The Rosie Effect

by Graeme Simsion

‘No, you won’t. It’s my fault, and I don’t want to be responsible for upsetting Rosie. Sounds like she’s already carrying the weight of the world. We’ll get it right next time.’

  ‘I’m not sure what we have to do.’

  ‘Lydia and I are saying the same thing. You need to think more about supporting Rosie. No matter what she’s saying about being independent, she needs your help.’

  ‘Why would she lie?’

  ‘She’s not lying, not deliberately. She’s got this idea of herself as Wonder Woman. Or maybe she thinks you don’t want to help. Or can’t help.’

  ‘So I need to demonstrate a contribution to the pregnancy process?’

  ‘Support. Taking an interest. Being there. That’s all Lydia and I are looking for. And Don?’

  ‘You have a question?’

  ‘How many power foods in the hamburger? There was lettuce and tomato. On both of them.’

  ‘Eight. But—’

  ‘No buts.’

  This time she did hug me. I kept still and it was over quite quickly.

  14

  Lydia was right. Six weeks had passed since Rosie’s announcement of the pregnancy. Yet despite setting up the tile schedule to support the Baby Project, I had actually done almost zero to prepare for baby production and maintenance, other than the purchase of ingredients for one pregnancy-compatible meal and the research excursion that led to the Playground Incident.

  Gene was wrong. Instincts that worked in the ancestral environment were not sufficient in a world that regulated playground visits and allowed choices between tofu and pizza. He was right, however, in recommending that I address the problem in my own way, working from my strengths. But I needed to begin now, not wait until after the baby was born.

  My search for appropriate texts on the practical issues of pregnancy produced a substantial list. I decided to begin with a well-regarded book as a broad guide to the field and then refer to the specific papers that it referenced for more detailed information. The sales assistant at the medical school bookshop recommended the fourth edition of What to Expect When You’re Expecting by Murkoff and Mazel, with the warning that some readers found it too technical. Perfect. It was reassuringly thick.

  A quick examination of What to Expect identified some positive and negative attributes. The coverage of topics was impressive, although much was irrelevant to Rosie and me: we did not own a cat that might cause infection via its faeces; we were not habitual users of cocaine; Rosie did not have any fears about her competence as a mother. The referencing was poor, a fault doubtless caused by it being intended for a non-academic audience. I was constantly looking for the evidence.

  The first chapter I read was ‘Nine Months of Eating Well’. It provided the meta study I was looking for, drawing together the best research on diet in pregnancy and using it as the basis for practical recommendations. At least that appeared to be the intent.

  The chapter title was yet another reminder that Rosie and the developing foetus—exposed and vulnerable to toxins crossing the placental wall—had experienced nine weeks of not eating well, including three weeks of not drinking well, due to the lack of planning. But alcohol already ingested could not be un-ingested. I needed to focus on the things that I could change and accept the things I could not.

  The advocacy for organic and local produce was predictable. This was a subject that I had previously researched for obvious economic and health reasons. Any advice on pregnancy based on the premise that ‘natural is better’ should be accompanied by statistics on birth outcomes in the ‘natural’ environment, devoid of nutritional diversity, antibiotics and sterile operating theatres. And, of course, a rigorous definition of ‘natural’.

  The disparity between my well-researched conclusions about organics and the summary in the book was a useful warning not to accept recommendations without checking primary sources. Meanwhile, I had no choice but to rely on What to Expect as the best information available. I skimmed the rest of the book, learning some interesting facts, before devoting the remainder of the afternoon to developing a Standardised Meal System (Pregnancy Version) in line with its recommendations. Rosie’s rejection of meat and unsustainable seafood made the job simpler by reducing the number of options. I was confident that the resulting menu would provide an adequate nutritional base.

  As so often occurs in science, implementation proved more difficult than planning. Rosie’s initially negative reaction to the tofu meal should have been a warning. I had to remind myself that my acquisition of more comprehensive knowledge had not of itself changed Rosie’s view. Logical, but non-intuitive. Rosie raised the subject without prompting from me.

  ‘Where did you get the smoked mackerel from?’ she asked.

  ‘Irrelevant,’ I said. ‘It was cold-smoked.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Cold-smoked fish is banned.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It could make you sick.’ I was conscious of the vagueness of my answer. I had not had time to research the evidence behind the unreferenced claim, but at this point I had to accept it as the best advice available.

  ‘Lots of things can make you sick. I’m sick every morning at the moment and I feel like some more of that smoked mackerel. It’s probably my body sending me a signal that I need smoked mackerel. Cold-smoked mackerel.’

  ‘I recommend a tinned salmon and soybean-based mini-meal. The good news is that you can eat it immediately to satisfy your craving.’ I walked to the refrigerator and fetched Part One of Rosie’s dinner.

  ‘Mini-meal? What’s a mini-meal?’

  It was fortunate that I was studying pregnancy. Rosie had clearly done minimal research.

  ‘A partial solution to the nausea problem. You should eat six mini-meals per day. I’ve organised a second meal for you at 9.00 p.m.’

  ‘What about you? Are you eating at nine o’clock?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m not pregnant.’

  ‘What about my other four meals?’

  ‘Pre-packaged. Breakfast and three daytime meals for tomorrow are already in the refrigerator.’

  ‘Shit. I mean, that’s really nice, but…I don’t want you going to so much trouble. I can just grab something from the café at uni. Some of their stuff is okay.’

  This was in direct contradiction to previous complaints about the café.

  ‘You should resist the temptation. In the interests of maternal and Bud health, we need to plan, plan and plan some more.’ I was quoting The Book. In this instance, the advice offered by What to Expect was in line with my own thinking. ‘Also, you need to control your coffee consumption. Café measures are inconsistent—hence I recommend drinking one standardised coffee in the morning at home and drinking only decaffeinated at university.’

  ‘You’ve been reading up, haven’t you?’

  ‘Correct. I recommend What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It’s intended for pregnant women.’

  Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Gene, who now had his own key. He seemed in a good mood.

  ‘Evening all, what’s for dinner?’ He waved a bottle of red wine.

 
‘Appetiser is New England oysters, entrée is deli meats, main course is rare New York steaks with a spice crust and alfalfa salad, followed by a selection of raw milk and blue cheeses, then affogato with Strega.’ As part of the change to the meal system, I had also designed meals suitable for Gene and myself, taking into account that we were neither pregnant nor sustainable pescatarians.

  As Rosie was looking a little confused, I added, ‘Rosie will be eating a legume-based curry, minus the spices.’

  The Book warned of irrational behaviour due to hormonal changes. Rosie refused to eat her mini-meal and instead consumed a sample of every component of Gene’s and my dinner, including a small quantity of steak (in violation of her commitment to sustainable-seafood pescatarianism), and even a sip of wine.

  The predictable consequence was illness the next morning. She was sitting on the bed, head in her hands, when I alerted her to the time.

  ‘You go by yourself,’ she said. ‘I’m going to take the morning off.’

  ‘Feeling unwell is normal in pregnancy. It’s almost certainly a good sign. Lack of morning sickness is correlated with a higher risk of miscarriages and abnormalities. Your body is probably assembling some critical component, such as an arm, and is minimising the possibility of toxins disrupting the process.’

  ‘You’re talking shit.’

  ‘Flaxman and Sherman, Quarterly Review of Biology, Summer 2000. “An evolved mechanism to reduce toxin-induced deformities.”’

  ‘Don, I appreciate all this, but it’s got to stop. I just want to eat normal food. I want to eat what I feel like. I’m feeling crap and tinned salmon and soybeans is going to make me feel more crap. It’s my body and I get to choose what I do with it.’

  ‘Incorrect. Two bodies, one of which has fifty per cent of my genes.’

  ‘So I get one and a half votes and you get half a vote. I win. I get to eat smoked mackerel and raw oysters.’

  She must have noticed my expression.

  ‘I’m kidding, Don. But I don’t want you telling me what to eat. I can do this myself. I’m not going to get drunk or eat salami.’

  ‘You ate pastrami last night.’

  ‘Hardly any. I was making a point. Anyway, I’m not planning to eat meat again.’

  ‘What about shellfish?’ I was testing.

  ‘I’m guessing no go?’

  ‘You guess wrong. Cooked shellfish is acceptable.’

  ‘Seriously, how important is all this stuff? I mean, this is so you—getting obsessed with every little thing. Judy Esler says she never worried about what she ate twenty-five years ago. I’m guessing I’m more likely to be run over walking to Columbia than poisoned by oysters.’

  ‘I predict you’re incorrect.’

  ‘Predict? You’re not sure, are you?’

  Rosie knew me too well. The Book was short on hard data. Rosie stood up and retrieved her towel from the floor. ‘Make me a list of what I can’t eat. No more than ten things. And no big generic categories like “sweet stuff” or “salty stuff”. You cook dinner, I’ll eat what I like during the day. Except for your list. And no mini-meals.’

  I remembered an item of extraordinarily unscientific advice from The Book, encouraging the most serious failing of the medical profession. It was in reference to caffeine: ‘Different practitioners have different recommendations, so check in with yours…’ Incredible—placing individual judgement ahead of the consensus from research. But it provided me with an opportunity to ask another question.

  ‘What advice has your medical practitioner provided on diet?’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to make an appointment. I’ve been frantic with the thesis. I’ll do it soon.’

  I was stunned. I did not need The Book to tell me that a pregnant woman should schedule regular visits to an obstetrician. Despite my reservations about the competence of some members of the medical profession, there was no doubt that, statistically, involvement of a professional led to better outcomes. My sister had died due to medical misdiagnosis, but she would certainly have died if she had not seen a doctor at all.

  ‘You’re overdue for the eight-week ultrasound. I’ll ask David Borenstein for a recommendation and make an appointment for you.’

  ‘Leave it. I’ll sort it out on Monday. I’m meeting Judy for lunch.’

  ‘David is far more knowledgeable.’

  ‘Judy knows everyone. Please. Just leave it to me.’

  ‘You guarantee you’ll make an appointment on Monday?’

  ‘Or Tuesday. It might be Tuesday I’m seeing Judy. She changed but we might have changed back. I can’t remember.’

  ‘You’re too disorganised to have a baby.’

  ‘And you’re too obsessional. Lucky I’m the one who’s having it.’

  What had happened to We’re pregnant?

  15

  ‘I’ll let you guys have a romantic dinner alone,’ said Gene when I went to his office after completing my scheduled work the following Tuesday. ‘I’ve got a date.’

  I had been expecting him to travel home with me on the subway to provide intellectual stimulation. Now I would have to download a paper to read. More seriously, Inge had left early to prepare for dinner at an upscale restaurant. I detected a pattern.

  ‘You’re having dinner with Inge?’

  ‘Very perceptive. She’s delightful company.’

  ‘I’ve scheduled dinner for you at our apartment.’

  ‘I’m sure Rosie won’t miss me.’

  ‘Inge is extremely young. Inappropriately young.’

  ‘She’s over twenty-one. She can drink and vote and associate with unattached men. You’re in danger of being ageist, Don.’

  ‘You should be thinking about Claudia. Fixing the problem of your promiscuity.’

  ‘I’m not promiscuous. I’m only seeing one woman.’ Gene smiled. ‘Worry about your own problems.’

  Gene was right. Rosie was pleased with his absence. When we got married, I had assumed I would have to spend uncomfortable amounts of time in the presence of another person. In fact, much of our time was spent apart, due to work and study, and our time together (excluding periods in bed when at least one of us—usually me—was asleep) was now frequently shared with Gene. Dedicated contact with Rosie had now fallen well below the optimum level.

  There was one encouraging item in The Book, which I had chosen not to raise in the presence of Gene.

  ‘Have you noticed an increase in libido?’ I asked.

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘An increase in sexual appetite is not uncommon in the first trimester. I was wondering whether you were affected.’

  ‘You’re hilarious. I guess if I wasn’t throwing up or feeling like shit…’

  It struck me that our practice of having sex in the mornings rather than the evenings was contributing to the problem.

  After dinner, Rosie headed for her study to work on her thesis. On average, she was devoting ninety-five minutes to this pre-bed session, although the variance was high. After eighty minutes, I made her a cup of fruit infusion, which I accompanied with s
ome fresh blueberries.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

  ‘Not so bad. Except for the stats.’

  ‘There’s a lot of ugly things in this world. I wish I could keep them all away from you,’ I said. Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch in supportive mode. It was probably my most effective line. Opportunities to impersonate Gregory Peck had been significantly reduced by Gene’s presence.

  Rosie stood up. ‘Good timing. I think I’ve had enough of ugly things for tonight.’ She put her arms around me and kissed me in passionate mode rather than greetings mode.

  We were interrupted by a familiar noise from an unfamiliar location: someone was calling Gene on Skype. I was not sure of the rules for answering another person’s VoIP communication, but perhaps it was Claudia with an emergency. Or a proposal for reconciliation.

  I entered Gene’s bedroom and saw Eugenie’s face on the screen. Gene and Claudia’s daughter is nine years old. I had not spoken to her since we moved to New York. I clicked on Answer with video.

  ‘Dad?’ Eugenie’s voice was clear and loud.

  ‘Greetings! It’s Don.’

  Eugenie laughed. ‘I can tell from your face. I could have told from you saying greetings.’

  ‘Your father is out.’

  ‘What are you doing at his house?’

  ‘It’s my apartment. We’re sharing. Like students.’

  ‘That’s so cool. Were you and my dad friends at school?’

  ‘No.’ Gene is sixteen years older than I am and would not have belonged to my social group if we had been contemporaries. Gene would have been dating girls, playing sport and soliciting votes for school captain.

  ‘Hey Don.’

  ‘Hey Eugenie.’

  ‘When do you think Dad will come home?’