The Rosie Result

by Graeme Simsion

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  I was standing on one leg shucking oysters when the problems began…

  Don Tillman and Rosie Jarman are back in Australia after a decade in New York, and they’re about to face their most important challenge.

  Their son, Hudson, is struggling at school: he’s socially awkward and not fitting in. Don’s spent a lifetime trying to fit in—so who better to teach Hudson the skills he needs?

  The Hudson Project will require the help of friends old and new, force Don to decide how much to guide Hudson and how much to let him be himself, and raise some significant questions about his own identity.

  Meanwhile, there are multiple distractions to deal with: the Genetics Lecture Outrage, Rosie’s troubles at work, estrangement from his best friend Gene…

  And opening the world’s best cocktail bar.

  Hilarious and thought-provoking, with a brilliant cast of characters, The Rosie Result is the triumphant final instalment of the much-loved and internationally bestselling Rosie trilogy.

  CONTENTS

  Cover Page

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Also by

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  To the many people in the autism community

  who have inspired and supported these books.

  We are all special cases.

  ALBERT CAMUS

  1

  I was standing on one leg shucking oysters when the problems began. If I had not been a scientist, conscious of the human propensity to see patterns where they do not exist, I might have concluded that I was being punished by some deity for the sin of pride.

  Earlier that afternoon, I had been completing a performance-review form, and was presented with the question What do you consider to be your key strength(s)?

  It was a vague construction which specified neither context nor level of generalisation. Expertise in genetics was the obvious answer, but this was implied by the job title Professor of Genetics. My knowledge of myxoid liposarcoma would soon be of minimal relevance, as my research project in that area was nearing completion. Objectivity and intelligence might suggest that I thought some academics lacked these attributes, which was true, but probably tactless. I needed to avoid tactlessness.

  I was still searching for an answer when Rosie arrived home.

  ‘What are you doing in your pyjamas?’ she said.

  ‘Preparing dinner. Which I’m time-sharing with solving a problem. And single-leg dips.’

  ‘I meant, why are you wearing pyjamas?’

  ‘There was a minor cooking accident involving an exploding chestnut. I was attempting to speed up the process by increasing the temperature. Hence the oil on various surfaces.’ I indicated the splashes on the ceiling. ‘My clothes were also affected. I avoided further loss of time by switching directly to pyjamas rather than putting on an intermediate costume.’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten we’ve got Dave and Sonia for dinner?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s the second Wednesday of the month. The day I change my toothbrush head.’

  Rosie performed her impression of my voice, a sign that she was in a good mood: ‘Guests. Pyjamas. Not a valid combination.’

  ‘Dave and Sonia have seen me in pyjamas. On the Cape Canaveral trip—’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘If there’s time to change my costume, I should devote it to the performance-review form.’ I explained the problem.

  ‘Just write whatever you wrote last year.’

  ‘I didn’t do it last year. Or the year before. Or—’

  ‘Twelve years at Columbia and you haven’t had to do a performance review?’

  ‘I don’t complete the form. There’s always some higher-priority task. Unfortunately, David Borenstein insisted. If it’s not on his desk tomorrow, he’s threatened to take some unspecified punitive action.’

  ‘You’re stuck on the question about strengths?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Just say problem-solving. It’s a good answer and it won’t come back to bite you. If you don’t find a cure for cancer, they’re not going to say, “But you said you were a good problem-solver.”’

  ‘You’ve encountered the same question?’

  ‘Only about twenty times in the last month.’

  Rosie’s current medical-research project was also finishing, and she was seeking a more senior position. It was proving difficult, as most roles involved clinical work. Her argument was: ‘I’m a crap physician but a good researcher. Why waste time on stuff I’m not good at?’ I had applied the same logic to the performance-review form.

  ‘Presumably, you also gave the optimum answer,’ I said. ‘Problem-solving.’

  ‘I usually say team player, but in your case…’

  ‘It might have returned to bite me.’

  Rosie laughed. ‘I’ll finish filling it out and you’ll have time to make yourself respectable. Teamwork, see.’ She must have noticed my expression. ‘You can review it when I’m done.’

  As I processed the remaining oysters, I reflected on Rosie’s suggestion. It was satisfying that my partner recognised an attribute that I had not previously articulated. I was a good problem-solver.

  I had the advantage of an atypical—the word used by others was weird—approach to analysing and responding to situations. Over my twenty-five-year career, it had enabled me to overcome day-to-day obstacles and initiate major breakthroughs. It had also delivered benefits in my personal life.

  At twenty, I had been a computer-science student, socially incompetent even by the standards of twenty-year-old computer-science students, with zero prospect of finding a partner.

  Now, largely due to the deliberate application of problem-solving techniques, I was employed in a stimulating and well-paid job, married to the world’s most beautiful and compatible woman (Rosie), and father to a talented and happy ten-year-old child (Hudson), who was showing signs of becoming an innovative problem-solver himself.

  I had identified Rosie’s biological father from sixty-five candidates, rescued my friend Dave’s refrigeration business from financial failure, and, after detailed analysis of customer preferences in the bar where Rosie and I worked part-time, designed a cocktail which won the New York People’s Choice Award.

  I was in excellent health, in part because of regular martial-arts classes and a fitness program which I had integrated into other activities. Psychologically, I had the support of my local men’s group: Dave and a retired musician named George.

  Creative thinking had, over twelve years of marriage, produced a routine which accommodated Rosie’s requirement for spontaneity without unduly sacrificing efficiency. I would have liked more sex, but the frequency was above the mean for
our ages and relationship duration, and infinitely better than it had been prior to meeting Rosie.

  The only significant blemish was the loss of my longstanding friendship with my mentor, Gene. But even taking that factor into account, if I had maintained a graph of my contentment with life, the curve would now be at its highest point.

  I returned to an oyster that had not offered an entry point for my knife. In the bottom drawer was a collection of tools, including pliers. If I used them to break the edge of the shell, I would create a gap into which the knife could be inserted. I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction. Don Tillman: World’s Best Problem-Solver.

  Rosie appeared with my notebook computer. ‘What do you want to say for areas you’d like to improve? I put fashion.’

  ‘You already mentioned the pyjamas.’

  ‘I’m kidding. But there’s always room for improvement. Those are bushwalking socks you’re wearing, right?’

  ‘Multi-purpose. Extremely warm.’

  I turned towards her, in accordance with the convention that people look at each other while conversing. Concurrently, I was lowering myself on one leg to access the pliers, extending my free leg to keep my supporting shin vertical as required for the leg-dip exercise, while holding the oyster and knife in my other hand.

  As I reached into the drawer behind me, I felt a pervasive stickiness. Reviewing the situation later, it was obvious what had happened. Rosie had recently instructed Hudson to put away his breakfast ingredients after use. He must have been concentrating on some other topic as he cleared the table and had stored the maple syrup on its side in a random drawer without replacing the lid.

  I retracted my hand, rapidly—a primitive response to the unexpected. As a result, I lost my balance.

  The best solution would have been to return my raised foot to the floor, but, instinctively not wanting to abandon the exercise, I grabbed another drawer, which was not an effective fixed support. I may have slipped in oil from the chestnut explosion. The net result was that I fell, though not heavily.

  Rosie was laughing. ‘Multi-tasking,’ she said. ‘Your multitasking could definitely do with improvement.’ Then, ‘Oh, shit, you’ve hurt yourself.’

  Rosie’s diagnosis was correct. I had trapped the oyster knife behind my knee. She knelt to examine the injury.

  ‘Don’t move him!’ Hudson was standing in the doorway, also wearing pyjamas, as he did after school on Wednesdays.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Rosie. ‘He hasn’t hurt his spine.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ said Hudson.

  ‘I’m a doctor, remember?’

  This was an unconvincing argument, given Rosie’s own assessment of her clinical competence. The knife had entered to some depth, and a pool of blood was forming on the floor.

  ‘We need to call 911,’ said Hudson.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ I said.

  ‘Where’s your phone?’ said Rosie.

  ‘In its holster. I’m lying on it.’

  ‘Don’t move!’ said Hudson, placing himself between Rosie and me.

  ‘Can we use your phone?’ I asked Rosie.

  ‘Hudson, go look in my handbag.’

  ‘You promise not to move him? Promise?’

  ‘Promise. Just get my phone.’

  ‘Presumably they’ll take me to the hospital,’ I said. ‘By then, the difficult oyster will probably have relaxed sufficiently to open conventionally.’

  ‘Don, forget about dinner.’

  ‘You’ll need to submit the performance-evaluation form. The deadline—’

  Hudson returned with Rosie’s phone. She tapped the screen, and said, ‘Shit.’ I assumed her battery was flat—a common occurrence, due to lack of a charging regimen.

  Fortunately, the doorbell rang. Dave and Sonia were, respectively, self-employed tradesperson and financial controller. It was almost certain that one of them would have a functioning phone. Hudson activated the electronic lock.

  Sonia was predictably hysterical, critical and practical. ‘Oh my God, I knew you’d have an accident one day. It’s crazy you coming home from work and having to cook. Can you move?’

  ‘Don’t go there,’ said Rosie. ‘Just call 911.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ said Dave. ‘You’re good with that, Don?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Rosie was staring at her phone.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ said Sonia. It was a strange question, but Rosie must have interpreted okay as okay except for Don lying on the floor bleeding while Dave calls an ambulance.

  ‘I got the job.’ She said it again, more loudly, and began to cry. ‘I got the job. The one I thought I had no chance of getting.’

  ‘Which job?’ I asked, looking up from the floor.

  ‘Working for Judas.’ Judas was Professor Simon Lefebvre, a former colleague in Australia who had been ‘seeing’ our friend Claudia for several years until being discovered in an act of infidelity.

  ‘Judas is coming to New York?’

  ‘No, the job’s back in Melbourne. I knew you weren’t listening.’

  I probably had been listening, but I would have ignored the personnel and location to focus on the important parameters. I could find university employment wherever we lived, particularly as I was unconcerned about status, and it was Rosie’s turn to advance her career after undertaking the majority of the Hudson-rearing task.

  ‘Is that going to be a problem?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘Of course not. Excellent news. And I won’t have to complete the performance-review form. We should have a drink to celebrate. Immediately.’

  Rosie was shaking her head. ‘We’re going home. I need to call Phil.’ Phil was Rosie’s father.

  Rosie’s success more than compensated for the pain behind my knee. The life-contentment curve moved upwards again. It was the last time. Hudson was standing in the doorway holding his head with both hands.

  Perhaps it was the unusual visual perspective created by lying on the floor, combined with the fact that Hudson was wearing pyjamas, but I was struck by how tall he had grown and, simultaneously, how young he still looked. With his dark hair, longer than typical for his age, and black-rimmed glasses, he could have been me at age ten. His obvious distress added to the identification.

  The kitchen had gone silent and we were all looking at him.

  ‘Are you all right, Hudson?’ said Sonia.

  ‘No. I don’t want to go to Australia. I don’t want to change schools. I don’t want to change anything.’

  2

  By the following June, our situation had changed dramatically. We had relocated to a three-bedroom house in the ‘hip’ inner-Melbourne suburb of Northcote, a short bicycle ride from the university. Our new home featured a garden, garage and sufficient space for Hudson’s collection of science-fiction novels, which now spilled from his room into the hallway.

  My hamstring tendon was healing. Rosie was working for Judas, Hudson was attending school and I had secured employment as a professor of genetics. This much was within the range of possibilities we had planned for.

  But five new problems had developed. In increasing order of severity, they were:

  1. Curing Cancer. I had joined a research project evaluating individualised approaches to cancer treatment, taking into account patients’ genetic make-up. It was potentially valuable work, but I was underqualified. The chief investigator had been impressed by my computer-science degree, but the field had changed hugely in the twenty-nine years since I reconfigured myself as a geneticist. I had deferred all optional activities, including aikido and karate, to catch up, but the online courses were consuming time and intellectual resources that I needed for the more serious problems.

  I discovered after accepting the position that Laszlo Hevesi, my friend in the Physics department, had also applied. He would have been perfect but had, predictably, ‘interviewed badly’. He could not have listed team player or fashionista as strengths. But cancer sufferers would be unlikely to complain that th
e cure for their illness had been discovered by a man working at a computer screen in bicycle helmet and goggles.

  There was also a personal aspect. My father was suffering from advanced prostate cancer, and my mother had been pleased that we were returning to Australia. I explained to her that by the time my research influenced clinical practice, my father would be dead, if not of cancer, then of old age.

  It was possible that the job-incompetence issue would resolve itself, due to the second problem.

  2. The Genetics Lecture Outrage. As a result of an error of judgement on my part, I was at risk of being fired. I was due to face a disciplinary committee, and the task of preparing my defence had already consumed one hundred and twenty-eight hours, not including disruption to sleep.

  Rosie had proposed a radical solution. ‘Screw them. You can make twice as much in the private sector. And no lecturing.’ She persuaded me to approach a small company working in genome editing.

  ‘You love this stuff,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re always talking about it; here’s a chance to do it.’

  ‘I don’t have the necessary knowledge.’

  ‘So, you learn. Isn’t that what you’re spending every evening doing now?’

  The interview had gone unexpectedly well. My potential employer, Dang Minh, a woman of approximately forty with an enthusiasm approaching mania, had shown me the lab, noting that they would soon be moving to new premises.

  ‘We’re changing the world. Solving impossible problems every day. How could you not want to work here?’

  The answer was that I was wary of risking my professional and interpersonal skills outside the academic world. Still, it meant that I had options. Unlike my friend Dave.

  3. The Dave Disaster. Dave had also suffered a knee injury and was currently unable to function as a refrigeration engineer. As a result of the American system of workers’ compensation, or his failure to take out insurance, or the fact that the accident occurred in a bar, he was in financial trouble. Sonia, who had recently given birth to their second IVF child, had to return to work ahead of schedule. Dave was now responsible for baby care, a role he was not happy with. Rosie had been critical. ‘Tell him, “Welcome to what women have been doing forever.”’