The Rosie Effect

by Graeme Simsion

  There was a second item of equipment which was more critical, at least in terms of the lead time required for thinking and implementation. Rosie had identified the problem of noise from upstairs. However, I had not informed her of the exact agreement with George, which allowed for unlimited music practice at all hours.

  The Skype call came through on schedule at 7.00 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time; 9.00 a.m. Sunday, Australian Eastern Standard Time.

  ‘How’s the weather there, Donald?’ said my mother.

  ‘Minimal change from last week. Still summer. The weather is normal for late August.’

  ‘What’s that in the background? Are you in the toilet? You can call back when you’re finished.’

  ‘This is my office. It’s very private.’ Rosie was home and I did not want her listening while I worked on the second surprise.

  ‘I should hope so. How was your week?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You’re well?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And Rosie?’

  ‘Fine.’

  If we were using only text messages, I could have replaced myself with a simple computer application. The Fine application. Possibly it would be better than I was at interspersing the occasional ‘good’ and ‘very well’. But this evening/morning, a variation was required.

  ‘I need to speak to Dad.’

  ‘You want to speak to your father?’ The speech quality was excellent—fine—but my mother no doubt wanted to confirm the unusual request. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Of course. I have a technical problem.’

  ‘I’ll get him.’ Rather than getting him, my mother shouted, ‘Jim! It’s Donald. He has a problem.’

  My father does not waste time with formalities.

  ‘What’s the problem, Don?’

  ‘I require a soundproof crib.’ Although earplugs provided a simple solution, it had occurred to me that insulating a baby from sound might affect its development in a negative way.

  ‘Interesting. I suppose breathing is the problem.’

  ‘Correct. Communication is solvable electronically—’

  ‘No need to tell me things we both know. But I’m struggling to imagine a soundproof material that air can pass through.’

  ‘I’ve done some research. There is a project in Korea—’

  ‘You mean South Korea.’

  ‘Correct. They’ve developed a material impermeable to sound but permeable to air.’

  ‘I presume it’s on the internet. Send your mother a link. You’ve given me enough to work on for now. I’ll get your mother back. Adele!’

  My mother’s face appeared in front of my father’s. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘Don wants some help designing a crib.’

  ‘A crib? A baby crib?’ Baby crib seemed to be a tautology. My father pointed this out to my mother.

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘Donald, is this for a friend?’

  ‘No, no, it’s for Rosie’s baby. Our baby. It requires protection from noise but needs to breathe.’

  My mother immediately became hysterical. I should have told her earlier, of course it was relevant, for God’s sake we speak every Sunday, when is it due, your aunt would be excited, is Rosie all right, I hope it’s a girl, I don’t mean that, it just came out, I was thinking of Rosie, girls are easier, do you know what it’s going to be, isn’t it amazing what they can do these days? Vast numbers of questions and observations that eventually occupied an additional eight minutes beyond the time I had scheduled for the discussion with my father. I have learned that tears do not necessarily equate to sadness and, despite my mother being understandably disappointed that we were in New York rather than Melbourne or Shepparton, she seemed pleased with the situation.

  I spent almost two weeks with Dewhurst’s Textbook of Obstetrics and Gynaecology (Eighth Edition) and looking at videos available on the internet before deciding that these materials needed to be supplemented with practical experience. It was like reading a book on karate—useful to a point, but not sufficient for combat preparation. Fortunately, as a member of the medical faculty, I was in a position to gain access to hospitals and clinics.

  I booked a meeting with David Borenstein in his office.

  ‘I’d like to deliver a baby.’

  The Dean’s expression was difficult to interpret, but ‘enthusiastic’ was not one of the options.

  ‘Don, when I hired you, I expected some strange requests. So instead of me telling you all the practical and legal reasons why you can’t deliver a baby, how about you tell me why you want to do it?’

  I began to explain the need to be ready for any emergency, but the Dean interrupted, laughing.

  ‘Let me put it like this. The odds of you having to deliver this baby in Manhattan without assistance are quite a bit lower than the odds of you having to do a competent job of raising it once it’s born. Which are 100 per cent. You agree?’

  ‘Of course. I have a separate sub-project—’

  ‘I’m sure you do. And you’ve just planted a seed in my mind. How’s Inge doing? How long has she been with you now?’

  ‘Eleven weeks and two days.’ She had started on the day of the Playground Incident, the day that led to my second meeting with Lydia, the recruitment of Sonia as an actress and my obligation to attend a group for violent men. The day the secrets began.

  ‘How is she doing?’

  ‘She’s highly competent. She’s made a significant change to my default position on research assistants.’

  ‘So maybe it’s time to give you something different to do.’

  ‘You have another genetics project?’

  ‘Not exactly. I didn’t bring you here because you’re a mouse-liver expert, or even a genetics expert. I brought you here because you’re a scientist I can trust to care only about the science.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Not “of course”. Ninety per cent of scientists have some sort of agenda—whether it’s proving something they believe already or getting funding or a promotion or their name on a paper. These guys are no exception.’

  ‘Which guys?’

  ‘The guys I want you to work with. They’re looking at attachment-related hormones and different modes of synchrony with mothers and fathers.’

  ‘I know zero about this. I don’t even understand the title.’ I did recognise the word ‘attachment’ and remembered Gene’s advice to ‘run a mile’, but I let David continue.

  ‘That’s fine. The underlying question is: does a baby benefit from having a parent of each gender, as opposed to one parent only, or two women, or two men? What do you think, Don?’

  ‘I still know zero about the topic. How can I have an opinion?’

  ‘And that’s why I want you to take the medical school seat on the project. To make sure that the research design and whatever comes out of it are as free of prejudice as you are.’ He smiled. ‘And you’ll get to play with some babies.’

  The Dean did not even make an
appointment. We walked immediately to the New York Institute of Attachment and Childhood Development, located four blocks from the Dean’s office, where we were greeted by three women.

  ‘Briony, Brigitte and Belinda: I’d like you to meet Professor Don Tillman.’

  ‘The B Team,’ I said, making a small joke. Nobody laughed. It was an encouraging sign that they were not inclined to over-recognise patterns, but I mentally registered them as B1, B2 and B3. I had been assigned to the project to provide objectivity and it was important to avoid forming personal relationships with the other researchers.

  ‘Don’s one of my people,’ the Dean continued. ‘He’s a committed Catholic and a passionate Tea Party supporter.’

  ‘I hope you’re kidding me,’ said B1. ‘This project has had enough—’

  ‘I am kidding,’ said David. ‘But it shouldn’t matter. I said Don is one of my people. His personal philosophy won’t affect his judgement.’

  ‘They’re inseparable. But we won’t have that argument now. If that’s what you want, you could have sent us a computer.’ B1 again. She appeared to be the team leader.

  ‘Don’s not so easy to shut down. As I think you’ll discover.’

  ‘You know this is an all-women project? With substantial finance from the Women Working for Women Foundation?’

  ‘Was an all-women project,’ said the Dean. ‘Don, as you can see, changes the picture. I believe the funding is contingent on the College of Physicians and Surgeons approving the research design and the analysis. I can’t imagine there were any gender restrictions placed on our nominee. I’m sure that would have been considered most inappropriate. I want Don to do whatever he needs to do to ensure the work is scientifically bulletproof. Which is in everybody’s interest.’

  ‘Is he approved for working with children?’ said B1.

  ‘Aren’t their mothers with them all the time?’

  ‘I’m assuming the answer is no. He’ll need a clearance. Which I imagine will take some time.’

  B1 looked at me for approximately seven seconds.

  ‘What do you think of two women raising a child?’

  In a scientific setting, I considered her question equivalent to asking, ‘What do you think of potassium?’

  ‘I don’t have any relevant knowledge. It’s outside my field.’

  She turned to the Dean. ‘You didn’t think some appreciation of family models was relevant?’

  ‘I’d have thought your team had that well covered. I chose Don because he’ll offer something you might have a need for.’

  ‘And that would be?’ The question was addressed to me.

  ‘Scientific rigour,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well, we can certainly use that, just being psychologists and all.’ She examined me again. Another seven seconds. ‘Do you have any gay friends?’

  I was about to tell her that I didn’t, as a result of having only seven friends, including George, rather than because of any prejudice about sexual orientation, but the Dean interrupted. ‘I’ll leave you to your networking. I’ll organise a police clearance for Don. I can’t imagine any problems.’

  The Lesbian Mothers Project was vastly more interesting than the genetic factors influencing vulnerability to cirrhosis of the liver in mice, which had been the focus of my research for the past six years. The stimulus for it was an Israeli study that had observed different responses to male and female parents. Babies’ oxytocin levels rose during cuddling by the mother but not by the father, and during active play with the father but not with the mother. Very interesting. But it appeared that the motivation for the project was a newspaper article titled Research Proves Kids Need a Mom and a Dad. Someone had written the word crap in red beside the article. It was an excellent start. Scientists need to cultivate a suspicious attitude to research.

  My reading of the original paper provided no indication that the research was crap. The newspaper article offered a typically inexact interpretation, but its broad argument that fathers and mothers had different impacts on babies was supported by the published results.

  The original study had involved only heterosexual couples. The B Team would examine lesbian couples. Their hypothesis was that the secondary carer playing with the child would cause the same oxytocin response as the father.

  It all seemed straightforward, and I wondered why the Dean had bothered to involve me. But observing the actual research would provide the perfect background for fatherhood, provided I considered myself equivalent to a lesbian secondary carer. The research itself would clarify whether that identification was valid.

  The only problem was the police check, which the Dean was arranging. To the risk of prosecution and deportation, I could now add a third consequence of professional disgrace if Lydia gave me an adverse report.

  I assumed Rosie would be interested in the Lesbian Mothers Project and impressed that I was acquiring knowledge of babies and parenting. After a week of intense familiarisation, time-shared with ongoing reading on obstetrics, I was ready to discuss it with some authority.

  I planned to introduce the topic at dinner. Rosie was now spending so much time on her medical study and thesis that meals and morning subway rides were becoming our only time together, with the exception of bed.

  Gene and I had drunk half the bottle of wine before Rosie joined us at the table. She had a glass in her hand.

  ‘Sorry guys, had to finish what I was doing or I’d have lost the thread.’ She poured a half-glass of wine for herself. ‘I need an hour of being human.’

  ‘I’ve just started a new research project,’ I said. ‘The basis is a paper by—’

  ‘Don, can we not talk genetics right now? I just need to chill for a bit.’

  ‘It’s not genetics. It’s psychology.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve been added to a psychology research team to provide scientific rigour.’

  ‘Because the psychologists aren’t up to it?’ said Rosie.

  Gene had screwed his face up and was making small but rapid shaking movements of his head.

  ‘Correct,’ I said.

  ‘Great,’ said Rosie. ‘I should be getting some rigour into my thesis instead of wasting time drinking wine with my husband and my supervisor.’

  She took her glass into her study.

  ‘You’re invading her territory, Don. Not for the first time,’ said Gene after Rosie closed the door.

  ‘How can we have interesting discussions if we don’t identify common domains?’

  ‘I don’t know, Don. But Rosie is not fond of geneticists telling psychologists what to do. Case in point, me. Second case in point, you.’

  I explained how the Lesbian Mothers Project would provide me with valuable knowledge relevant to parenthood.

  ‘Good work,’ said Gene. ‘You can tell her how to do motherhood as well as psychology.’ He put his hands up in dual stop signs. ‘I’m being sarcastic. You do not want to tell her how to be a mother. If you learn something from the project, wonderful, but surprise her with your skills rather than beating her over the head with your knowledge.’
/>   Gene recommended that I not raise the topic of the Lesbian Mothers Project again.

  21

  The Good Fathers Program was scheduled for Wednesday, 9 October on the Upper West Side. As with the Paedophile Assessment, I was astonished at how long it had taken to deliver support to a potentially dangerous person.

  I told Rosie that I had organised a boys’ night out and, in the interests of minimising deception, called Dave and invited him to participate. Gene was having dinner with Inge.

  ‘I ought to catch up on some work,’ Dave said. ‘I’ve got a pile of paperwork this high.’

  Obviously, I was unable to see whatever signals Dave was making to indicate the height of the pile, but I had a strong argument.

  ‘I recommend you do something baby-related,’ I said. ‘Sonia is unimpressed by your lack of interest. She considers it a result of your focus on work. Which you are currently demonstrating.’

  ‘She told you that? When?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Don. There’s a lot of things you do, but forgetting isn’t one of them.’

  ‘We had coffee.’

  ‘She never told me.’

  ‘You probably failed to ask. Or were too busy with work. I’ll meet you at 42nd Street A-Train uptown platform at 6.47 p.m. and we can attend together. I’ve estimated thirteen minutes for travel to the venue.’

  ‘I figured.’

  The class was held in a room attached to a church. Dave and I were joined by fourteen other men, including the convenor, age approximately fifty-five, estimated BMI twenty-eight, appearance notable for the combination of frontal baldness and very long hair, plus a beard. The evening was warm, and he was wearing a t-shirt that made it apparent he had invested heavily in tattoos.