The Rosie Effect

23

I had the spaceship nightmare again. It was, as far as I could remember, exactly the same, with the same fatal result. Except this time, when I woke up, Rosie was not there.

Gene was also concerned by the change in sleeping arrangements, which he noticed two days later. In his analysis, Rosie sleeping in the other room equated to a rejection of me.

‘Be practical, Don. Why do people sleep together?’

‘Sex.’ It was always likely to be the correct answer to a question from Gene about motivation. ‘Which is not required by evolution now that she is regnant.’

‘Too glib, my friend. Humans conceal their fertility to encourage ongoing closeness. For all sorts of reasons. We may not be monogamous, but we’re all about pair-bonding and Rosie is sending you a big message.’

‘What have I done wrong?’

‘Let me tell you, Don, you’re not the first man to ask that question. Usually after he’s come home to find the television gone.’

‘We don’t own a television.’

‘So I’ve noticed. Whose idea was that?’

‘There’s no requirement for a television. Higher-quality news is available from other media without advertisements; movies are available on bigger screens in theatres, and for all other requirements we have individual computer monitors.’

‘That’s not what I asked. Whose idea was it?’

‘The decision was obvious.’

‘Did Rosie ever mention buying a television?’

‘Possibly. But her arguments were flawed. You’re suggesting that our marriage is in trouble because of the lack of a television? If so, I can—’

‘I suspect it goes a bit deeper than that. But if you want a specific answer to the question “What did I do wrong?”, then it’s the ultrasound. You should have gone. That’s the point where Rosie started to wonder if you really wanted to be a father. Not whether you were capable, which is another matter, but whether you were even interested.’

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘I’m the head of a psychology department, you’ve already confided in me about your own doubts, which Rosie will surely have picked up on, and I’m aware that Rosie’s own background includes a problematic father situation.’

‘That problem was solved.’

‘Don, problems that originate in childhood are never solved. Psychotherapists make a living out of that.’

‘What if you’re wrong and there is no problem? I may create a problem by responding to an imaginary one. Like falling over because you think there’s a step and there isn’t one.’

Gene stood up, walked to his office door, looked out, then returned. ‘There’s a saying among wine experts: a glance at the label is worth twenty years’ experience.’

‘You’re being obscure.’

‘Rosie told me. She said the two of you were going through a rough patch and she wasn’t sure you wanted to be a father.’

‘She volunteered the information about the state of our marriage? Unprompted?’

‘I asked her. Actually, Stefan gave me a bit of a heads-up.’

Stefan! Now Rosie was sharing critical data with him rather than the person who could make best use of it.

Although the method of transmission was frustratingly indirect, the identification of the Ultrasound Error was excellent input into improving my competence as a prospective father and demonstrating my interest to Rosie.

Gene’s advice was that I should have attended the examination with a knowledge of the procedure and its possible outcomes. Fortunately, I had a second chance. Rosie had agreed to an exact date for the second sonogram: Twenty-two weeks, zero days and zero hours from the nominal beginning of gestation, which had been established at the first appointment as Monday, 20 May. I calculated the date—21 October—and reserved the entire day in my schedule. This time I would be prepared.

I studied The Book for further events that might offer similar potential for error, or for compensatory high performance. There was one obvious example—the birth. The parallels with the sonogram appointment were striking:

1. Attendance at a specialist facility.

2. A critical point at which problems might be identified.

3. A low probability of problems, but high anxiety.

4. Expected presence of the partner despite him or her having no role in the procedure.

From The Book and further research, the best description that I could formulate of my role was ‘reduce partner’s anxiety’. This could be achieved through familiarity with the birth process so that the partner could be informed at all times as to what was happening while she concentrated on execution of the procedure. Knowledge is something I am good at. As a medical student, Rosie would have a basic understanding, but I planned to become an expert on birth, including the full range of possible complications and outcomes. I reopened Dewhurst’s Textbook of Obstetrics and Gynaecology and renewed my efforts to supplement theory with practice.

After multiple requests to assist with or even merely observe an actual birth, David Borenstein finally gave me contact details for Dr Lauren McTighe, who was based in Connecticut.

She called on a Saturday evening as the boys’ group finished take-out pizza at George’s. I explained the situation to my companions and, to my surprise, not only Dave but also George and Gene decided to join us.

‘You don’t need the knowledge,’ I said.

‘Male bonding,’ said George. ‘Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be about?’

I called Lauren back to ensure that their presence would not be a problem.

‘If you want. But you better warn them about the complications. It may not have a happy ending.’

We hailed a taxi and I gave the driver Dave’s address so we could collect his vehicle.

‘Bugger that,’ said George. ‘This is an emergency, right?’

‘A breech birth,’ I said. ‘Apparently there are additional problems. I’m expecting to learn a great deal.’

‘We’re going straight to Lakeville, Connecticut,’ said George to the taxi driver. ‘I want you to wait and drive us back.’

‘I don’t take this cab anywhere past—’

George, who was in the front seat, gave the driver some money held together by a rubber band, and the driver was silent as he counted it. He did not object further.

It was hard to believe that George had acquired such wealth during the brief period that the Dead Kings had been popular almost fifty years ago. I assumed that, being a rock musician, he would have wasted the majority on illicit drugs. His payment of the taxi driver provided a good opportunity to ask.

‘Where do you get all your money from?’

‘That’s what I like about you, Don. Straight to the point.’

Being straight to the point is what people generally don’t like about me.

‘Straight question, straight answer,’ said George. ‘Alimony.’

Gene laughed. ‘Let me guess. You had to work so hard to pay off four wives that you accidently ended up making some for yourself. Or one of them died and the quarter you got back was enough to live like a king.’

‘Close enough,’ said George. ‘My first wife died three years ago. Cancer. I left her when the band started to get noticed. Thought I could do better. Rock star and all. I never really did. I could say they were all the same, but the problem was I was all the same. When you have the same problem with four women, you start to think it might have something to do with you.’

‘Not sure how that helped financially,’ said Gene. ‘You’re not saying she left you all her money?’

‘I am saying that. Not all of it, but enough. I had to pay two-thirds of my income to her back in the day, and when we had a few hits that turned out to be quite a bit. I was pissing my third up against the wall and she was buying property. When she died she left half of it for me.’

‘Very generous of her,’ said Gene.

‘It was me or our son. He’s already blown his share. She must’ve seen that coming; left some to me so I could bail him out. She was no Jerry Hall, but I never did any better. Take note, young Donald.’

I had taken note. George’s advice, generalised and then particularised for my situation, seemed clear. If I couldn’t make it with Rosie, I couldn’t make it with anyone. If my marriage failed, I would not try again. My choice was Rosie or the remainder of my life without a partner. Or a child.

The journey took two hours and sixteen minutes, eight minutes longer than predicted by my navigation application.

‘You’re just in time,’ said Lauren (age approximately forty-five, BMI twenty-three). ‘I’ve been holding off till you arrived, but she’s in quite a bit of distress and I couldn’t leave it much longer. This is Ben.’

She indicated a man in a checked shirt (age approximately forty, BMI thirty) standing a few metres away. He came over and we shook hands according to convention. His hand was extremely sweaty; I diagnosed anxiety. It was a good opportunity to practise my reassurance techniques.

‘The mother’s survival prospects are close to 100 per cent, although the difficult birth may result in a temporary reduction in fertility. The baby’s survival probability is approximately eighty-five per cent.’

Ben looked relieved. ‘Not bad odds,’ he said. ‘Fingers crossed.’

George looked at the mother. ‘Poor cow,’ he said.

Lauren was brilliant! It is always fascinating to watch a competent professional at work. She explained exactly what she was doing, and provided additional commentary on alternative possibilities and procedures. George held a halogen light powered from the battery in Lauren’s vehicle while I assisted her to alter the position of the calf. The cow was held in a corral, hence unable to move far.

It was aesthetically unpleasant work, but I was familiar with the necessary mindset from dissecting mice and the intellectual stimulation exceeded the unpleasantness. It was so interesting!

Gene talked with Ben. Dave, who was not feeling well, sat in the taxi.

‘All right,’ said Lauren. ‘We’re going to need the tractor.’

Lauren reached inside the cow and explained that she was attaching a chain to the unborn calf’s feet. George gave the light to Gene and began talking to the mother, who was making noises indicating distress.

Ben attached the other end of the chain to the tractor, and the pulling process began. In a human birth, forceps would have taken the place of the tractor. Or—more likely—a caesarean would have been performed. Nevertheless there were numerous anatomical similarities, and the three-dimensional experience was invaluable.

‘All right, Don. You’re going to have to help me catch it.’ Fortunately ‘catching’ did not require the coordination of catching a ball—Lauren and I merely had to take the weight of the calf as it emerged. It did, along with vast quantities of fluid, drenching both of us. It was extremely slippery but we managed to avoid dropping it. One leg was at an odd angle, but the calf began breathing. The mother was still standing.

‘Broken leg,’ said Lauren. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘What do you think?’ said Ben.

‘I’m afraid it’s probably best to put it down, unless you want to hand feed it.’

Dave staggered from the taxi. ‘Don’t shoot it. I’ll take it home if I have to.’

My immediate thought was that this was a brilliant idea. Dave and Sonia’s baby would have its immune system strengthened by cohabiting with a farm animal. But a moment’s reflection revealed multiple problems with raising a lame calf in a New York apartment.

Ben smiled. ‘I owe you guys. What’s your name, again?’

‘Dave.’

‘Okay, Dave, meet Dave the calf. He owes you his life. And Lauren—all you guys. My wife’ll feed him. She’ll curse you every day.’