The Rosie Effect

by Graeme Simsion

  I assumed she was going to mention the bluefin tuna again. I was wrong.

  ‘Don’t ever have children.’

  8

  ‘Earth to Don. Are you still reading me? I asked how you were feeling about becoming a father.’

  I did not need Rosie’s reminder. My reflections on the Bluefin Tuna Incident had been replaced by a struggle to answer her question and I was not making much progress. I suspected that Claudia’s recommended response to difficult personal enquiries—Why are you asking?—would not work here. It was obvious why Rosie was asking. She wanted to ensure that I was psychologically ready for the most challenging and important task of my life. And the truth was that I had already been judged, professionally judged, by a social worker accustomed to dealing with family disasters, as unfit.

  In describing the lunch to Rosie seven weeks earlier, I had focused on matters that would be of immediate interest to her: the restaurant, the food and Seymour’s book about guilt. I did not mention Lydia’s assessment of my suitability as a father, since it was only a single—albeit expert—opinion, and of no immediate relevance.

  My mother had given me a useful rule when I was young: before sharing interesting information that has not been solicited, think carefully about whether it has the potential to cause distress. She had repeated it on a number of occasions, usually after I had shared some interesting information. I was still thinking carefully when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Shit. Who’s that?’ said Rosie.

  I could predict who it was, with a high degree of certainty, taking into account the scheduled arrival time of the Qantas flight from Melbourne via Los Angeles and travel time from JFK. I released the security lock and Rosie jumped up to open the door. When Gene emerged from the elevator, he was carrying two suitcases and a bunch of flowers, which he immediately gave to Rosie. Even I could see that his arrival had caused a change in the human dynamics. A few moments earlier, I was struggling to find the correct words to say. Now, the problem had been transferred to Rosie.

  Fortunately, Gene is an expert in social interaction. He moved towards me as if to hug me, then, detecting my body language or remembering our past protocols, shook my hand instead. After releasing it, he hugged Rosie.

  Gene is my best friend, yet I find hugging him uncomfortable. In fact, I only enjoy close contact with people with whom I have sex, a category containing one person only. Rosie dislikes Gene, yet she managed to hug him for approximately four seconds without a break.

  ‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,’ said Gene. ‘I know you’re not my biggest fan.’ He was speaking to Rosie, of course. I have always liked Gene, although this has required forgiveness for some immoral behaviour.

  ‘You’ve gained weight,’ I said. ‘We need to schedule some running.’ I estimated Gene’s BMI as twenty-eight, three points higher than when I had last seen him ten months earlier.

  ‘How long are you staying?’ said Rosie. ‘Has Don told you I’m pregnant?’

  ‘He has not,’ said Gene. ‘That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.’ He used the wonderful news as an excuse to repeat the hug and avoid answering the question about the duration of his visit.

  Gene looked around. ‘I really do appreciate this. What a great place. Columbia must pay better than I thought. But I’m interrupting dinner.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Rosie. ‘We shouldn’t have started before you. Have you eaten?’

  ‘I’m a bit jet-lagged. Not sure what time my body thinks it is.’

  Here, I could help.

  ‘You should drink alcohol. Remind your body that it’s evening.’ I went to the coolroom to collect a bottle of pinot noir while Gene began unpacking in what, until now, had been the spare room. Rosie followed me.

  Rosie stared at the barrels of beer, then looked suddenly ill and dashed out. It was true that the smell was much stronger inside the coolroom. I heard the bathroom door slam. Then there was a loud noise, a crash, but not from the bathroom. It was followed by a booming sound at similar volume. It was drumming from upstairs. An electric guitar joined in. When Rosie returned from the bathroom, I had the earplugs ready, but I suspected that her level of satisfaction had dropped.

  She went to her new study while I fitted my own earplugs and finished my meal. Fifty-two minutes later the music stopped and I was able to talk with Gene. He was certain that his marriage was over, but it seemed to me that he merely needed to rectify his behaviour. Permanently.

  ‘That was the plan,’ he said.

  ‘It was the only reasonable plan. Draw up a spreadsheet. Two columns. On one side you have Claudia, Carl, Eugenie, stability, accommodation, domestic efficiency, moral integrity, respectability, no more inappropriate-conduct complaints, vast advantages. On the other, you have occasional sex with random women. Is it significantly better than sex with Claudia?’

  ‘Of course not. Not that I’ve had a chance to compare recently. Can we talk about this later? It’s been a long flight. Two flights.’

  ‘We can talk tomorrow. Every day until we get it resolved.’

  ‘Don, it’s over. I’ve accepted it. Now, tell me how it feels to be an expectant father.’

  ‘I don’t have any feelings about it yet. It’s too early.’

  ‘I think I might ask you every day until we get it resolved. You’re a bit nervous, aren’t you?’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘All men are. Worried they’ll lose their wives to the baby. Worried they’ll never have sex again. Worried they won’t cut it.’

  ‘I’m not average. I expect I will have unique problems.’

  ‘And you’ll solve them in your own unique way.’

  This was an extremely helpful contribution. Problem-solving is one of my strengths. But it failed to address the immediate dilemma.

  ‘What do I tell Rosie? She wants to know how I feel.’

  ‘You tell her that you’re excited about being a father. Don’t burden her with your insecurities. Got any port?’

  The music started again. I didn’t have any port, so substituted Cointreau and we sat without talking until Rosie came out to get me. Gene had fallen asleep in the chair. It was probably more comfortable than sleeping on the floor. It was certainly better than being homeless in New York.

  In the bedroom, Rosie smiled and kissed me.

  ‘So the Gene situation is acceptable?’ I said.

  ‘No. It’s not. Nor is the beer smell, which we’re going to have to do something about if you don’t want me throwing up in the evenings as well as the mornings. And obviously you need to talk to the people upstairs about the noise. I mean, you can’t give earplugs to a baby. But the apartment is just stunningly, wonderfully brilliant.’

  ‘Sufficient to compensate for the problems?’

  ‘Almost.’ She smiled.

  I looked at the world’s most beautiful woman, dressed only in a too-large t-shirt, sitting up in my bed—our bed. Waiting for me to say the words that would allow this extraordinary situation to continue.

  I took a deep breath, expelled the air, then took another breath to allow speech. ‘I’m incredibly excited about becoming a father.
’ I was using the word excited in the sense that I would use it to say an electron was excited: activated rather than in a particular emotional state. Hence I was speaking sincerely, which was a good thing, as Rosie would have detected a lie.

  Rosie flung her arms around me and hugged me for longer than she had hugged Gene. I was feeling much better. I could allow my intellect to rest and enjoy the experience of being close to Rosie. Gene’s advice had been excellent and had, at least for me, justified his presence. I would solve the noise problem and the beer problem and the fatherhood problem in my own way.

  I woke with a headache, which I attributed to the stress associated with recalling the Bluefin Tuna Incident. My life was becoming more complex. In addition to my duties as professor and spouse, I was now responsible for monitoring beer, Gene and, potentially, Rosie, whom I suspected would continue to be neglectful of her health, even during this critical period. And, of course, I needed to do some research to prepare myself for fatherhood.

  There were two possible responses to the increased load. The first was to put in place a more formal schedule to ensure that time was allocated efficiently, taking into account the relative priority of each task and its contribution to critical goals. The second was to embrace chaos. The correct choice was obvious. It was time to initiate the Baby Project.

  I suspected Rosie would have a negative reaction to the installation of a whiteboard in the living room. I discovered a brilliant solution. The white tiles on the walls of my new bathroom-office were tall and narrow: approximately thirty centimetres high and ten centimetres wide. They provided a ready-made grid with a surface suitable for a whiteboard marker. On one wall were nineteen columns of seven tiles, interrupted only by the toilet-roll holder which occupied one tile and obscured another—an almost perfect template for a rolling eighteen-week calendar. Each tile could be divided into seventeen horizontal slots to cover waking hours, with the possibility of further vertical subdivision. Rosie was unlikely to see the schedule, given her statement about respecting my personal space.

  Of course I could have used a computer spreadsheet or calendar application. But the wall was much bigger than my screen and filling in my scheduled research meetings, martial-arts training and market jogs for the first four weeks induced an unexpected sense of wellbeing.

  The morning after Gene’s arrival, we travelled together on the subway to Columbia. The journey from our new apartment was much shorter and I had rescheduled my departure time accordingly. Rosie had not yet adjusted her daily routine and took an earlier train.

  I used the time to talk to Gene about his family problem. ‘She rejected you because you cheated on her. Multiple times. After you lied to her about stopping. Therefore she needs to be convinced that you are no longer a cheat and a liar.’

  ‘Not so loud, Don.’

  I had raised my voice to emphasise these critical points and people were looking at us—and Gene particularly—with disapproval. A woman stepping off at Penn Station said, ‘Shame on you.’ The woman behind her added, ‘Pig.’ It was useful to have my argument reinforced but Gene attempted to change the subject.

  ‘Thought any more about fatherhood?’

  I had not yet included any baby-related activities in my new white-tile schedule, although they had been the original motivation for creating it. It was possible my mind was responding to an unexpected event by activating primitive defence mechanisms and pretending it did not exist. I needed to do two things: acknowledge the upcoming birth by stating it out loud to others and undertake some actual research.

  After installing Gene in his office at Columbia, we had coffee with Professor David Borenstein. Rosie joined us, in her role as my partner, rather than as a medical student. David had been extremely helpful in supporting our visas and relocation. ‘So what’s news with you, Don?’ he asked.

  I was about to give David an update on my investigation of genetic predisposition to cirrhosis of the liver in mice, which was nearing completion, when I remembered my earlier decision to acknowledge my impending fatherhood.

  ‘Rosie’s pregnant,’ I said.

  Everyone was silent. I knew immediately that I had made an error, as Rosie kicked me under the table. It was obviously ineffective; the statement could not be retracted.

  ‘Well,’ said David. ‘Congratulations.’

  Rosie smiled. ‘Thanks. It’s not really public yet, so—’

  ‘Of course. And with my faculty hat on, I can assure you that you’re not the first student to have some disruption to their studies.’

  ‘I’m not planning to let it disrupt my studies.’ I recognised Rosie’s ‘Don’t fuck with me’ voice. It seemed inadvisable to use it on the Dean.

  But David did not detect the tone, or chose to ignore it. ‘I’m not the person to talk to,’ he said. ‘When you’re ready, have a chat to Mandy Rau. You know Mandy? She’s the counsellor. Make sure you tell her you’re covered by Don’s medical plan.’

  Rosie was about to speak again, but David raised both hands in a double ‘Stop’ signal and the subject changed to Gene’s program.

  David declined a second coffee. ‘Sorry, I have to go, but I need to speak to Don about the cirrhosis research. Walk back with me? You’re welcome to join us, Gene.’

  Gene, despite having no interest in my research, joined us.

  ‘I gather you’ve finished the component of the study that needs a visiting professor,’ said the Dean.

  ‘There’s still a vast quantity of data to be analysed,’ I said.

  ‘That’s what I meant—it’s mainly legwork. I thought you might like some assistance.’

  ‘Not if it means applying for a grant.’ It is generally less time-consuming to do work myself than to get involved in the paperwork required to get help.

  ‘No, you don’t need to apply for a grant. In this specific instance.’ He laughed and Gene joined in. ‘But I’ve got a post-doc researcher, strong on statistics, on loan to us—it’s a bit of a personal favour to a colleague, but there’s got to be meaningful work. Not least in case they audit the visa.’

  ‘Take him,’ said Gene.

  Gene’s publication list was populated by work performed by such people under his notional supervision. I did not want my name on papers I had not written. But I owed it to David Borenstein to not waste my time on tasks that could be performed by a more junior person who would benefit from the experience.

  ‘Her name’s Inge,’ said David. ‘She’s Lithuanian.’

  Gene left us, and the Dean and I walked for a while without speaking. I presumed he was thinking—a pleasant change from most people who regard a gap in the conversation as a space that requires filling. We were almost at his office when he spoke again.

  ‘Don, the counsellor is going to suggest Rosie takes time off. That’s sensible. But we don’t want to lose her. We like to keep our students and she’s a good one. The timing’s not great. She’ll probably need to defer the first six months of her major clinical year, then have the baby and come back second semester, or the following year. I’d say take the whole year. It’ll give you time to work out the care arrangements, which will probably involve you.’

  I had not thought about this practical issue, and David’s advice seemed sou
nd. ‘Some women take a month or two off and come right back, and arrange to pick up what they’ve missed in the vacation. I think that’s a mistake. Especially for you two.’

  ‘Why specifically us?’

  ‘You don’t have local support. If you both had parents or siblings living here—maybe. There’s only so much child care you can contract out. I’d say, defer the whole year. Or the baby will suffer, the study will suffer, she’ll suffer. And let me tell you from bitter experience, you’ll suffer too.’

  ‘Seems like excellent advice. I’ll tell Rosie.’

  ‘Don’t tell her it came from me.’

  The Dean of Medicine, our sponsor, an experienced parent. Could there be anyone with greater authority to offer advice on balancing medical studies and parenthood? Yet I suspected he was right in recommending I not mention his name. Rosie would instinctively reject the advice of an older male in authority.

  My prediction was correct.

  ‘I’m not taking a year out of the program,’ Rosie said when I presented David’s advice that evening without citing its source. We were having dinner with Gene, our new family member, who was making use of one of the surplus chairs.

  ‘A year out is nothing in the long term,’ said Gene.

  ‘Did you take time off when Eugenie was born?’ said Rosie.

  ‘Claudia did.’

  ‘Then just equate me to you rather than Claudia. Or is that too big a leap?’

  ‘So Don’s going to look after the baby?’

  Rosie laughed. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, Don has to work. And…’

  I was interested to hear what other reasons Rosie might cite for my not being able to look after Bud, but Gene interrupted.