The Rosie Effect

by Graeme Simsion

‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you join me on the orange juice wagon? You smelled like a brewery when you came in last night.’

  ‘It was probably the beer leaking again.’

  ‘Don, I think we need to talk. I’m not sure you’re coping.’

  ‘Everything is fine. I’ll be back at work this afternoon. Everything will be back on schedule.’

  ‘Okay. But I’m just a little bit stressed too. My thesis is a mess.’

  ‘You need to avoid stress. You still have eight weeks. I recommend talking to Gene. You’re supposed to talk to your supervisor about your thesis.’

  ‘Right now I need to get the stats sorted, which is not exactly Gene’s thing. It was bad enough having to report to him once a month without him living in the house and knowing I’m in trouble. And getting my husband drunk.’

  ‘I’m an expert in statistics. What are you using?’

  ‘You want to help me cheat in front of my supervisor? Anyway, I need to do this myself. I’m just having trouble concentrating. I get something in my head and suddenly my brain’s somewhere else and I have to start again.’

  ‘You’re sure you’re not getting early-onset Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia?’

  ‘I’m pregnant. And I’ve got a lot of stuff going on. I walked past the counsellor today and she said, just casually, “I heard the news; any time you want to have a chat.” Shit, I can barely keep my head straight with what I’m doing and she’s talking about something that’s months away.’

  ‘Presumably the counsellor is an expert—’

  ‘Don’t. Just leave it for the moment. What did Gene say about moving out? You spoke to him last night, right?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll speak to him again today.’ Both statements were technically correct. Elaborating would have added to Rosie’s stress.

  My second attempt to book an assessment at Bellevue was a disaster. Brendan, the person the senior police officer had referred me to, was on stress leave, joining Rosie and me and presumably much of New York in needing to lower his cortisol to safe levels. There were no other appointments available for eight days. I decided it would be more useful to appear in person, in the expectation that there would be cancellations or no-shows.

  The clinic was at approximately the same latitude as our apartment, but on 1st Avenue on the East Side of Manhattan. I used the cross-town bicycle ride to plan my approach and had my speech ready when I arrived at the psychiatric-assessment unit. The sign above the receptionist’s barred window said Check-in.

  ‘Greetings. My name is Don Tillman and I am a suspected paedophile. I wish to put myself on standby for an assessment.’

  She looked up from her paperwork for only a few seconds.

  ‘We don’t have a waiting list. You need to make an appointment.’

  I had prepared for this tactic.

  ‘Can I speak to your manager?’

  ‘I’m sorry, she’s not available.’

  ‘When will she be available?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr—’ She waited as if expecting me to say something, then continued. ‘You really have to make an appointment. Those are the rules. And you need to take your bike outside.’

  I restated my case for immediate assessment, this time in detail. It took some time, and she made multiple attempts to interrupt. She finally succeeded. ‘Sir, there are people waiting.’

  She was right. I had a growing audience who seemed impressed by my arguments. I addressed my summary to them.

  ‘Statistically, at some time this morning, there will be a psychologist, supported by taxpayers, drinking coffee and surfing the internet due to failure of a client to keep his or her appointment, while a potential psychopathic paedophile is free to roam the streets of New York City, unassessed—’

  ‘You’re a paedophile?’ A woman of about thirty, wearing a tracksuit, BMI approximately forty, was asking the question.

  ‘An accused paedophile. I was arrested in a children’s playground.’

  She spoke to the receptionist. ‘Someone oughta see this guy.’ It was clear that she had the support of the other people in the waiting area.

  The receptionist scanned a list and picked up the phone. Approximately a minute later she said, ‘Ms Aranda will see you in an hour if you’re prepared to wait.’ She gave me a form to complete. A victory for rationality.

  ‘I gather you were anxious to talk to someone,’ said Ms Aranda (estimated age forty-five, BMI twenty-two), who introduced herself as Rani. She listened for the forty-one minutes required to explain the events of the previous day. I observed a progressive improvement in her facial expression from frown to smile.

  ‘This is not the first time you have gotten yourself into a sticky situation?’ she said when I had finished.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘But there has been no problem with children before?’

  ‘Only when I was at school. When children were my contemporaries.’

  She laughed. ‘You have survived so far. If you had not been a bit awkward with the police they would have probably just told you the rules and sent you off. It’s not against the law to be awkward.’

  ‘Fortunately. Or I would have already been sentenced to the electric chair.’ It was only a small joke, but Rani laughed again.

  ‘I’ll write something for the police, and you will be free to get back to your research about children. I suggest visiting your relatives, which is a good thing to do in any case. Wish your wife good luck with the birth.’

  A huge burden was lifted from my shoulders. I had solved the problem without stressing Rosie. Tonight I would tell her the story and she would say, ‘Don, I said when I agreed to marry you that I was expecting constant craziness. You’re incredible.’

  Then I realised that someone was looking at us through the glass. It was not until she signalled to Rani, who left the interview room to join her, that I recognised her. It had been fifty-three days since our encounter but the tall stature, low BMI and associated deficit of fat deposits on her face were unmistakable. Lydia from the Bluefin Tuna Incident.

  Rani talked to Lydia for a few minutes, then walked away. Lydia joined me in the office.

  ‘Greetings, Lydia.’

  ‘My name is Mercer. Lydia Mercer. I’m the senior social worker and I’m taking responsibility for your case.’

  ‘I thought everything was resolved. I assumed you had recognised me—’

  She interrupted. ‘Mr Tillman, I’m prepared to believe we may have crossed paths in the past, but I think it would be helpful if you put it out of your mind. You’ve been arrested for a crime, and a…conservative…assessment from us could put the police in a position of having to follow through. Am I being clear enough for you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Your wife’s pregnant?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Don’t ever have children, she had said. I had violated her instruction, though not through any deliberate action of my own. I added, in my defence, ‘It wasn’t planned.’

  ‘And you think you’re equipped to be a father?’

>   I recalled Gene’s advice. ‘I’m expecting that instinct will ensure essentially correct behaviour.’

  ‘As it did when you assaulted the police officer. How’s your wife coping?’

  ‘Coping? There’s no baby yet.’

  ‘She works?’

  ‘She’s a medical student.’

  ‘You don’t think she might require some additional support at this time?’

  ‘Additional to what? Rosie is self-sufficient.’ This was one of Rosie’s defining characteristics. She would have been insulted if I suggested she required support.

  ‘Have you talked about child care?’

  ‘Minimally. Rosie is currently focused on her PhD thesis.’

  ‘I thought you said she was a medical student.’

  ‘She’s completing a PhD concurrently.’

  ‘As you do.’

  ‘No, it’s extremely uncommon,’ I said.

  ‘Who does the housework, the cooking?’

  I could have answered that housework was shared and that the cooking was my responsibility, but it would have undermined my statement about Rosie’s self-sufficiency. I found a neat way around it. ‘It varies. Last night she cooked her own meal and I purchased a hamburger independently at a sports bar.’

  ‘With your buddies—your mates—no doubt.’

  ‘Correct. No need to translate. I am familiar with American vernacular.’

  She looked again at the file.

  ‘Does she have any family here?’

  ‘No. Her mother is dead, she’s passed, hence being here is not possible. Her father is unable to be here as he owns a gym—a fitness centre—which requires his presence.’

  Lydia made a note. ‘How old was she when her mother died?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘How old is she now?’

  ‘Thirty-one.’

  ‘Professor Tillman. I don’t know if this makes any sense to your mind, but what we have is a first-time mother, an independent professional high achiever, an over achiever, loss of mother before the age of eleven, no role model, no supports, and a husband who hasn’t a clue about any of this. As a professor, as an intellectual, can you see the point I’m making?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your wife is a sitting duck for postnatal depression. For not coping. For ending up in hospital. Or worse. You’re not doing anything to prevent it and won’t see it if it happens.’

  Much as I disliked what Lydia was saying, I had to respect her professional expertise.

  ‘You’re not the only unsupportive partner out there, not by a long way. But you’re one I can do something about.’ She waved the file. ‘You’re going to do some work. You assaulted a police officer. I don’t know how that lack of control translates into a domestic situation, but I’m referring you to a group. Attendance is compulsory until the convenor says you’re safe. And I want to see you in a month for an assessment. With your wife.’

  ‘What if I fail?’

  ‘I’m a social worker. You’ve been referred to me because of inappropriate and illegal behaviour around children. At the end of the day, people will listen to me. Police: I only have to write a report to put this back in their hands. Immigration: I’m guessing you’re not a citizen. And there are protocols for fathers we consider dangerous.’

  ‘What should I do to improve my suitability?’

  ‘Start paying attention to your wife—and how she’s coping with becoming a mother.’

  Lydia was not scheduled to work on 27 July, and I wondered briefly if that would solve the problem of bringing Rosie in for assessment in ‘a month’s time’. The receptionist was adamant that it was not a valid reason for non-attendance, and made an appointment for 1 August, five weeks away. I had previously been stressed by the idea of waiting eight days for an appointment; now I would have thirty-five days of higher-level anxiety with no option but to involve Rosie.

  There was a more critical issue. Lydia had raised the problem of Rosie’s mental state. I was fortuitously equipped to take immediate action. When my sister died three years earlier, I had been concerned that I might have become clinically depressed as a result. With some reluctance, Claudia had administered the only depression questionnaire she had at home: the Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale.

  I had continued to use the EPDS to assess my emotional state, putting consistency ahead of the fact that I was not a new mother. Now it was the perfect instrument: despite the name, the accompanying guide specified that it was designed for use antenatally as well as postnatally. If the instrument indicated that Rosie was not at risk, I could present the results at the next appointment and Lydia would have to withdraw her intuitive diagnosis in the face of scientific evidence. Perhaps, with the data in hand, I would not even need to bring Rosie.

  I knew Rosie well enough to predict that she would be unwilling to complete the questionnaire, and even if she did she might falsify the answers to reassure me of her happiness level. I would need to slip the questions unobtrusively into conversation. The EPDS has only ten short questions with four possible answers each, so it was trivial to memorise.

  In the meantime, I needed to spend some time at Columbia after a day and a half absent. I planned to see Gene to raise the issue of moving out, then meet with my new research assistant.

  My sequencing of the tasks turned out to be irrelevant. Inge was in Gene’s office, where he was explaining his research on human sexual attraction. Gene’s methods and findings are not intrinsically humorous, but he is experienced in supporting them with anecdotes and comedic observations, and Inge was laughing. I estimated both her age and BMI as twenty-three. Gene considers that no woman under the age of thirty is unattractive and Inge provided support for this proposition.

  I took Inge to the lab, without Gene, and introduced her to the alcoholic mice—collectively rather than individually. It is unwise to form attachments to individual mice. Given her attractiveness and nationality, I thought it important to offer a subtle warning. The mice provided an opportunity.

  ‘Basically, they get drunk, have sex and die. Gene’s life is similar except for his duties as a professor. He may also have some incurable sexually transmissible disease.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Gene is extremely dangerous and should be avoided socially.’

  ‘He didn’t seem dangerous to me. He seemed very nice.’ Inge was smiling.

  ‘That’s why he’s dangerous. If he seemed dangerous, he would be less dangerous.’

  ‘I think he’s lonely here in New York. He told me he’s just arrived. We are in similar situations. There is no rule against me having a drink with him this evening, is there?’

  12

  Rosie arrived home before Gene, which gave me the opportunity to screen her for depression. She kissed me on the cheek then took her bag into her study. I followed.

  ‘How was your week?’ I asked.

  ‘My week? It’s only Thursday. My day has been okay. Stefan emailed me a tutorial about multiple-regression analysis. Made heaps more sense than the textbook.’

  Stefan had been on
e of Rosie’s fellow PhD students in Melbourne. He had a careless attitude to shaving and had accompanied her to the faculty ball before Rosie and I became a couple. I found him irritating. But the immediate problem was to situate our discussion in the timeframe specified by the EPDS.

  ‘A single day is a poor indication of your overall happiness. Days vary. A week is a more useful indicator. It’s conventional to say “How was your day?” but more useful to say “How was your week?” We should adopt a new convention.’

  Rosie smiled. ‘You could ask me how my day was every day, and then average it out.’

  ‘Excellent idea. But I need a starting point. So, just for today, how have things been since this time last Thursday? Have things been getting on top of you?’

  ‘Since you ask—a bit. I’m feeling like crap in the morning. I’m behind with the thesis; there’s Gene; I’ve got the counsellor on my case—I think she’s being wound up by David Borenstein; I’ve got to organise an OBGYN; and the other night I felt that you were sort of putting pressure on me to think about stuff that’s months away. It’s pretty overwhelming.’

  I ignored the elaboration that followed the basic quantification: a bit. Not very much.

  ‘Would you say you’re not coping as well as usual?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  Zero points.

  ‘Are the problems causing you to lose sleep?’

  ‘Did I wake you up again? You know I’m a lousy sleeper.’

  From lousy sleeper to lousy sleeper was no change.

  It seemed a good point to throw in a random question, unrelated to the EPDS, to disguise my intent.

  ‘Are you confident of my ability to perform as a father?’

  ‘Of course, Don. Are you?’

  Improvisation was getting me into trouble. I ignored Rosie’s question and moved on.