murph took little for granted. He knew that, so he was prepared. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two wristwatches.

“One for you,” he said, and then pointed to the watch on his wrist. “One for me.”

She took the watch, turning it in her hand, examining it curiously.

“When I’m in hypersleep,” he explained, “or travel near the speed of light, or near a black hole, time will change for me. It’ll run more slowly.”

Murph frowned slightly.

“When I get back we can compare,” he said, then he waited.

He could almost see her brain working through it.

“Time will run differently for us?” she said. There was a hint of wonderment in her tone, and he felt a little flush of relief. If she could see this as an adventure, her adventure as well as his, and understand his promise…

“Yup,” he told her. “By the time I get back we might be the same age. You and me. Imagine that.”

He watched as her face changed, and he knew he’d made a mistake, said perhaps exactly the wrong thing.

“Wait, Murph—”

“You have no idea when you’re coming back,” she said angrily.

He gave her a pleading look. He needed something to say, but this was off his script.

“No idea at all!” she shouted, and she slung the watch across the room before turning her back on him again.

So quickly, what little momentum he’d had—or maybe just imagined he had—was gone. His plan, such as it was, was suddenly was in tatters, and there wasn’t any time to start over, even if he knew how.

“Don’t make me leave like this,” Cooper pleaded.

But her back stayed to him.

“Please,” he said. “I have to go now.” He reached to put his hand on her shoulder, but she angrily shook it off.

“I love you, Murph,” he said, finally. “Forever. And I’m coming back.”

Slowly he stood up. Everything about him felt heavy. He knew if he stayed another minute, another hour, another day, it would be the same. Either he was going, or he wasn’t. Murph would be okay, and in time she would understand.

As he reached the threshold, he heard a thunk behind him. He turned, but Murph was still facing away from him. A newly fallen book lay on the floor. He looked at it for a moment, wondering.

Then, reluctantly, he stepped out of Murph’s room.

* * *

Donald and Tom met him at the car.

“How’d it go?” Donald asked.

“Fine,” Cooper lied. “It was fine.”

He turned to Tom and wrapped him up in a tight hug.

“I love you, Tom,” he said.

“Travel safe, Dad,” his son replied.