The Rosie Effect

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.

I could not blame her for dishonesty. I was guilty of a far greater ongoing deception about the Lydia situation for much the same reasons: to protect Rosie from distress and both Bud and her from the harmful effects of excess cortisol. Rosie had not wanted to hurt me by saying she didn’t want me in the apartment with her. There were numerous alternative solutions I could have presented—and would have. Perhaps she had chosen to lie rather than listen to them.

It seemed that Gene was right. Dishonesty was part of the price of being a social animal, and of marriage in particular. I wondered if Rosie was withholding any other information.

The vegetarian violation was more interesting.

‘I just felt like meat. I got them to hold the salami,’ she said.

‘I suspect a protein or iron deficiency.’

‘It wasn’t a craving. I just decided to do it. I’m so over being told what to do. You know why I’m a pescatarian?’

Sustainable pescatarianism had been one of the initial conditions of the Rosie Package, known to me from the day we met. I had accepted that package in its entirety, in direct contrast to the philosophy of the Wife Project, which had focused on aggregating individual components.

‘I assume health reasons.’

‘If I was that worried about my health, I wouldn’t have been a smoker. I’d go to the swimming pool. And sustainability wouldn’t matter.’

‘You don’t eat meat for ethical reasons?’

‘I try to do the right thing by the planet. I don’t impose my views on other people. I watch you and Gene scoff down half a cow and I don’t say anything. I’ve at least got the excuse of eating for a second person.’

‘Perfectly reasonable. Protein—’

‘Fuck protein. Fuck people telling me what to eat and when to exercise and how to study and to go to yoga, which I’m doing with Judy anyway. And no, it’s not Bikram yoga, it’s the right sort of yoga for pregnancy. I can work that out for myself.’

I suspected that ‘people’ was an incorrect use of the plural form. But it was better than Rosie saying, ‘Fuck you,’ which was obviously what she meant.

I offered an explanation. ‘I’m attempting to assist with the baby production process. You didn’t appear to have time to do the necessary research, due to your thesis and the unplanned nature of the pregnancy.’ I could have added that I had been told to do this by Lydia and Sonia, a professional and a fellow pregnant woman, and would not have done it without such direction, but that would have involved disclosing my deception. Deception had got me into trouble. It was hardly a surprise.

I could have added that I had made no major recommendations about food or exercise or study since the Anniversary Meal, which represented a high point in our relationship. Why was Rosie becoming upset now?

‘I get that you were trying to help,’ she said. ‘I really do. But let’s get this straight: my body, my work, my problems. I’m not going to get smashed, I won’t eat salami and I’ll get there my own way.’

She walked towards her study and indicated that I should follow. From her bag, she retrieved The Book.

‘This the book you’ve been reading?’ she asked.

‘Obviously.’ I hadn’t noticed it missing.

‘You could have saved yourself a few bucks and taken my copy. It’s a bit basic for me. I’m onto it, Don.’

‘You require zero assistance?’

‘Keep doing what you were doing. Go to work, eat cow, get drunk with Gene. Stop worrying. We’re doing okay.’

I should have been pleased with the outcome. I was relieved of responsibility at a time when I had plenty of other things to worry about. But I had been working hard at building empathy for Rosie and now I had a vague sense that despite her words she was not happy with me.

Her solution to the diet issue—in fact all pregnancy issues that I had seen as joint projects—was to proceed alone. At least I had clear direction for the follow-up meeting with Lydia.

‘You’re over-functioning,’ said Gene. ‘You know what my doctor said about that book you’ve been reading? “Give it to someone you hate.” All that obsessing, and the difference you make to the outcome is negligible compared to the big game.’

It was our second boys’ night out in five days, encouraged by the proximity of George’s baseball-watching and drinking facility. Rosie had not objected.

‘And the big game is?’ said George.

‘You’ve heard me before,’ said Gene. ‘Genes are destiny. You guys made your biggest contribution when you supplied a bit of your DNA.’

It was obvious Dave disagreed. ‘All the books say that genes are just a start; parenting makes a big difference,’ he said.

Gene smiled. ‘They would say that. Otherwise no one would buy books on parenting.’

‘You said so yourself. Kids pick up behaviour from their parents.’

‘Only what’s left over after the genes have done their work,’ said Gene. ‘Let me give you an example from a field in which I have some expertise. Your wife is of Italian extraction?’

‘Grandparents. She was born here.’

‘Perfect. Italian genes, American upbringing. Now, I’m going to predict that she has a histrionic personality. A bit loud, a bit flamboyant, a bit of an actress. Panics under pressure, hysterical in an emergency.’

Dave didn’t say anything.

‘Ask a psychologist about cultural stereotypes and they’ll tell you it’s all nurture,’ said Gene. ‘Culture.’

‘Correct,’ I said. ‘Evolution of behavioural traits is far slower than the formation of geographic groups.’

‘Except for selective breeding. A certain trait becomes sexually attractive for genetic or cultural reasons, doesn’t matter which, and people with that trait breed more. Italian men love histrionic women. Ergo, the histrionic gene takes over. Your wife’s personality was programmed before she was born.’

Dave shook his head. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong. Sonia’s an accountant. Completely level-headed.’

‘I don’t think I can do this. It isn’t making sense. It’s the opposite of what I told her before.’ Sonia was becoming increasingly agitated as our appointment with Lydia approached. She seemed to be having difficulty discarding her own personality.

‘It’s simple. You need to say you made an error; that you don’t want any help.’

‘You think she’s going to believe that?’ said Sonia.

‘It’s the truth. Assuming you’re Rosie.’

‘If you knew how desperate I am for Dave to just take an interest. Five years we tried and now it’s like he doesn’t want it.’

‘Possibly he’s too busy working. Providing financial support.’

‘You know something? On their deathbed, nobody ever wishes they’d spent more time at the office.’

It was difficult to see how Sonia’s statement contributed to the discussion. Dave was not dying, nor did he work in an office. I brought the conversation back on track.

‘As you caused the problem last time, and since I am more familiar with Rosie’s position, I propose that I provide the necessary information to Lydia and you merely confirm its accuracy.’

‘I don’t want to be too passive or she’ll think you’re oppressing me. She’s already got it in her head that I’m some sort of peasant girl.’

It seemed a reasonable conclusion on Lydia’s part, given the dress and the accent. Today Sonia was wearing a conventional suit, as she had come from work. It struck me as equally uncharacteristic of medical students.

‘Excellent point. Probably you should be like Rosie—angry that I tried to control her.’

‘Rosie was angry?’

Now that I had said the word, I realised it was true. I did not need to be an expert at interpreting body language to realise that ‘Fuck people telling me what to eat’ was an aggressive statement.

‘Correct.’

‘Are you two okay?’

‘Of course.’ The answer was accurate, assuming that I was employing the word ‘okay’ in the way it would be used to describe a meal or a performance: The play was okay, not great. I assessed Rosie’s current level of satisfaction with me as ‘not great’.

‘I’ll do my best, Don. But if you’re talking to Dave, can you let him know that I’m not like Rosie? Maybe give him your book if you don’t need it any more. I’d love for him to come home early and make me vegetable curry.’

The session with Lydia did not go as planned. I was only five items into my detailed list of events, enumerating instances of Rosie refusing help, when she interrupted and addressed Sonia.

‘Why did you not want Don’s advice?’

‘No man is telling me what to do with my body.’ Sonia said this calmly, but then paused and contorted her face in what I assumed was an impression of anger and hit the table with her fist. ‘Bastardos!’

Lydia seemed surprised. I hoped the surprise was at Sonia’s actions and not her use of a Spanish word. ‘It sounds like you’ve had some bad experiences.’

‘In my village, there is much oppression by the patriarchy.’

‘You came from a village in Italy?’

‘Si. A small village. Poco.’ Sonia indicated the size of the village by holding her thumb and forefinger approximately two centimetres apart.

‘And has working in an IVF lab and studying at Columbia altered your view of men?’

‘I don’t want Don to tell me what to eat and how much to exercise and when to go to bed.’

‘And that’s what you feel he’s been doing?’

‘Si. That is not what I want.’

‘I can quite understand.’ Lydia turned to me. ‘Can you understand that, Don?’

‘Totally. Rosie does not require my help.’ I did not point out that this had been my original position until Lydia had demanded I interfere.

‘So, Rosie, last time we met, you seemed quite passionate about wanting some support from Don.’

‘Now that I’ve experienced it, I’ve decided it’s not such a good idea.’

‘I can see why. Don, support isn’t about telling Rosie what to do. If you want me to be blunt, the problem’s with you. Instead of telling her how to be a mother, maybe you should be doing some preparation for being a supportive father.’

Of course! The baby would have two parents, and I had been focusing all my energies on optimising the performance of one. I was amazed that I had not seen the problem earlier, but as a scientist I recognised that paradigm shifts appear obvious only in retrospect. Also, I had been focused on doing whatever seemed necessary to prevent Lydia giving me an adverse report, under the assumption that there was no actual problem with me as a prospective parent. But recent criticisms from Rosie were evidence that Lydia’s original judgement was correct. My respect for her had increased dramatically.

I jumped to my feet. ‘Brilliant! Problem solved. I need to gain fatherhood skills.’

Lydia maintained a professional level of calmness. She turned to Sonia.

‘How do you feel about that? Do you think Don understands what’s required?’

Sonia nodded. ‘I’m very happy. I’m happy for all the things he taught me about pregnancy because I am too busy with the study, but now I’ll make sure he is thinking only about being a papa.’

Lydia picked up the police file that had been sitting on the desk and smiled.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘our time is up. Assisting with your parenting was never the official purpose of these sessions, and in that respect you’re going to be picked up by the Good Fathers program. I’ll be getting a report from them.’

This was the men’s group that she had referred me to at our first meeting to assess my propensity for violence. The program I had booked was still seven weeks in the future.

She waved the police file. ‘But as far as parenthood is concerned, if the two of you can keep reminding each other what you’ve said today—’

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘A highly productive session. I’ll book the next available slot.’

‘She was going to let you off,’ said Sonia.

‘I suspected that. But what she said was so useful.’

‘She’s still got that police file. Couldn’t we—you—find another therapist?’

‘A significant percentage of professionals are incompetent. And she is familiar with us now.’

‘Us. You and Rosie, the Italian peasant.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Her insight was incredible. She solved the problem.’