The Rosie Effect

by Graeme Simsion

  29

  I spent the next day at work, alone, attempting to deal with the problem generated by Lydia’s observations. I undertook some supplementary research on the desirable attributes of a father.

  Non-violence was at the top of the list. My actions had led to arrest and referral to an anti-violence class. My meltdown was virtually indistinguishable from the outbreaks of anger that Jack the Biker had discussed. I did not consider myself a threat to others, but I presumed many violent people would make the same self-assessment.

  Drug Use—Lack of. My alcohol consumption, already at the highest daily limit I had been able to find, had risen significantly during the pregnancy. This was doubtless a response to stress. Jack the Biker was right: it probably made me more vulnerable to meltdowns.

  Emotional stability. One word. Meltdown.

  Sensitivity to Child’s Needs. One word. Empathy. My most serious weakness as a human being.

  Sensitivity to Partner’s Emotional Needs. See previous.

  Reflective Functioning. As a scientist probably good, but the fact that I had been unable to find a solution to my relationship problem suggested I could not apply it to the domestic environment.

  Social Supports. This was the only redeeming item in an otherwise disastrous list of shortcomings. My family was in Australia, but I was fortunate to have incredible support from Gene, Dave, George, Sonia, Claudia and the Dean. And, of course, I had professional help from Lydia.

  Honesty was not included in the list, but was obviously a desirable attribute. I had hoped that when the Playground Incident was resolved, I could share it with Rosie. But it was an instance of weird behaviour, and weird behaviour was no longer acceptable.

  I created a spreadsheet and it rapidly became obvious that the negatives outweighed the positives. As a potential father, I was manifestly unsuitable, and it was increasingly clear that I was no longer required in my role as a partner.

  Further research confirmed that it was not unusual for relationships to fail during pregnancy or shortly after the birth. The woman’s attention naturally shifted to the baby, at the expense of the partner. Alternatively, the male partner wanted to avoid the responsibility of fatherhood. The first had definitely occurred in our case. And while I was willing to take on the responsibilities of fatherhood, I had been rated as incapable by both a professional therapist and my wife. And now by my own self-assessment.

  My research provided some guidance on separation: better results were achieved by swift and definite action rather than prolonged discussion. This was consistent with the portrayal of relationship termination in two films I had watched during the Rosie Project: Casablanca and The Bridges of Madison County. In keeping with these films, I prepared a short speech of nine pages outlining the situation and the inevitability of my conclusion. It was emotionally painful work, but the process of articulating the argument helped to clarify it in my mind.

  Jogging home, with the speech prepared, I allowed my thoughts to wander. I had spent sixteen months and three days married to Rosie. Falling in love with Rosie had been the single best event of my life. I had worked as hard as I could to maintain the situation, but—like Dave with Sonia—I had always suspected that there had been some sort of cosmic mistake that would be discovered and that I would be alone again. Now it had happened.

  It was, of course, not the fault of the cosmos but of my own limitations. I had simply got too many things wrong, and the damage had accumulated.

  I left work early to arrive home before Gene. Once again, Rosie was on the mattress. This time she was reading, but it was a formulaic romance novel of the kind my aunt read. I had made Rosie so unhappy that she was seeking relief in fantasy.

  I began my speech. ‘Rosie, it seems obvious that things are not going well with us. There is some fault—’

  She interrupted. ‘Don’t say any more. Don’t talk about faults. I was the one who got pregnant without talking to you. I think I know what you’re going to say. I’ve been thinking the same thing. I know how hard you’ve tried, but this relationship has always been about two independent people who had fun together, not about a conventional family.’

  ‘Why did you get pregnant then?’

  ‘I guess because having a baby is so important to me, and I had a fantasy that we could be parents together. I didn’t think it through.’

  Rosie said more, but my ability to process speech, especially speech about emotions, had been impaired by my own emotions. I realised I had hoped that Rosie would disagree with me—possibly even laugh at some error in my thinking—and things would return to normal.

  Finally she said, ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘You indicated you would return to Australia,’ I said. ‘Obviously I will provide financial support for Bud as per convention.’

  ‘I mean, now. Can I stay here?’

  ‘Of course.’ I was not going to make Rosie homeless. She had no close friends in New York besides Judy Esler. And I did not want the Eslers to know about the separation yet. I still had an irrational hope that the problem would be resolved. ‘I’ll stay with Dave and Sonia. Temporarily.’

  ‘It won’t need to be long. I’ll book a flight home. Before they won’t let me fly.’

  Rosie insisted it was too late to go to Dave’s that evening, so I slept at the apartment. In the middle of the night, I woke to hear her performing her hot-chocolate and bathroom ritual, then the door opened. In the light from the living room, which was never completely dark, she looked interesting, in an extremely positive way. Her shape had changed even further and I was disappointed not to have been able to monitor it through closer contact.

  She was going to fly home. I would stay for a few days with Dave and Sonia and move back into the apartment alone. Perhaps I would also fly back to Australia at some stage. It made little difference. I am not particularly interested in my physical surroundings. I liked the job at Columbia, with David Borenstein, Inge, the B Team and, at least currently, Gene.

  Somewhere in the world I would have a child, but my role would be little different from that of a sperm donor. I would send money to assist Rosie with the costs, and perhaps resume my cocktail-making job to supplement my income and social contact. Even in New York, I lived efficiently. My life would revert to the way it was prior to Rosie. It would be better for the changes Rosie had stimulated me to make and for the new ways I had of perceiving reality. It would be worse for knowing that it had once been even better.

  Without speaking, Rosie climbed into bed with me. She was moving differently with the additional weight of Bud and his or her support system, leaning back to take advantage of the third wedge-shaped vertebra that human females have for that purpose. It seemed that she should ask permission, as it had never occurred to me to join her after she had relocated to her study. But I was not going to object.

  She put one arm around me, and I wished I had thought to freeze an emergency supply of blueberry muffins. To my surprise, the preliminary ritual was not necessary.

  In the morning, I slept past my automatic wake-up time. Rosie was still there. She would be late for her Saturday morning tutorial.

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ she said.

 
I parsed the sentence. She was giving me an option. But she was not suggesting she would change her plans to return to Australia. And she was not saying, ‘I want you to stay.’

  I packed a bag and, after taking over an hour to create an accurate picture of Bud on Tile 31, I took the subway to Dave’s.

  When Sonia arrived home from visiting her parents, she wanted Dave to drive me back to my apartment. Immediately. Dave had already helped me to move into his office, which was also the bedroom for their baby under construction, due to arrive in ten days.

  ‘She’s pregnant,’ said Sonia. ‘We all have ups and downs. Don’t we, Dave?’ She turned to me. ‘You can’t walk out on her just because you’ve had a fight. It’s your job to make the relationship work.’

  I checked Dave’s expression. He looked surprised. Any psychologist, including Rosie, would surely agree that relationship success was a joint responsibility.

  ‘We haven’t had a fight. I’ve seen a therapist. It’s clear I’m a negative influence on Rosie. She’s going back to Australia. She’ll have proper support.’

  ‘You’re the proper support.’

  ‘I’m unsuited to fatherhood.’

  ‘Dave. Drive Don home. Help him sort this out.’

  It was 7.08 p.m. when we arrived at the apartment. Gene was home, as his social life with Inge was over.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he said. ‘You’re not answering your phone.’

  ‘It’s in my bag. At Dave’s. I’m now living with Dave.’

  ‘Where’s Rosie?’

  ‘I assumed she was here. She’s usually home before 1.00 p.m. on a Saturday.’

  I explained the situation. Gene was in agreement with Sonia that we should attempt some sort of reconciliation.

  ‘I’ve been trying to make the relationship work,’ I said. ‘I think Rosie has too. The fault is intrinsic to my personality.’

  ‘She’s got your kid on board, Don. You can’t walk away from that.’

  ‘According to your theory, women seek the best genes from the biological father but make a separate decision as to who they want to care for the child.’

  ‘One thing at a time, Don. Like I said to Dave, it’s theory. Priority one is to find Rosie. She’s probably off in some bar drowning her sorrows.’

  ‘You think she’d drink alcohol?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m not pregnant.’

  If Gene was right, we had an emergency. Perhaps Rosie had left some clue in her study.

  I entered, and her computer was on. A Skype message was on the screen. From a person with the Skype name of 34, time zone Melbourne, Australia.

  I told you I’d be here for you. Stay strong. I love you.

  I love you! I opened the application and looked at the preceding conversation:

  Everything’s turned to shit. It’s over with me and Don.

  Are you sure?

  Are you sure you’ll still have me? With a baby and everything?

  Rosie walked in. She did not appear drunk.

  ‘Hello Dave. What are you doing in my room, Don?’

  It was obvious what I was doing.

  ‘Is there some other man?’ I asked.

  ‘Since you ask, yes.’ She turned away from Dave and me and looked out the window. ‘And he tells me he loves me. I think I feel the same way about him. Sorry, but you asked.’

  Repeating patterns. Rosie’s mother had slept with one man and married another who remained loyal to her despite them both believing Rosie was the original man’s child. Rosie had deceived me, just as I had deceived Rosie. And for the same reason, no doubt: in order not to cause distress.

  Dave drove me home to his apartment. He had heard the conversation. Neither of us could think of anything useful to say. Despite the plausibility—possibly the inevitability—of what I had just learned, I was stunned. I had no doubt who the other man was: Stefan, Rosie’s conventionally attractive study partner, whom she acknowledged had been pursuing her in Melbourne before we became a couple. He had been thirty-two when I met him, and could be thirty-four now. She had chosen him ahead of me to help with her statistics. Now she had chosen him to help her raise Bud. I considered him stupid enough to use an unstable string of characters as his identifier.

  30

  Dave’s office, which was now my bedroom, was a disaster! His desk was covered in paperwork, the stack of seven filing trays was overflowing and the cardboard boxes with dividers that he was using instead of a filing cabinet were in danger of tearing from internal pressure. It was obvious to me why his business was failing.

  Lectures were over for the year. My mouse-data analysis was being performed competently by Inge and I was not required by the Lesbian Mothers Project. It would have been a perfect opportunity for joint activities with Rosie. Instead I had vast unscheduled time. I volunteered as a filing clerk.

  Dave was desperate enough to entrust his business to a geneticist with an aversion to administration. And I was looking for anything to divert my brain from constructing mental images of Rosie and Number 34.

  ‘Invoice copies go in this file,’ said Dave.

  ‘But you have them on the computer already. There’s no need to print.’

  ‘What if the computer blows up?’

  ‘You revert to backup, obviously.’

  ‘Backup?’ said Dave.

  It took only two days of focused work, omitting lunches, to fix the system.

  ‘Where are the files?’ said Dave.

  ‘On the computer.’

  ‘What about the paper files?’

  ‘Destroyed.’

  Dave looked surprised, in fact shocked. Correction, devastated.

  ‘Some of that stuff came from customers: orders, authorities, sketches. It’s all paper.’

  I indicated the scanner function of the device I had acquired for $89.99 and identified the remaining problem.

  ‘You’re creating your invoices individually. Don’t you have an application for that?’

  ‘It’s too hard to use.’

  I seldom find computer programs difficult to use, but I struck some problems with accounting rules, due to not being an accountant. While Dave was at work, I enlisted professional help from Sonia, who had now ceased working in anticipation of the birth. She was unfamiliar with the software, but was able to answer all of my accounting questions.

  ‘I can’t understand why Dave didn’t ask me for help with this. He’s always saying it’s under control, but it obviously isn’t.’

  ‘I suspect that once he deceived you—in order to spare you stress—he found it increasingly difficult to admit to his deception over a long period.’

  ‘Married couples shouldn’t need to have secrets. I’ve told Dave that,’ said the woman who had posed as an Italian medical student and told me not to tell Dave because he was a worrier.

  ‘Can you print an aged debtors’ ledger for me?’ Sonia asked when the system was configured and all data had been entered. ‘I want to know how
much we’re owed.’

  The report was available from the menu.

  ‘$418.12, current.’

  ‘What about overdue?’

  ‘$9245, from four invoices. All issued more than 120 days ago.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Oh my God. No wonder he didn’t want to buy a pram. If it’s been four months, there’s probably some problem with the work. Can you show me the invoices? The overdue ones?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sonia looked at the screen for a few moments, then pointed to the phone on the newly acquired four-in-one utility.

  ‘Does this work?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sonia spent fifty-eight minutes on the phone, employing a variety of tactics apparently tailored to create guilt, pity, fear or, in one case, merely awareness. She was incredible. When she had finished, I told her so.

  ‘I spend half my life doing it to ordinary people who’ve overspent on trying to have a baby. Something I can relate to. After that, this is a breeze.’

  ‘Are they going to pay?’

  ‘The wine bar on West 19th is going to need a call to the owners. There’s been a change of management since Dave did the work and it sounds like the last guy left a mess. But the other three are okay. They just needed a little push.’

  Sonia raised the topic subtly at dinner.

  ‘I need some money to pay my credit card. Do you have anything?’

  ‘Not right now,’ said Dave. ‘I’m just waiting for money to come through. Everyone’s slow, but the work’s all good.’

  ‘How much did you say we were owed?’

  ‘Plenty,’ said Dave. ‘Don’t worry about it.’