The Rosie Result

by Graeme Simsion

  In the morning, I called Professor Lawrence.

  ‘Don, it’s 6.30 a.m.’

  ‘This may take some time, and I have an immovable family commitment.’

  ‘Are you getting help with this family crisis?’

  ‘Of course. Professional help.’ Lucy was doing an excellent job with the snowboard lessons, which both Hudson and Blanche were enjoying.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘You’re suggesting we argue that because I have a particular brain configuration, a result of genetics and possibly environmental factors…’

  ‘We won’t be required to deliver a paper on the causes of autism.’

  ‘What if it were some other neurological variant?’

  ‘Such as? I’m sorry, I can’t see what point you’re making.’

  ‘The point is that everyone’s brain configuration is a combination of genetic and environmental factors. We only give names to variations that are easily described and relatively common. My behaviour at the lecture was a result of my brain configuration. It should be irrelevant whether or not that configuration has its own name.’

  ‘Don…I hear what you’re saying, but you’re making a philosophical argument about free will. Maybe you can take it to a conference, but it’s not going to fly at a university disciplinary hearing. You’d just convince them that you were crazy.’

  ‘Isn’t that the idea? Not guilty by reason of insanity?’

  ‘Disability.’

  ‘I don’t consider myself disabled.’

  I agreed to let Professor Lawrence know if I changed my mind. And unless that happened, there was no reason to report the conversation to Rosie.

  The meeting with Rabbit Warren to discuss Hudson’s report was brought forward, at the school’s request, to the first week of the third term. ‘Something else had come up’ and the principal would also attend.

  Rosie met with Hudson, without me (‘We don’t want him to feel like it’s an inquisition’), to conduct an inquisition in advance of the meeting. He was unable, or unwilling, to provide any useful information. Rosie assured him that we would be concerned only about his best interests, as would the school. I was confident about the first part.

  As Rosie and I proceeded along the corridor of an educational institution for a meeting which was presumably about some form of misconduct, it struck me that Hudson’s life and mine were following similar trajectories.

  We were seven minutes into the interview when Neil Warren (who, despite the absence of students, now did not want to be addressed as Rabbit) added another—stunning—element of commonality.

  ‘I’ve seen quite a few boys like Hudson. Most of them have subsequently—or in some cases already—been diagnosed as autistic.’

  ‘As having autism,’ said principal, whom I judged as being approximately Rosie’s age—forty-two. She addressed Rosie and me: ‘When we’re talking about disabilities, we try to use person-first language.’

  I was not sure whether to address her as Ms Williams or Bronwyn. My attempt to suppress the estimation of her BMI had had the usual opposite effect. Approximately thirty-five. She had seemed friendly as she commenced the ritual of emphasising positives before delivering bad news.

  ‘Hudson does well in the science subjects.’

  ‘He was top of his class in science and maths in New York,’ said Rosie. ‘One of the reasons we chose this school was the advanced maths program.’

  ‘Well,’ said the principal, ‘that’s one of the things we wanted to talk about. He has good mathematical intuition, and an excellent memory, but—’ She pointed to Neil.

  ‘Not keen on doing the working. Sees the answer. Can’t explain how he got there. These kids do well at first, but when the problems get harder and they have to follow a process, quite a few of them drop back. And he’s not interested in doing it any way but his way.’

  ‘In his report, you mentioned public speaking,’ said Rosie.

  ‘He certainly gets enough practice. And he’s confident. But it’s always space travel. Flights and dates. Not necessarily stuff that captivates a Year Six audience. And he’s not keen on reading.’

  ‘Not keen on reading? What planet are you guys on?’

  ‘I’m his teacher. We’re doing Harry Potter in class…’

  Rosie laughed. ‘He hates Harry Potter.’

  I explained. ‘It contains magic. Hudson objects to all books that rely on magic. But he reads hard science-fiction. And non-fiction.’ Hudson had read one non-fiction book, multiple times. We had purchased it on a trip to Cape Canaveral and he was familiar with every fact that it recorded. Rosie and I had also become familiar with those facts.

  ‘Thank you for that,’ said the principal. ‘We can’t always judge a child by what we see in class. It’s wonderful he’s reading, but we may all want to work on broadening his scope.’

  That was when Neil mentioned autism.

  ‘But first things first,’ said the principal, giving him a look which I interpreted as annoyance. She had delivered good news, then Neil had interrupted with bad news, and now she would need to deliver two pieces of good news to complete the first bad-news sandwich and begin the second, before she could deliver her own bad news. She seemed to be struggling to think of sufficient good news, as I frequently did when applying the formula, and moved directly to the bad news.

  ‘The reason for bringing this meeting forward is that we’ve had a complaint from the parents of one of Hudson’s classmates. I can’t officially identify them, but the circumstances make it obvious who they are. I understand you spent some time at the snow with their daughter.’

  Rosie looked at me and I detected horror. She had warned me—too late—of the risks of a middle-aged male taking responsibility for a pre-teenage girl whose family he did not know. Was I about to have paedophile added to racist?

  As frequently happened, the reality was less serious than my fears. Hudson had asked Blanche what form of albinism she had and informed her that at least one variant was associated with a reduced lifespan. Blanche had, in turn, asked her parents, who had complained to the school.

  ‘I understand you’re a scientist, Don, and I can see why you might want to explain this to Hudson, but he may need some guidance with tact,’ said the principal.

  ‘I can second that,’ said Neil. ‘It’s one of the things with autism. Not his fault; it’s the…disorder.’

  ‘I didn’t discuss it with him,’ I said. ‘It’s likely he researched it himself. I presume Blanche has the less-desirable form of albinism. Or her parents would have given her the good news and there would have been no complaint.’

  ‘I wouldn’t presume anything,’ said the principal. ‘Blanche has just joined the school and, given she seems to have latched on to Hudson, and…You’re a medical doctor, Rosie?’

  Rosie nodded. This was not the time to bring up the ‘crap physician’ characterisation.

  ‘Well,’ said the principal, ‘you can see for yourselves from the parents’ list that he’s some sort of naturopath. So…I wouldn’t assume any level of consultation with your profession.’

  ‘Do we now discuss the Asperger’s hypothesis?’ I asked.

  ‘Autism. Excuse me correcting you, but psychiatrists don’t use the term Asperger’s any longer and it’s important that we stay up-to-date,’ said the principal. ‘What we used to call Asperger’s we now understand as a milder form of autism. Which is what Neil is suggesting Hudson may have.’

  Rosie responded before I could argue about the terminology. ‘Thanks for the heads-up. We’re glad we chose a school that values diversity. If it ever becomes a problem—if there are particular things we need to support him with—I’m sure you’ll let us know.’

  She began to stand, but Neil already had some particular things. Multiple particular things.

  ‘He’s behind socially. He doesn’t really have friends. Except possibly Blanche, and that’s early days.’

  Neil paused, apparently to search his mind for more fa
ults. ‘He’s a bit of a smartypants—someone’s taught him more grammar than he needs at this stage of his education. And combined with what we refer to as “no filter” when we’re talking about…people with autism…I’d appreciate it if you told him that correcting the teacher is not appropriate. He can’t help having an American accent, but he has a strong voice and it all adds to the effect. Does he do that at home?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘but Rosie and I don’t generally make grammatical errors.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rabbit and paused again. ‘He really struggles at sport, especially team sport. He runs like…doesn’t run tidily, can’t catch. And the meltdown he had at the snow wasn’t the first. Two or three times I’ve had to send him to the time-out room—’

  ‘You have a dedicated room for time-outs?’ I asked. It seemed like an excellent idea.

  ‘It’s actually the sick bay, but it functions as a time-out room too.’

  ‘A message there,’ said Rosie.

  ‘As I was saying, he had a couple of…I didn’t see them as meltdowns then, but—’

  ‘Now that you’re seeing him through the lens of autism…’

  ‘Look,’ said Neil, ‘I know what goes on. He was being wound up, which is going to happen when you’re…different. But I have to let the kids know that you can’t go crazy because someone’s niggling you. At this level they’ve got to start building some resilience.’

  Resilience appeared to be the equivalent of toughening up, which, when I was a child, was a general excuse for bullying.

  ‘I think we’ve got enough to think about,’ said Rosie. ‘Unless there’s something more serious. Good academically, a bit young socially, fights back when he’s attacked.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ said Rabbit. ‘We say “social skills” but they’re really life skills. Developing friendships, playing in a group, dealing with conflict and anger. Knowing when to stop talking. The uniform.’

  Hudson preferred to wear the summer uniform, with shorts, throughout the year. The school rules specified that Years Five and Six boys were to wear long trousers in the cold season, other than in exceptional circumstances. Hudson had argued that as he was the only student who wanted to wear shorts, he was exceptional, and therefore should be accommodated. After extensive discussion, the school had agreed.

  ‘I thought we’d sorted that one,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I’m not going to make him wear long pants,’ said Rabbit, ‘but it’s another sign of him being behind socially. Next year…’

  The principal interrupted. ‘The bottom line is that we think it would be a good idea if you looked at getting a diagnosis.’

  ‘You want him tested for autism?’ I said.

  The principal nodded. ‘We can’t make you, but it’ll be easier for everyone if we know what we’re dealing with. Especially, as Neil was saying, being ready for high school. If there’s a diagnosis on the record, we can get some help. Maybe a teacher’s aide.’

  ‘For Hudson specifically?’ said Rosie.

  ‘Not necessarily. But additional funding, and the more we have, the more we can do for everyone.’

  Funding. I was right. Hudson and I were living parallel lives.

  6

  After the school interview, we drove to Jarman’s Gym, owned by Rosie’s father. Hudson was the youngest VIP member, despite using the facilities only for homework and reading. Rosie gave Phil a summary of Rabbit’s observations and the principal’s recommendation.

  Phil was opposed to any professional intervention. In his day, children ate peanuts and played in the streets. Hudson was a good kid. Both his parents were eggheads, so what should we expect? Let him be himself. He might have a tough time at school, but in a few years the jocks would be working for him.

  ‘How’s your old man doing?’ asked Phil.

  ‘Physically, badly. Psychologically, well. He purchased a book on Beethoven and is listening to everything in chronological order. It’s his final project.’

  ‘You’ve seen him, then?’

  ‘Not this week.’ The family home in Shepparton was a two-hour-and-eighteen-minute drive in each direction and there were multiple other issues needing attention. It had been several weeks since our last visit.

  My mother wanted to see us more often and my father was particularly insistent about spending time with Hudson. He complained that he had seen little of his only grandchild when we lived in New York, and now would not be around to watch him grow up.

  ‘Who’s going to teach him to ride a bike?’ my father had said. It was a reasonable question, as Hudson had resisted learning to ride in New York. Buying him a bike for Christmas had demonstrated the folly of the Santa Claus deception: ‘I told Santa I wanted Lego. Did I do something bad?’ The bike had been returned and Hudson had reached the age of eleven without an important life skill.

  We time-shared dinner with discussion of the book Hudson had read prior to The Martian. As a result of the conversation with Rabbit, I decided to introduce a new element to the meal routine. Hudson initially objected to the change, but quickly became involved in the interesting-number game, the goal of which is to find unique properties for each successive integer.

  We suspended the competition at fifteen (the product of the first three odd numbers) and proceeded to the second issue.

  ‘I recommend not interrupting your teacher with grammar corrections.’

  ‘Not fair. Mr Warren dobbed me in.’

  ‘Mr Warren spoke to us because he wanted our help in teaching you something,’ said Rosie. ‘Even in adult meetings, people can’t just talk when they feel like it.’

  ‘We’re allowed to ask questions, as long as we put our hands up. Maybe I could make it a question, like Why did you say less instead of fewer?’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ I said. ‘Particularly as I can save you significant effort by giving you the correct answer for all occasions, which is Because I made an error that the whole class now knows about, which is embarrassing to me and will make me annoyed with the person who exposed me. Since you now know the universal answer, there will be no need to ask in future.’

  Hudson did not have an immediate counter-argument and went to his room either to formulate one or to read.

  ‘Nice work,’ said Rosie. ‘Sometimes, just sometimes, you’ve got his number.’

  I was still thinking about the autism issue. So, apparently, was Rosie.

  ‘I think we need to accept the possibility that Rabbit has seen something. But before we send him off for a diagnosis, we should try to get a sense of what the impact would be—what it would be like for him. I’ll see if I can find some support organisations.’

  It was possible that I could contribute. Prior to meeting Rosie, I had delivered a talk on genetic precursors to Asperger’s syndrome to a group of ‘sufferers’ aged between eight and twelve. I had minimal expertise on the subject but had been persuaded to cover for my then-friend Gene, who was using the time to commit adultery. The convenor, a woman a few years younger than me, had telephoned afterwards, seeking a discussion over dinner. At the time I had been focused on my project to find a life partner and had declined. But I had her phone number. I called the following morning.

  ‘Julie Sykora.’

  ‘I thought your name was Reed.’

  ‘I’m sorry, who’s calling?’

  ‘It’s Don Tillman. You called me to discuss the Specialisterne program—the Danish program—for employing people on the autism spectrum as software testers. I was busy at the time, but I’m now available.’

  There was a long pause, then, ‘My God, I remember. How could I forget? The kids standing on the tables shouting Aspies rule! like something out of Dead Poets Society. That must have been…ten years ago.’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘You didn’t want to go for a drink afterwards because you had to clean your bathroom.’

  It was an odd detail to remember. ‘Correct. Are you available for a discussion about autism? We could time-share it w
ith a drink if you wanted.’

  ‘You want to catch up? Is that why you’re calling?’

  The conversation continued in this unfocused manner, but we eventually established that Julie was still working in the field; that she had since been married and divorced; that I was now married and not divorced; that I was not considering leaving Rosie; that I was not seeking help personally but for Hudson; that there was no point in getting together for a drink (Julie’s conclusion); and that the solution to the autism-familiarisation problem was to attend a support group which she would be chairing the following week. Rosie and I would meet members of the autism community and hear from two speakers.

  ‘One of them’s a bit of an activist—autistic rights and everything. We’re seeing more of that, and I guess you’ll relate to it, but it’s tough on the parents who’ve got really difficult kids. Still, you were a bit ahead of your time.’

  In parallel with lunch at the University Club, I undertook some preliminary research on autism diagnosis.

  ‘Thought you might be here,’ said Rosie, standing behind me.

  ‘Totally predictable. This is where I have lunch on Thursdays.’

  ‘I had another call from the principal.’

  ‘More problems?’

  ‘Ostensibly she wanted to check that we were happy with the discussion—she said that Neil Warren can be a bit abrasive but it’s hard to get male teachers, so we have to cut him a little slack. See how it works? When men are the majority, they make the rules; when they’re a minority they get special treatment.’

  ‘Do I get to argue, or will that interrupt the briefing?’

  ‘It’ll interrupt the briefing. I’m right anyway, so no point arguing. What she really wanted to do was check whether we were getting an assessment. I told her we were looking into it.’

  She pointed to my laptop screen, displaying the diagnostic criteria for autism. ‘I see you’ve gone straight to the psychiatrists’ bible.’

  ‘Bible seems an inappropriate term for a document that should be evidence-based and regularly revised.’