The Rosie Result

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘You are so wrong,’ said Rosie. ‘Whatever mistakes we made, he’s come out of it with the confidence to make his own call. He’s resourceful; he’s got integrity; he’s okay with who he is. And it wasn’t what you taught him from any list; it was being who you are. What you did with the bar. Being willing to talk about your own stuff. What you did tonight. You’re his hero.’

  ‘You don’t think that the autism classification is going to have negative consequences?’

  ‘It’s bound to. But so would trying to be something he isn’t. And attitudes are changing. Look at Blanche. I don’t know if she’s technically autistic or not, but she wants to be part of your tribe.’

  ‘I’m opposed to tribalism. It’s…’ I stopped, realising what Rosie had implied. ‘My—’

  ‘Whatever. You are who you are. I know who you are, so no label is going to make any difference to me. The same with Hudson. The important thing is that you don’t think Hudson’s some sort of failure just because you don’t want a label yourself.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Not “of course not”. We’d better go inside. But you need to think about it.’

  On the way back to the table, I thought about it. And made two decisions.

  The first was to give Gene a hug. It was not comfortable, especially as he was seated with pizza and wine in front of him, but I needed to thank him for lying to protect my relationship with my son. And remind myself that I had learned to do many things that were not natural to me. As had Hudson. And that I was pleased to have those capabilities.

  Merlin tapped his glass. ‘Can everyone be quiet for a moment. Tazza would like to say something.’

  Tazza cleared his throat. Several times. ‘I want to congratulate Hudson on coming out. It’s a brave and good thing to do. But there’s something else that’s great: whether we’re out or not’—he waved his hand to indicate all thirteen of us, or possibly just George, Gene, Dave and me, seated together—‘we manage to find each other.’

  The rest of the group just wanted to talk about the fight.

  ‘What did Mr Warren say?’ said Hudson. ‘He’s the sports master—he played cricket for Victoria—and Blanche’s dad brushed him off like a fly. And then—’ Hudson mimed two punches and fell backwards in his chair, presumably from attempting to demonstrate the leg sweep without creating enough space.

  ‘He was extremely surprised,’ I said when Hudson was reseated. ‘He had classified me as a geek and subscribed to the stereotype that geeks lack physical skills. And Allannah—Blanche’s mother—had announced that my opponent was a kickboxer. Rabbit expected that I would lose.’

  ‘Rabbit. You called him Rabbit. Ha. He was so wrong.’

  ‘Correct.’

  I needed to say something more, to implement my second decision. I had the attention of the whole table: my partner, my son, my mother, my closest friends. And allies: Tazza and Merlin. If I didn’t do it now, I suspected I never would. I took a deep breath, but couldn’t find the words, or possibly the courage.

  People were restarting their conversations. The moment had passed. But then George, deploying skills I would never have, sensed what was happening and began a drum solo with his cutlery, on the wooden table, plates and glasses. And, as everyone in the pizzeria focused on the former rock star, the words formed in my mind. George finished with a drumroll on the table and pointed a hand towards me.

  ‘Always a mistake to underestimate an aspie,’ I said.

  Epilogue

  I took the job with Minh. It offered the possibility of exciting work, and I realised that for years I had been afraid to move from an environment in which I felt socially safe.

  Following an interview with Ewan Harle, Hudson decided to continue to the non-special high school. My mother volunteered to assist with after-school activities.

  Almost zero had changed externally since I’d decided to identify as an aspie—as autistic. I had little doubt that I shared a set of attributes with many other humans, including Hudson, Laszlo, Liz the Activist, Dov, Tazza the Geek, and possibly Blanche and Gene, and that the best available label was autism. The questionnaires and checklists that showed me to be neurotypical were addressing, at best, a subset of these attributes, focusing on problematic behaviours—behaviours which, in my case, had been modified by a lifetime of trying to fit in.

  Since my self-diagnosis, I was, as Rosie had observed of Hudson, ‘more comfortable in myself’. I had also made a mental shift. In the past, I had wished the world was different, but assumed that it was my responsibility to fit in. Without Hudson, perhaps I would have continued on that path, but Hudson might have eighty or more years of life ahead of him. In that time the world could change, and, ethically, I was obliged to contribute to that change. I had my answer to Liz the Activist’s question: Which side are you on?

  On the first day of my new job, Minh assembled the company’s thirty-eight employees in the meeting room.

  ‘Everyone except Don has heard this talk before. So…’ she spun around with her eyes closed and one arm extended. When she stopped, she was pointing to the woman whose question six months earlier had incited the Genetics Lecture Outrage. It appeared that her job application had been successful. I hadn’t noticed her presence, due to engagement in a technical conversation with another new colleague.

  ‘You’re it, Laura,’ said Minh.

  Laura looked at me, then Minh. ‘Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to learn it yet. I…’

  Minh didn’t wait for her to finish but spun again, this time selecting a tall male of approximately thirty. ‘Faraj.’

  Faraj recited what I presumed was a standard introduction, which could just as easily have been printed and given to me. Except it would not have been possible to print the enthusiasm.

  ‘This is likely to be the most important work you—we—will ever do. One day, out of this lab, is going to come something that changes the world for the better, in a big way. Maybe it will end malaria or amoebic dysentery, or wipe out AIDS or schizophrenia. Maybe some problem that hardly anybody thought that genome editing could solve. Like climate change. And all of us are going to be part of it. Even if it doesn’t come out of this lab, we’ll be part of the global effort, part of the community that pulls it off. And when our work makes money, we’ll invest in other research initiatives to make the world a better place.

  ‘We’re not going to let anything smaller than that stand in our way. If we have problems—with technology, with resources, with each other—we solve them, we get past them, and we’re never afraid to ask for help to do that, because what we’re creating matters so much more.’

  In another profession, Faraj’s speech would have sounded overblown, but this was genome editing. I felt uplifted.

  I had been taking notes, and when I finished, the room was empty. Except for Laura. She walked over to me and I detected unhappiness. Possibly anger.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re here. Nobody told me. I mean, I withdrew my complaint after that…woman…set me up in the bar. You got what you wanted. I thought you’d go back to your old job.’

  ‘Is there some problem with me being here?’

  ‘I wanted to move on. I thought you would too. You knew I’d applied for this job. I don’t want to come to work every day and deal with your anger about what happened.’

  ‘I’m not angry.’

  ‘You can’t not be. I thought you might just have quoted some racist paper or study result. That’s all I wanted, something for a blog. And then you did that exercise and handed me something that I could use to make a difference. It wasn’t about you personally. But you lost your job. Of course you’re angry.’

  Something had fallen into place. ‘You asked the question with the intention of entrapping me?’

  ‘I wanted you to say what you believed. And I planned to share that.’

  ‘My wife and my support person suggested that you had some motivation other than academic curiosity. It seemed implausible to me because
I assume sincerity by default. It’s possibly related to being autistic.’

  ‘Shit. Oh shit…I didn’t…’ Laura crossed her arms. ‘I was doing it for a bigger cause.’

  ‘With minimal effect.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me of that. As you can see, everything’s turned to shit. I get hated on by half the university, nothing changes, and now this. And what you just said: I’m sorry if I took advantage of something I didn’t know about you…’

  ‘Approaching systemic problems via individual cases is inefficient and involves people—hence uncontrollable effects at the level of intervention. High-level action is vastly more effective. Like modifying the mosquito genome rather than treating individual cases of malaria.’

  ‘Not all of us have the power…’

  Intellectually, I was trying to move towards reconciliation, but Laura was right about my emotional state: I was angry. She had lured me into causing distress to my students so she could complain about it. She had damaged my reputation and cost me my job. And now she didn’t want to work with me, and I didn’t want to work with her.

  We had a problem.

  Seven months earlier, I had identified five problems and set out to address them using the skills and experience that had led me, in a moment of arrogance, to label myself World’s Best Problem-Solver. As I prepared to begin a new phase of my life working with Minh, I had conducted a post-project review with the two ‘key stakeholders’. We had opened sparkling wine to toast the approval of Rosie’s funding application and it seemed sensible to use the remaining wine to celebrate the resolution of the original problems.

  ‘What problems?’ said Hudson.

  ‘Number One. The job-incompetence problem. Solved by resigning and nominating Laszlo to replace me.’

  ‘Just like that,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Correct. Problem Number Two: The Genetics Lecture Outrage, solved, as predicted, by the Gordian-knot-cutting sword.’ I explained to Hudson. ‘Multiple problems solved by a single action.’

  ‘Walking away,’ said Rosie. ‘Which relied on the bar being a success. For which you can thank Minh and Amghad, with a bit of help from Hudson and me.’

  Amghad had received an attractive offer for the business, but The Library had become an important part of our lives and those of numerous patrons, and he needed a reason to stay in touch with Minh.

  ‘Agreed. Hudson’s intellectual input to the app was critical, and you provided free labour.’

  ‘Right. And called out your ex-student…without which you’d still have a complaint hanging over your head.’

  ‘Probably. Problem Number Three was Dave. Completely solved.’

  ‘By me,’ said Hudson. ‘Plus your tools.’

  ‘The sword of Dad didn’t work there,’ said Rosie. ‘Dave was supposed to work in the bar…’

  ‘But the problem was solved. Problem Four: The Rosie Crucifixion.’

  ‘What?’ said Hudson.

  ‘Your mother’s requirement to work full-time.’

  ‘Solved by you and me,’ said Hudson. ‘You quitting work; me dealing with it.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rosie. ‘All I had to do was run a world-class pilot project, develop a bid and sell the package to a funding body that accepts one in ten proposals. Hardly anything.’

  ‘You should still take some credit,’ I said. ‘You definitely made a contribution. Number Five—’

  Rosie made a double stop sign. ‘Sarcasm alert. Reprocess.’

  Right at the beginning of a statement was a clue which Hudson and I should have noticed. Rosie clarified that she had made a greater contribution than might be appreciated from a literal interpretation of her words, but did not dispute the fact that the problems had been solved.

  ‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Number Five was the most important problem. The Hudson Adjustment Problem.’ I explained to Hudson. ‘Not liking school, not fitting in.’

  ‘You thought that was the most important thing? You quit your job because of that?’

  ‘Correct. I wanted you to be happy.’

  ‘And that’s a problem you can never say “solved” to,’ said Rosie. ‘If you can even call it a problem.’ She addressed Hudson. ‘Your dad just wanted to help you, like all parents do. You’re the one who’s done the hard work.’

  Hudson ate a piece of un-crumbed fish and a forkful of one-hundred-per-cent celeriac mash. ‘Things are better,’ he said. ‘Everyone helped. Just for a while I thought you wanted a different kid, like Zina or Blake or…Blanche.’

  ‘You really thought that?’ said Rosie.

  ‘Not now. Zina would be pretty annoying.’

  ‘How’s Blanche doing?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to see her, remember? So how would I…She phones me sometimes. She’s definitely going to the high school next year. So is Dov. We have the numbers.’ He laughed. ‘Blanche’s parents aren’t splitting up. Her mum says her dad’s like he is because of genes and…something else.’

  ‘Environment,’ I said. ‘Including upbringing.’ I was not happy to have my arguments used in this context.

  ‘Uh-huh. Anyway, she says he had all his buttons pushed at the same time and that won’t happen again.’

  ‘I should talk to Allannah.’

  ‘Blanche’s dad wouldn’t like it. Obviously.’

  ‘I think,’ said Rosie, ‘you may be right. Your dad’s done more than enough.’

  She finished her glass. ‘But I think the lesson with your dad’s problem-solving is that there are seldom easy solutions to people problems. Sometimes we just need to…’

  ‘Muddle through,’ I said.

  Rosie laughed. ‘I’m not disagreeing; it’s just not a term I ever thought you’d use.’

  ‘On the contrary, muddling through is a recognised problem-solving technique. Lindblom, 1959.’

  ‘Well, that’s what we’ve done. And we’ve done it as a family.’

  That had been the problem I almost missed—the biggest problem of all. Family cohesion. I judged us as currently cohesive, but continued monitoring, problem-solving and muddling through was likely to be necessary.

  I had activated the espresso machine and offered to make a coffee for Laura. Her need for caffeine apparently overrode her urge to escape me. Or perhaps she was hoping I would find a solution. Which was what I was trying to do.

  I viscerally did not want to work with her. When Gene exploited me, with far less impact, I had terminated our relationship. It was an emotional reaction, and I was aware that I was not good at making decisions while swamped by emotions.

  I was a scientist. I was autistic. These were my key strengths. I needed to distance myself. What would I want myself to do? Better, since I had spent six months thinking about it every day, what would I want Hudson to do?

  I had a flash of insight. Hudson had already faced a similar situation: the Pigeon Betrayal. His failure to understand the complexities of human dynamics and his consequent insensitive behaviour had provoked a disproportionate response that put his future in jeopardy.

  With help he had found a solution, and, uncomfortable as it would be for me to apply it here, I had to acknowledge that it had worked.

  I gave Laura her coffee. ‘We both messed up,’ I said. ‘We should put it behind us, because being angry gets in the way of everything else.’

  ‘Easy to say—’

  ‘I would be unable to function professionally if I was angry. Hence, I am highly motivated to eliminate that emotion. If I failed, I would resign. In embarrassment.’

  ‘So that’s your solution? Just forget about it and move on?’

  ‘If there are outstanding disagreements, we can discuss them later. As scientists, rationally. While we continue to work on changing the world.’

  Laura shook her head, but I diagnosed bewilderment rather than rejection and resisted the urge to add further arguments.

  She finished her coffee and put the cup down. ‘All right. If you can do it, so can I.’

  ‘The prob
lem is resolved?’

  She laughed. ‘The problem is resolved.’

  It would have been a disaster if Laszlo’s Asperger’s had prevented him from contributing to a cancer cure; if Rosie’s status as a mother had resulted in her removal from the bipolar-disorder project; and if Hudson’s autistic traits had blocked his journey to high school, human-rights advocate and possibly—as suggested by the anonymous voice at the cross-country race—prime minister, where he would have the power to change the system. And if Laura and I had been prevented from changing the world by our failure to resolve a personal issue.

  I would never have the intuitive sense of others’ emotions that supposedly is needed to deal with interpersonal problems, but I had done my best using rationality, experience and hard-won learning about human behaviour, and those skills had been sufficient.

  I was reasonably certain that my son would be proud of me.

  Acknowledgments

  Once again, I have a long list of people to thank.

  First, as always, is my wife and writing partner, Anne Buist. Screenwriting taught me that two heads are better than one in story development, and hers was the second head. Her reward has been Don Tillman’s disparaging comments about her profession, but even she would acknowledge that psychiatrists have not always done well in identifying and responding to autism.

  The last few years have seen a significant escalation of the discussion around autism and in the participation of autistic people in that discussion. Thanks to conferences, seminars and social media, I’ve been able to hear and communicate with many in the community, and get a sense of the issues and the state of play both clinically and socially. I hesitate to name anyone, lest a ‘thank you’ be interpreted as endorsement of a particular view (it should not), but I do want to acknowledge Tony Attwood, Stephanie Evans, Kerry Magro, Katherine May, Jeanette Purkis, Louise Sheehy, Thorkil Sonne, and T.Rob Wyatt.

  My early readers provided me with their customary diverse and helpful feedback. Thanks to Tania Chandler, Robert Eames, Irina Goundortseva, Cathie Lange, Rod Miller, Rebecca Peniston-Bird, Jan Phillips, Dominique Simsion, and Tony Stewart.