Rosie’s prediction that it would be nice just to talk was correct. We talked about Gene and Claudia and Carl and Eugenie and Inge, about Dave and Sonia and what we would do when our pseudo-lease expired. George had promised me three months’ notice. No conclusions were reached, but I was conscious that Rosie and I had not scheduled sufficient time for talking since we had arrived in New York and become busy with work. Neither of us raised the topic of pregnancy, in my case since it had been the source of recent conflict. Rosie’s reason may have been the same.
At intervals, Rosie went to the kitchen and returned with food, in every instance competently executed. We had fried crab cakes and then the main course, which Rosie retrieved from the oven.
‘Striped bass en papillote,’ she said. ‘Which is to say in paper, since this is our paper anniversary.’
‘Incredible. You solved the problem and the result is disposable.’
‘I know you hate clutter. So we’ll just have the memory.’ Rosie waited while I tasted it.
‘Okay?’ she said.
‘Delicious.’ It was true.
‘So,’ she said, ‘that brings me to the one thing I wanted to say. It’s nothing dramatic. I can cook. I’m not going to cook every night, and you’re a better cook than I am, but I can follow a recipe if I need to. If I screw up occasionally, no big deal. I love everything you do for me, but I also want you to know that I’m not helpless and incompetent. That’s really important to me.’
Rosie took a sip from my wineglass and continued her speech. ‘I know I do it to you too. Remember the night I left you at the cocktail bar and was worried you wouldn’t cope without me? And you were fine, right?’
I must have been too slow to hide my expression.
‘What happened?’ she said.
There was no reason now, seven weeks later, to hide the story of Loud Woman and the consequent loss of our jobs. I related the story, and we both laughed. It was a huge relief.
‘I knew something had happened,’ said Rosie. ‘I knew you’d been hiding something. You shouldn’t ever worry about telling me stuff.’
It was a critical moment. Should I tell Rosie about the Playground Incident and Lydia? Tonight she was relaxed and accepting. But perhaps tomorrow morning she would begin worrying and stress would replace her happy mood. The threat of prosecution was still present.
Instead I took the opportunity to explore a lie by a third party. ‘When Gene said I had dog faeces on my shoe, did you believe him?’
‘Of course not. He dragged you outside to tell you not to get in my face in the kitchen. Or to give you the flower to give to me. Right?’
‘The first one. I purchased the flower independently.’ I would of course have been fooled had I been in Rosie’s position, but I was not surprised that she had detected Gene’s lie.
‘Do you think Gene knew that he had failed to deceive you?’ I asked.
‘I’d think so. It’s not like I don’t know the two of you.’
‘So why did he bother inventing a lie that no one would believe and that made no difference to anyone’s feelings?’
‘Just trying to be nice,’ she said. ‘I guess I appreciated the effort.’
Social protocols. Unfathomable.
It was my turn to deliver a surprise. I walked inside. Gene was back and he had helped himself to some of the surplus champagne in the refrigerator.
I returned to the balcony and pulled Rosie’s mother’s ring from my pocket. I took Rosie’s hand and put it on her finger, as I had done with another ring on this date a year earlier. In keeping with tradition, I put it on the same finger: the theory is that the eternity ring symbolically prevents the removal of the wedding ring. This seemed to be consistent with Phil’s intent.
It took Rosie a few seconds to recognise the ring and begin crying, and in that time Gene had thrown the full box of confetti over us with one hand and taken multiple photographs with the other.
18
A communal meal was scheduled for Tuesday evening. I reminded Rosie in the morning as I suspected her unreliability at keeping appointments had been exacerbated by pregnancy.
‘Don’t you forget,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the sonogram booked today.’
Problems had accumulated. I had made a list of eight critical items.
1. The Gene Relocation Problem. Obviously Gene needed to participate in this discussion.
2. The Banned Substances List. I had left it on Rosie’s desk, but she had not indicated her formal approval.
3. Rosie’s problem with leave from the medical program. This needed to be resolved as quickly as possible in the interests of certainty.
4. An exercise regimen for Rosie, outstanding after the failure of the swimming program.
5. Rosie’s thesis, behind schedule and in danger of interfering with other activities.
6. The Gene and Claudia Marriage Problem. I had made no progress and needed Rosie’s help.
7. The Carl and Gene Issue. Gene needed to talk to Carl.
8. Direct action on Rosie’s stress. Yoga and meditation are widely recognised as promoting relaxation.
Just making the list gave me a feeling of significant progress. I gave printed copies to Gene and Rosie as they sat down to dinner—wild-caught prawns followed by low-mercury grilled fish with a salad featuring the absence of alfalfa shoots.
Rosie’s reaction was not positive.
‘Fuck, Don. I’ve got two weeks to finish my thesis. I don’t need all this.’
There was silence for approximately twenty seconds.
‘Looking at this list,’ Gene said, ‘it seems like I’ve been contributing to Item 8. I’ve been so occupied with young Carl’s difficulties that I’ve been inconsiderate of you. I didn’t realise you were under so much pressure with the thesis.’
‘What do you think I’ve been doing in my study all the time? Why do you think I have no life? Don didn’t tell you I was behind?’ The words were aggressive, but I recognised a conciliatory tone.
‘Not really, no. It seems you and Don have got a lot to talk about, with leave and exercise and banned substances. I’ll grab a burger and start looking for somewhere to live tomorrow.’
Rosie had what she wanted, but inexplicably refused it.
‘No, no, sorry. Have dinner with us. We’ll talk about the food and exercise stuff some other time.’
‘We need to discuss it now,’ I said.
‘It can wait,’ said Rosie. ‘Tell us about Carl, Gene.’
‘He blames me for the split.’
‘If you could have your time again?’ said Rosie.
‘I wouldn’t change it for Claudia. But if I’d known how it would affect Carl…’
‘Unfortunately, the past is not changeable,’ I said, wanting to bring the conversation back to practical solutions.
‘Acknowledging your regret may help,’ said Rosie.
‘I doubt it’ll be enough for Carl,’ said Gene.
At least we had addressed, if not resolved, one item on the agenda. I made a point of checking
it off on both of their copies.
We made no further progress with the list. Rosie produced a large envelope from her bag and gave it to Gene. ‘This is what I did this afternoon.’
Gene pulled a sheet from the envelope and passed it immediately to me. It was a sonogram picture, presumably of Bud. To a non-expert, it was indistinguishable from the pictures in The Book, which I was very familiar with. It was less clear than the sketch I had added to the Week 12 tile five days earlier. I passed it back to Rosie.
‘I guess you’ve seen it already,’ said Gene.
‘No, he hasn’t,’ said Rosie. She turned to me. ‘Where were you at 2.00 p.m. today?’
‘In my office, reviewing a research protocol for Simon Lefebvre. Is there a problem?’
‘Did you forget about the sonogram?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So why weren’t you there?’
‘I was expected to attend?’ It would have been interesting, but I could see no role for myself. I had never attended a medical appointment with Rosie before, nor she with me. In fact she had had her first medical appointment with the OBGYN the previous week, where she presumably received an initial briefing on the conduct of the pregnancy. If I was to attend any appointment, this was surely the most relevant in ensuring that we had the same information. Yet I had not been invited. The sonogram was a procedure involving technicians and technology, and I was conscious from experience that professionals liked to work without the presence of onlookers who asked distracting questions.
Rosie nodded slowly. ‘I tried to call but your phone was off. I thought you might have had an accident or something, but then I remembered that I’d only told you the time and the place twice and hadn’t actually said, “Use that information to get yourself there.”’
It was generous of Rosie to take the blame for the misunderstanding.
‘Were there any faults?’ I asked. At almost thirteen weeks, the sonogram would be able to pick up neural-tube deficits. I had assumed that, in keeping with normal protocols, Rosie would have informed me if there had been a problem, just as she would have informed me if she had lost her phone on the subway. The Book had implied that abnormalities were statistically unlikely. In any case, there was zero I could do until an issue was identified.
‘No, there are no faults. What if there were?’
‘It would depend on the nature of the fault, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Good news, then,’ said Gene. ‘Some of us imagine every possible scenario, and some of us cross the bridge when we come to it. Like Don.’
‘I’ve got another item,’ said Rosie. ‘I forgot to tell you. I’ve got a study group tomorrow night. Here.’
‘The semester hasn’t started,’ I said. ‘You need to focus on your thesis.’
‘The thesis is screwed. I’m not going to get it done in ten days.’
‘It’ll be all right,’ said Gene. ‘I’ll organise an extension.’
Rosie shook her head. ‘This is Columbia. They have rules.’
‘For ordinary mortals. Relax.’
Rosie did not look relaxed. ‘I talked to someone in admin. She wasn’t exactly helpful.’
Gene smiled. ‘I’ve already spoken to Borenstein. As long as it’s in by the start of your clinical year, you’ll be fine.’
The study-group meeting would be a major disruption to my schedule, but Rosie was overloaded. I needed to be supportive during this challenging time of change for both of us, as recommended by The Book. ‘I’ll scale up the dinner. How many people?’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll get pizza. One night won’t hurt.’
‘I’m not worried. I can easily cook a vastly superior meal.’
‘Maybe you guys could have your night out tomorrow.’
‘That’s a more serious disruption to the schedule than multiplying the dinner.’
‘It’s just…you’re faculty, and it’s the first time they’ve been here. They’ve never met you.’
‘Obviously there has to be a first meeting. I can meet them all together.’
‘They’re strangers. You don’t like meeting strangers.’
‘Medical students. Almost scientists. Pseudo-scientists. I can have fascinating arguments with them.’
‘Which is why I’d rather you went out. Please.’
‘You think I’ll be annoying?’
‘I guess I just want my own space.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Gene. ‘I’ll look after Don.’
Rosie smiled. ‘Sorry to spring it on you. Thanks for understanding.’ She was looking at Gene.
George called as Gene and I were leaving for the bar the following evening. ‘Don, do you want to come up here instead? We can send out for pizza. I’ve got a few things I want to throw at the Gene Genie.’
I called Dave. If George was paying and we could watch the baseball, location was of minor importance.
During the seventh-inning stretch George turned to Gene. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about genetics. Quite a bit, actually. It still doesn’t explain why one of my sons is a drug addict and two aren’t.’
‘Two words. Different genes. I can’t know for sure, but I’d guess he got an overdose of genes that tell his body to keep doing what feels good. Fine in an environment without pharmaceuticals.’
George sat back and Gene continued. ‘All of us are programmed—genetically programmed—to keep doing what’s worked for us, and to avoid things that didn’t work.’
‘Ayahuasca,’ said George. ‘Tried once, never again.’
‘Most of the time, what we do works well enough. So here’s a principle that most psychologists would agree with but that comes straight out of genetics: people repeat themselves.’
I asked the obvious question. ‘How do they know what to do the first time?’
‘They copy their parents. In the ancestral environment, they were, by definition, successful people. They’d succeeded in breeding. If you want to understand individual human behaviour, the magic words are repeating patterns.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said George. ‘I’m a drummer. Repeating patterns. Same songs, same boat, same journey.’
‘Why do you continue?’ I asked.
‘Now there’s a good question,’ said George. ‘When I got this apartment, I had an idea I’d move here, find somewhere that’d give me a solo gig once a week. I play a bit of guitar. Get back to writing my own stuff. Every year I promise myself I’ll do it, and every year I get back on the bloody boat.’
He put his beer glass down. ‘You gents want to switch to wine? I bought a case of Chianti.’
George fetched a bottle of Sassicaia 2000, which is not technically Chianti, but from the same region.
‘Jesus,’ said Gene. ‘A bit good for pizza.’
‘World’s best pizza,’ I said, to clarify, and everyone laughed. It was a minor but notably good moment, and I was sorry Rosie was not sharing it with me.
George was looking for a corkscrew without success. There was a simple solution.
I went downstairs and opened the door to the apartment, expecting to find it full of medical students. The living room was empty. Rosie was in the bedroom, asleep. The light was on and a novel was open on the bed. On the floor was a single, small pizza box. The receipt was stuck to the top: $14.50. Meatlovers’ Special.
19
‘Is there some problem?’ I asked Rosie the next morning.
‘I was going to ask you the same thing,’ she said. ‘You were in the bathroom for over an hour.’
Copying the sonogram picture of Bud onto Tile 13 had been more difficult than reproducing a line diagram from the internet. But it seemed sensible to use the actual picture. Rosie was right: it would have been interesting to watch the moving scan.
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Maintaining the wall tiles.’
I had also been analysing the Meat Pizza Incident. I saw five possibilities:
1. Rosie’s study group had eaten the pizza. That did not explain the box being in the bedroom.
2. Rosie was having an affair with a carnivore. That would explain the location of the box, but surely they would have hidden the evidence.
3. The box was mislabelled and actually contained a vegetarian pizza.
4. A meat pizza had been delivered in error. Rosie had discarded the meat and eaten the remaining pizza. The theory was plausible, but there was no sign of meat in the bin.
5. Rosie had violated her practice of sustainable pescatarianism. This seemed highly unlikely, although there was a recent precedent in her eating a small quantity of Gene’s and my steak meal.
Incredibly, the highly unlikely option was the correct one. There had been no study group meeting. Rosie had ‘just needed a bit of space’. She had lied to me rather than make a straightforward request. And she had ordered a meat pizza.
The Rosie Effect Page 17