The Rosie Effect

4

It was fortunate that sex had been brought forward to Friday evening. When I returned from my market jog the following morning, Rosie was feeling nauseated. I knew that this was a common symptom in the first trimester of pregnancy, and, thanks to my father, I knew the correct word for it. ‘If you describe yourself as nauseous, Don, you’re saying you make people sick.’ My father is meticulous about correct use of language.

There is a good evolutionary explanation for morning sickness in early pregnancy. In this critical stage of foetal development, with the mother’s immune system depressed, it is essential that she does not ingest any harmful substances. Hence the stomach is more highly tuned to reject unsuitable food. I recommended that Rosie not take any drugs to interfere with the natural process.

‘I hear you,’ said Rosie. She was in the bathroom, steadying herself with both hands on the vanity unit. ‘I’ll leave the thalidomide in the cupboard.’

‘You’ve got thalidomide?’

‘Kidding, Don, kidding.’

I explained to Rosie that many drugs could cross the placental wall, and cited a number of examples, along with descriptions of the deformities they could cause. I did not think Rosie was likely to take any of them, and was really only sharing some interesting information that I had read many years earlier, but she closed the door. At that point, I realised that there was one drug that she had definitely taken. I opened the door.

‘What about alcohol? How long have you been pregnant?’

‘About three weeks, I guess. I’m going to stop now, okay?’

Her tone suggested that answering in the negative would not be a good idea. But here was a stunning example of the consequences of failing to plan. Those consequences were important enough to have their own special pejorative term, even in a world that does not value planning as much as it should. We were dealing with an unplanned pregnancy. If the pregnancy had been planned, Rosie could have stopped drinking in advance. She could also have arranged for a medical assessment to identify any risks, and we could have acted on research indicating that the DNA quality of sperm can be improved by daily sex.

‘Have you smoked any cigarettes? Or marijuana?’ Rosie had given up smoking less than a year ago, and had occasionally relapsed, typically in conjunction with alcohol consumption.

‘Hey, stop freaking me out. No. You know what you should be worried about? Steroids.’

‘You’ve been taking steroids?’

‘No, I haven’t been taking steroids. But you’re making me stressed. Stress creates cortisol, which is a steroid hormone; cortisol crosses the placental wall; high levels of cortisol in babies are associated with depression in later life.’

‘Have you researched this?’

‘Only for the last five years. What do you think my PhD’s about?’ Rosie emerged from the bathroom and stuck her tongue out, a gesture that seemed inconsistent with scientific authority. ‘So your job for the next nine months is to make sure I don’t get stressed. Say it: Rosie must not get stressed. Go on.’

I repeated the instruction. ‘Rosie must not get stressed.’

‘Actually, I’m a bit stressed now. I can feel the cortisol. I think I might need a massage to relax me.’

There was another critical question. I tried to ask it in a non-stress-inducing tone as I warmed the massage oil.

‘Are you sure you’re pregnant? Have you consulted a doctor?’

‘I’m a medical student, remember? I did the test twice. Yesterday morning and just before I told you. Two false positives are highly unlikely, Professor.’

‘Correct. But you were taking contraceptive pills.’

‘I must’ve forgotten. Maybe you’re just super potent.’

‘Did you forget once or multiple times?’

‘How can I remember what I forgot?’

I had seen the pill packet. It was one of the numerous female things that had appeared in my world when Rosie moved in. It had little bubbles labelled according to the day of the week. The system seemed good, although a mapping to actual dates would have been useful. I envisaged some sort of digital dispenser with an alarm. Even in its current form, it was obviously designed to prevent errors by women who were far less intelligent than Rosie. It should have been easy for her to notice an oversight. But she changed the subject.

‘I thought you were happy about having a baby.’

I was happy in the way that I would be happy if the captain of an aircraft in which I was travelling announced that he had succeeded in restarting one engine after both had failed. Pleased that I would now probably survive, but shocked that the situation had arisen in the first place, and expecting a thorough investigation into the circumstances.

Apparently, I waited too long to respond. Rosie repeated her statement.

‘You said you were happy last night.’

Since the day Rosie and I participated in a wedding ceremony in a church in memory of Rosie’s atheist mother’s Irish ancestry—with her father, Phil, performing a ‘giving away’ ritual that surely violated Rosie’s feminist philosophy, Rosie wearing an extraordinary white dress and veil that she planned never to use again, and escaping having chopped-up coloured paper thrown over us only because of a (sensible) regulation—I had learned that, in marriage, reason frequently had to take second place to harmony. I would have agreed to the confetti if it had been permitted.

‘Of course, of course,’ I said, trying to maintain a rational and non-confrontational conversation while processing memories and rubbing oil into Rosie’s naked body. ‘I was just wondering how it happened. As a scientist.’

‘It was the Saturday morning after you went out and got breakfast and did your Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday.’ Rosie attempted her own impression. ‘You should always wear my clothes.’

‘Was I wearing my shirt when I did it?’

‘You do remember. You’re right. I had to tell you to take it off.’

First of June. The day my life changed. Again.

‘I didn’t think it would happen straight away,’ she said. ‘I thought it might take months, maybe years, like Sonia.’

In retrospect, this was the perfect moment to tell Rosie about Gene. But I did not realise until later that she was admitting that the contraception failure was deliberate and thus giving me an opportunity to make my own revelation. I was focused on the massage process.

‘Are you feeling less stressed?’ I asked.

She laughed. ‘Our baby is out of danger. Temporarily.’

‘Would you like a coffee? I put your blueberry muffin in the refrigerator.’

‘Just keep doing what you’re doing.’

The net result of continuing to do what I was doing was that the time window between breakfast and my aikido class disappeared, and there was no chance to discuss the Gene Problem. When I returned, Rosie suggested we cancel the museum visit to enable further work on her thesis. I used the freed-up time to research beer.

Dave drove us to a new apartment building between the High Line and the Hudson River. I was amazed to discover that the ‘cellar’ was actually a small bedroom in an apartment on the thirty-ninth floor, immediately below the top-floor apartment that it was to serve. The lower apartment was otherwise vacant. Dave had insulated the room with refrigeration panels and installed a complex cooling system.

‘Should’ve done more to insulate the ceiling,’ said Dave. I agreed. Any costs would have been rapidly recouped in electricity savings. I had learned a great deal about refrigeration since meeting Dave.

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Building management. I think they would have caved, but the client isn’t too worried about running costs.’

‘The client is presumably extremely wealthy. Or extremely fond of beer.’

Dave pointed upwards.

‘Both. He bought two four-bedroom apartments: he’s using this one just for the beer.’

He moved his finger to his lips in the conventional signal for silence and secrecy. A short, thin man with a craggy face and long grey hair tied in a ponytail had appeared in the doorway. I estimated his BMI as twenty and his age as sixty-five. If I had to guess his profession, I would have said plumber. If he was a former plumber who had won a lottery, he might be a very exacting client.

He spoke with a strong English accent. ‘’Ullo, David. Brought your mate?’ The plumber extended his hand. ‘George.’

I shook it according to protocol, matching George’s pressure, which was medium. ‘Don.’

Formalities completed, George inspected the room.

‘What temperature you setting it at?’

Dave gave an answer that I deduced as likely to be wrong. ‘For beer, we generally set it at forty-five degrees. Fahrenheit.’

George was unimpressed. ‘Bloody hell, you want to freeze it? If I want to drink lager, I’ll use the fridge upstairs. Tell me what you know about real beer. Ale.’

Dave is extremely competent, but learns from practice and experience. In contrast, I learn more effectively by reading, which is why it took me so long to achieve competence in aikido, karate and the performance aspects of cocktail-making. Dave probably had zero experience with English beer.

I responded on his behalf. ‘For English bitter, the recommended temperature is between ten and thirteen degrees Celsius. Thirteen to fifteen for porters, stout and other dark ales. Equivalent to fifty to fifty-five point four degrees Fahrenheit for the bitter and fifty-five point four to fifty-nine Fahrenheit for the dark ales.’

George smiled. ‘Australian?’

‘Correct.’

‘I’ll forgive you that. Go on.’

I proceeded to describe the rules for proper storage of ale. George seemed satisfied with my knowledge.

‘Smart fellow,’ said George. He turned to Dave. ‘I like a man who knows his limitations and gets help when he needs it. So it’ll be Don looking after my beer, will it?’

‘Well, no,’ said Dave. ‘Don’s more of a…consultant.’

‘I hear you loud and clear,’ said George. ‘How much?’

Dave has strong ethics about business practice. ‘I’ll have to work it out,’ he said. ‘Are you happy with the fit-out?’ Dave indicated the refrigeration equipment, insulation and plumbing that rose through the ceiling.

‘What do you reckon, Don?’ asked George.

‘Insufficient insulation,’ I said. ‘The electricity consumption will be excessive.’

‘Not worth the trouble. Had enough strife with the building manager already. Doesn’t like me putting holes in the ceiling. I’ll save it up till I put the spiral staircase in.’ He laughed. ‘All right otherwise?’

‘Correct.’ I trusted Dave.

George took us upstairs. It was incredible as an apartment, but totally conventional as an English pub. Walls had been removed to incorporate three of the bedrooms into the living room, which was furnished with multiple wooden tables and chairs. A bar was equipped with six taps connected by lines to the beer cellar below, and a large TV screen was angled high on the wall. There was even a platform for a band with piano, drums and amplifiers in place. George was very friendly, and got us micro-brewery beers from one of the bar fridges.

‘Rubbish,’ he said as we drank them on the balcony, looking out over the Hudson to New Jersey. ‘The good stuff should be here on Monday. It came over on the same boat as us.’

George went back inside and returned with a small leather bag.

‘So, tell me the bad news,’ he said to Dave, who interpreted this as a request for an invoice and passed over a folded piece of paper. George looked at it briefly, then pulled out two large wads of hundred-dollar bills from his bag. He gave one to Dave and counted a further thirty-four bills from the second.

‘Thirteen thousand, four hundred. Close enough. No need to trouble the fiscal fiend.’ He gave me his card. ‘Call me any time you’ve got a worry, Don.’

George had made it clear that he wanted me to check the cellar morning and night, at least for the first few weeks. Dave needed the contract. He had left a secure job to start his own business before Sonia became pregnant, and was not making much money. Recently he had lacked funds for baseball tickets. Sonia planned to stop working when she had the baby, which would incur costs in its own right.

Dave was my friend, so I had no choice. I would have to change my schedule to accommodate a twice-daily detour via Chelsea.

Outside my apartment building I was intercepted by the superintendent, whom I generally avoided due to the probability of some sort of complaint.

‘Mr Tillman, we’ve had a serious complaint from one of your neighbours. Apparently you assaulted him.’

‘Incorrect. He assaulted me, and I used the minimum level of aikido necessary to prevent injury to both of us. Also, he turned my wife’s underwear purple and insulted her with profanities.’

‘So you assaulted him.’

‘Incorrect.’

‘Don’t sound incorrect to me. You just told me you used karate on him.’

I was about to argue, but before I could say anything he made a speech.

‘Mr Tillman, we have a waiting list so long for apartments in this building.’ He spaced his hands in a way that was presumably meant to provide evidence for his assertion. ‘We throw you out, your apartment will be taken by someone, someone normal, the next day. And this isn’t no warning—I’ll be talking to the owners. We don’t need weirdos, Mr Tillman.’