The Rosie Effect

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘So who’s going to look after it?’

  Rosie thought for a few moments.

  ‘I’ll take her—or him—with me.’

  I was stunned. ‘You’ll take Bud to Columbia—to the hospitals?’ By the time Bud was born, Rosie would be working with actual patients—people riddled with infectious diseases—in situations where a baby underfoot could cause life-threatening disasters. Her approach seemed impractical and irresponsible.

  ‘I’m still thinking about it, okay? But it’s time they considered the needs of women with children. Instead of telling us to go away and come back when the baby’s grown up.’ Rosie pushed her plate aside. She had not finished her risotto. ‘I need to do some work.’

  Once again, Gene and I were left to talk. I made a mental note to replenish the liquor stocks.

  Gene selected the conversation topic before I could mention his marriage.

  ‘Feeling any better about being a dad?’

  The word ‘dad’ sounded odd, applied to me. I thought of my own father. I suspected his role in my life when I was a baby had been minimal. My mother had resigned from her teaching job to manage three children while my father worked at the family hardware store. It was a practical, if stereotypical, allocation of the workload. Given that my father shares some of the personality traits that give me the most trouble, it was probably advantageous to maximise the amount of input from my mother.

  ‘I’ve considered it. I suspect the most useful contribution is to stay out of the way to avoid causing problems.’ This was consistent with the assessment of me given by Lydia during the Bluefin Tuna Incident and in keeping with the medical maxim: First do no harm.

  ‘You know, you may get away with it. Rosie’s a rusted-on feminist, so philosophically she wants you to wear a skirt, but she also thinks she’s Superwoman. Independence is an Australian female trait. She’ll want to do it all.’ Gene drained his Midori and refilled both glasses. ‘Whatever women say, they’re biologically bonded to the baby in a way we’re not. It won’t even recognise you for the first few months. So don’t worry about that. Look ahead to when it’s a toddler and you can interact.’

  This was helpful. I was fortunate to be able to source advice from an experienced father and head of a psychology department. He had more.

  ‘Forget everything you hear from psychologists. They fetishise parenthood. Make you paranoid you’re doing something wrong. If you hear the word attachment, run a mile.’

  This was extremely helpful. Lydia doubtless belonged to the group Gene was describing.

  Gene continued. ‘You don’t have any nieces or nephews, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So you’ve got no real experience with kids.’

  ‘Only Eugenie and Carl.’ Gene’s children were almost familiar enough to be included in my list of friends, but too old for toddler orientation.

  Rosie emerged from her office and walked towards the bedroom, making hand motions which I interpreted as You’ve had enough to drink, both of you, and it’s time to come to bed instead of sharing more interesting information.

  Gene started to get up and collapsed back in the chair. ‘Here’s my last bit of advice before I fall over. Watch some kids, watch them play. You’ll see they’re just little adults, only they don’t know all the rules and tricks yet. Nothing to worry about.’

  9

  Rosie was sitting up in bed when I joined her.

  ‘Don, before you get undressed—could I ask you a favour?’

  ‘Of course. As long as it doesn’t require mental or physical coordination.’ Gene’s topping-up of my glass had resulted in an accidental overdose of alcohol.

  ‘What time does the deli close? The one where you got the smoked mackerel?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Why did I need to remain dressed to answer the question?

  ‘I’d really love some more.’

  ‘I’ll buy some later today.’ It was 12.04 a.m. ‘We can have it cold as an appetiser.’

  ‘I meant now. Tonight. With dill pickles. The ones with chilli if you can find them.’

  ‘It’s too late to eat. Your digestive system—’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m pregnant. You get cravings. It’s normal.’

  Normal had clearly been redefined.

  I predicted that finding smoked mackerel and pickles after midnight would involve significant effort, especially as my intoxication precluded the use of my bicycle, but this was the first opportunity I had been offered to do something directly related to the pregnancy.

  Random jogging in an unfamiliar neighbourhood failed to uncover any smoked mackerel. The streets were still busy and my directional choices were being influenced by the need to dodge pedestrians. I decided to proceed to Brooklyn where I knew there was a well-stocked all-night delicatessen on Graham Avenue. Statistically, my expected time to find mackerel was probably lower if I continued to search Manhattan, but I was prepared to pay a price for certainty.

  As I jogged over the Williamsburg Bridge, I analysed the problem. It seemed likely that Rosie’s body was reacting to some deficiency, the intensity of the desire magnified by the importance of proper nutrition during pregnancy. She had rejected the mushroom and artichoke risotto but wanted mackerel. I made a provisional conclusion that her body required protein and fish oil.

  As with the management of my increasingly complex life, I saw two possible approaches. An on-demand sourcing of nutrition, driven by cravings which probably occurred only after the deficiency was recognised by her body, was going to be disruptive and inefficient, as my search for mackerel was demonstrating. A planned approach, recognising the specialised diet required for pregnancy and ensuring all ingredients were on hand in a timely manner, was obviously superior.

  When I arrived home at 2.32 a.m. in the City That Never Sleeps, I had run approximately twenty kilometres and acquired mackerel, pickles and chocolate (Rosie always craved chocolate). Rosie was asleep. Waving the mackerel under her nose did not stimulate any response.

  When I woke, Rosie and Gene were already preparing to leave for Columbia and I had a headache again, this time doubtless due to lack of sleep. The correct amount of relatively undisturbed sleep is critical to optimum physical and mental functioning. Rosie’s pregnancy was taking a severe toll on my body. Purchase of pregnancy-compatible food in advance would at least obviate the need for midnight excursions. As a short-term solution, I took a day’s leave to concentrate on the Baby Project.

  I was able to use the freed-up day productively, first to catch up on sleep, then to source further information on Rosie’s statement about the link between cortisol and depression. The evidence was convincing, as it was for the link with heart disease. It was definitely important to minimise Rosie’s stress levels in the interests of both Bud’s health and her own.

  I allocated the remainder of the morning, after completion of scheduled body-maintenance tasks, to researching nutrition in pregnancy. The time I allowed turned out to be manifestly insufficient. There was so much conflicting advice! Even after rejection of articles that helpfully advertised their lack of a scientific basis by the use of words such as organic, holistic and natural, I was left with a mass of d
ata, recommendations and recipes. Some focused on foods to include, others on foods to avoid. There was substantial overlap. A commercial but impressive baby-oriented website offered a Standardised Meal System for each trimester, but its meals included meat, which would be unacceptable to Rosie. I needed more time, or a meta-study. Surely others had faced the same problem and codified their findings.

  The pregnancy websites also contained vast amounts of information about foetal development. Rosie had been clear that she did not want a technical commentary, but it was so interesting, especially with a case study progressing in my apartment. I selected one of the wall tiles above the bath and labelled it ‘5’ to represent the estimated number of weeks of gestation up to the preceding Saturday. I made a dot the size of an orange seed to represent Bud’s current size, then added a sketch. Even after forty minutes’ work, it was crude compared with some of the diagrams available online. But, as with the schedule on the tiles opposite, its production gave me a distinct sense of satisfaction.

  To solve the immediate nutrition problem, I selected a vegetarian recipe at random from one of the websites. A jog via Trader Joe’s sufficed to source all the necessary ingredients for a tofu and squash flan.

  I was left with an afternoon of unscheduled time—an ideal opportunity to do some research in line with Gene’s advice. It seemed wise to delay the shower and change until after my excursion, especially as the weather forecast indicated a thirty per cent probability of rain. I put my light raincoat on over my jogging costume and added a cycling hat for hair protection.

  There was a small playground on 10th Avenue, only a few blocks away. It was perfect. I was able to sit on a bench, alone, and watch children with their guardians. Binoculars would have been helpful, but I could observe gross motor actions and even hear some conversation, especially as much of it was shouted. I was not disturbed—in fact on the sole occasion that a child approached me it was immediately summoned back.

  I made several observations in my notebook.

  The children explored for short distances but routinely checked and returned to their guardians. I recalled seeing a documentary in which this behaviour was made more obvious by fast-motion replay, but could not recall what type of animal was involved. My phone had substantial available memory, so I began shooting my own video. Gene would definitely be interested.

  My recording was interrupted by some kind of communal activity: the guardians and children gathered together for approximately twenty seconds and then moved to the other end of the playground, where my view of them was obscured by a central island of foliage. I followed and sat where I could observe them again, but they did not resume their play. I decided to wait and used the time to change the video resolution on my phone in case there was an opportunity to film a longer segment. Due to my focus on the camera-operating task, I did not notice the approach of two uniformed male police officers.

  In retrospect, I may not have handled the situation well, but it was an unfamiliar social protocol in unexpected circumstances driven by rules which I did not know. I was also struggling with the video application which I had downloaded because of its superior compression algorithm, without due attention to its user-friendliness.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ This was the (marginally) older policeman. I guessed they were both in their thirties, and in good physical shape—BMIs approximately twenty-three.

  ‘I think I’m configuring the resolution, but it’s possible I’m doing something different. It’s unlikely you will be able to assist unless you’re familiar with the application.’

  ‘Well, I guess we should get out of your way and leave you with the kids.’

  ‘Excellent. Good luck fighting crime.’

  ‘Get up.’ This was an unexpected change of attitude on the part of the younger colleague. Perhaps I was seeing a demonstration of the ‘good cop, bad cop’ protocol. I looked to Good Cop to see if I would receive contrary instructions.

  ‘Do you also require me to stand up?’

  Good Cop assisted me to stand. Forcefully. My dislike of being touched is visceral, and my response was similarly automatic. I did not pin or throw my assailant, but I did use a simple aikido move to disengage and distance him from me. He staggered back and Bad Cop pulled his gun. Good Cop produced handcuffs.

  At the police station, the officers sought a statement in which I conceded that I had been in the park observing children and that I had resisted arrest. I was finally given an answer to the obvious question: what had I done wrong? It is illegal in New York to enter a designated children’s playground without the company of a child under the age of twelve. Apparently there was a sign posted on the fence to that effect.

  Incredible. If I had actually been, as presumably suspected by the police and anticipated by the lawmakers, someone who gained sexual satisfaction from observing children, I would have had to kidnap a child in order to gain entry to the playground. Good Cop and Bad Cop were not interested in this argument, and I eventually provided an account of events that seemed to satisfy them.

  I was then left alone in a small room for fifty-four minutes. My phone had been confiscated.

  At that point an older man, also in uniform, joined me, carrying what I guessed was the printed version of my statement.

  ‘Professor Tillman?’

  ‘Greetings. I need to call a lawyer.’ The time spent alone had been useful in allowing me to collect my thoughts. I remembered a 1-800 phone number for criminal lawyers from a subway advertisement.

  ‘You don’t want to call your wife first?’

  ‘My priority is professional advice.’ I was also conscious that news of my arrest would cause Rosie stress, particularly as the problem was still unresolved and she could do little to help.

  ‘You can call a lawyer if you want. Maybe you won’t need one. You want something to drink?’

  My answer was automatic. ‘Yes, please. Tequila—straight up.’ My interrogator looked at me for approximately five seconds. He made no signs of getting the drink.

  ‘Sure you wouldn’t like a margarita? Maybe a strawberry daiquiri?’

  ‘No, a cocktail is complex to prepare. A tequila is fine.’ I suspected that they would not have fresh juice available. Better a neat tequila than a margarita made with lemon syrup or sweet-and-sour mix.

  ‘You’re from Melbourne, Australia, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And now you’re a professor at Columbia?’

  ‘An associate professor.’

  ‘You got someone we can call to verify that?’

  ‘Of course. You can contact the Dean of Medicine.’

  ‘So you’re a pretty smart guy, right?’ It was an awkward question to answer without appearing arrogant. I just nodded.

  ‘Okay, Professor, answer me this. With all your intelligence, when I offered you a margarita, did you really think I was going to go to the tearoom and squeeze a few limes?’

  ‘Lemons are fine. But I only asked for a tequila. Squeezing citrus fruit for cocktails seems an inappropriate use of time for a law-enforcement professional.’

  He leaned back. ‘You’re not kidding, are you?’

  I was under extreme
pressure, but conscious that I must have made an error. I did my best to clarify.

  ‘I’ve been arrested and am at risk of incarceration. I was unaware of the law. I am not intentionally making a joke.’ I thought for a moment, then added, only because it might reduce the chances of jail and consequent low-quality food, dull conversation and unwanted sexual advances, ‘I’m somewhat socially incompetent.’

  ‘I sorta figured that out. Did you really say “Good luck fighting crime” to Officer Cooke?’

  I nodded.

  He laughed. ‘I’ve got a nephew a lot like you.’

  ‘He’s a professor of genetics?’

  ‘No, but if you want to know about World War II Spitfires, he’s your boy. Knows everything about planes, nothing about how to stay out of trouble. You must’ve done all right at school. To make professor.’

  ‘I got excellent marks. I didn’t enjoy the social aspects.’

  ‘Problems with authority?’

  My instinctive answer was ‘no’: I am observant of rules and have no desire to cause trouble. But unbidden memories of the religious education teacher, the headmaster and the Dean of Science in Melbourne entered my mind, followed by Wineman, the superintendent at the Brooklyn apartment and the two cops.

  ‘Correct. Due to honesty—lack of tact—rather than malice.’

  ‘Ever been arrested before?’

  ‘This is the first time.’

  ‘And you were in the playground to’—he checked his document—‘observe children’s behaviour in preparation for fatherhood.’

  ‘Correct. My wife is pregnant. I need to acquire familiarity with children.’

  ‘Jesus.’ He looked at the paper again, but his eyes did not indicate that he was reading. ‘All right. I don’t think you’re a danger to kids, but I can’t just let you walk away. If next week you go and shoot up a school, and I’ve done nothing—’