The Rosie Effect

25

Rosie had completed her PhD thesis. In keeping with the conventional practice of celebrating milestones, I booked dinner for two at a prestigious restaurant, and confirmed that they could produce a pregnancy-compatible meal. At Rosie’s request, I delayed the celebration to enable her to focus on study for a dermatology exam, which she completed that afternoon.

There had been no significant change to our relationship since the Second Ultrasound Misunderstanding. The previous Saturday, I had completed Tile 26—in fact two adjacent tiles. Bud no longer fitted on a single tile.

I had stopped travelling with Rosie on the subway. With the arrival of cooler weather, I established a routine of jogging through the Hudson River Park to and from Columbia. There had been no sex. In my early twenties, I had shared a house with other students. Our current situation felt similar.

Rosie was already home in her study-bedroom when Gene and I arrived. She called out, ‘Hi guys. How were your days?’

‘Interesting.’ I called back from the living room as I removed the access panel to the beer storage to check the system and draw off two samples for taste-testing. ‘Inge discovered a statistically significant anomaly in group 17B.’ After Rosie’s initial reaction to the Lesbian Mothers Project, and Gene’s advice that it was in Rosie’s ‘territory’, I considered it best to limit my report to the safe ground of the mouse-liver research. ‘She used a Wilcoxon signed-rank test—temporary interrupt—I’m checking the beer.’

Gene took the opportunity to hijack the conversation. ‘How did your exam go?’

‘My memory’s like a fucking sieve. Stuff I know I studied, I couldn’t remember.’

I returned with the two filled pint glasses and gave one to Gene. The cooling system was functioning perfectly and I wondered at what point George would realise that he could dispense with my services.

I was in clear speaking range again. ‘The analysis indicated an unexpected—’

‘We were talking about Rosie’s exam,’ said Gene. Rather than point out that we had been talking about the mouse results prior to that and had not completed the discussion, I made a rapid mental adjustment and joined the exam conversation.

‘Impairment of cognitive function is a common side-effect of pregnancy. You should ask for special consideration.’

‘For being pregnant?’

‘Correct. The science is quite clear.’

‘No.’

‘That seems an irrational response. Which is also an established side-effect of pregnancy.’

‘I just had a bad day, okay? I probably passed. Forget it.’

People cannot forget things on command. Being instructed to forget something is analogous to being instructed not to think of a pink elephant, or not to buy certain foodstuffs.

Did the lowering of cognitive power in pregnancy have some evolutionary value, or did it reflect the diversion of some resource to the reproductive process? The latter seemed more likely. I reflected on it as Gene offered the formulaic statements of reassurance that lecturers use to fend off students in the period between examination and results, then I presented a summary of my conclusion.

‘Chances are your exam failure will lead to a higher-quality baby.’

‘What? Don, go and get dressed for dinner.’

Rosie walked back into her study-bedroom, presumably also to dress for dinner. Gene was still in interruption mode. I suspected too much coffee or Inge-related stimulation.

He called out to Rosie. ‘Think about the thesis. The exam’s one small blip. The thesis is six years’ work. If it helps the celebration tonight, I can tell you it’ll get through, with minor amendments at worst. Whether or not I agree with you philosophically, it’s a real contribution and you should be proud of yourself. I’ve been giving you a hard time to keep you honest. So go out and have a good time.’

‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ Rosie called back.

‘I’ll grab a pizza.’

I said, ‘I assumed you would be dining with Inge.’

‘Not every night. Not yet.’

‘I thought you’d be joining us. You’re a big part of this,’ said Rosie.

‘No, I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Seriously, I want you to come. I’d really like you there tonight. Please.’

Rosie was creating a problem—a totally unexpected problem. She had complained constantly about Gene as a supervisor, house guest and in general as a human being, so I had assumed she would not want him present as she celebrated what she had frequently referred to as ‘finally being free of that jerk’. I had booked for two and the restaurant was extremely popular. I explained the situation, leaving out the negative statements about Gene, but Rosie was insistent.

‘Bullshit. They can put another chair at the table. They won’t turn us away.’

Based on my conversations with the restaurant staff earlier in the day, I suspected Rosie’s second statement was likely to be true.

The restaurant in the Upper East Side was within walking distance, though Gene and Rosie seemed to struggle for the final twenty blocks. Both needed to work on their fitness. I mentioned this to Rosie as a possible use of the time freed up by the completion of the thesis and exam.

There was a greetings person at a lectern just inside the door. I addressed her in the conventional manner. ‘Good evening. I have a reservation in the name of Tillman.’

It was as if I had said, ‘We have detected bubonic plague in the restaurant.’ She walked off rapidly.

‘What’s up her nose?’ said Rosie. ‘You’re wearing a jacket.’ This was true, although the restaurant did not have a formal dress code. I realised it was a reference to the night Rosie and I first had dinner together. The series of events that began with me being refused entry to a restaurant due to some confusion about the definition of ‘jacket’ ultimately led to our relationship. So much had changed since then.

Bubonic Plague Woman returned with a formally dressed person whom I assumed was the maître d’.

‘Professor Tillman. Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.’

‘Of course. I made a reservation. For this time. Exactly.’

‘Yes. Now it was for two people, am I right?’

‘Correct. Was. Now three.’

‘Well, we’re very full. And the chef has gone to some trouble, I understand, to accommodate your specific requirements.’

Very full was a modified absolute. I was pleased my father was not with us. But it was obviously unacceptably rude to exclude Gene, now that he had walked to the restaurant. I turned to leave. ‘We can find somewhere else,’ I said to the maitre d’.

‘No, for God’s sake, no, we’ll sort something out. Just wait a moment.’

A couple arrived and he turned his attention to them. ‘Reservation for two at eight,’ said the man. It was now 8.34 p.m.

They did not identify themselves but the maître d’ apparently recognised them, as he made a mark on his list. I looked again. It was Loud Woman from the night I was fired from my cocktail job!

She was definitely pregnant. As far as I could tell, she was not drunk. At least the sacrifice of my job to protect her baby from foetal alcohol syndrome had not been based on a misjudgement.

Her companion spoke to her. ‘You’re going to die for the truffled brie.’

Die. His choice of word was potentially accurate. I had no choice but to intervene. ‘Unpasteurised cheeses may carry listeria and are hence inadvisable in pregnancy. You’ll be putting the foetus at risk. Again.’

She looked at me. ‘You! The cocktail nazi! What the fuck are you doing here?’

The answer was obvious and I was not required to give it, as the maître d’ interrupted.

‘Actually, we’re doing a very special degustation menu tonight. We had a customer with some unusual requirements, and in the end the chef decided to prepare the meal for the whole restaurant.’ He looked at me in an odd way and spoke slowly. ‘In order to preserve his sanity.’

‘Is the truffled brie on? What about the lobster sashimi?’ Loud Woman asked.

‘Tonight, the brie will be replaced by an artisanal local ewe’s milk cheese and the Maine lobster will be cooked in a broth enhanced by—’

‘Forget it.’

‘Madame, if I might be so bold, you might find tonight’s menu particularly appropriate for your…situation,’ said the maître d’.

‘My situation? Holy fuck.’ She pulled her partner towards the door. ‘We’ll go to Daniel.’

Twice I had saved this woman’s baby, or at least given it another chance. I deserved to be its godfather. I could only hope that Daniel would be cognisant of the risks of food poisoning in pregnancy.

Rosie was laughing. Gene was shaking his head. But a problem had been solved.

‘You now have two seats available,’ I said to the maître d’. ‘And a reduction in the crowding problem.’

We were guided to a window table.

‘They’ve guaranteed all food will be compatible with a baby under development according to the strictest guidelines and that the aggregate nutrition will be perfectly balanced. And incredibly delicious.’

‘How can they do that?’ asked Rosie. ‘Chefs don’t know about that sort of stuff. Not at your level of…detail.’

‘This one does. Now.’ I had spent two hours and eight minutes on the phone explaining, supplemented by several follow-up calls. Gene and Rosie thought it was hilarious. Then Gene raised a glass of champagne to toast Rosie’s success, and, in accordance with convention, Rosie and I raised our mineral water and champagne glasses respectively.

‘The future Doctor Jarman,’ said Gene.

‘Doctor Doctor Jarman,’ I pointed out. ‘When you’ve finished the MD, you’ll have two doctorates.’

‘Well,’ said Rosie, ‘that’s one of the things I wanted to tell you. I’m deferring.’

At last! She had listened to reason. ‘Correct decision,’ I said.

Food arrived.

‘Vitamin A,’ I said, ‘packaged in calf’s liver.’

‘You’re really taking my renunciation of pescatarianism literally, aren’t you?’ said Rosie.

‘If you want to minimise environmental impact, you eat the entire animal,’ I said. ‘And it’s delicious.’

Rosie took a bite. ‘It’s not bad. Okay, it’s good. Great. Whatever happens, I’ll never say you were insensitive about food.’

After the carob-based low-sugar petits fours and decaffeinated coffee arrived, I asked for the bill—the check, please—and Gene returned the conversation to Rosie’s plans.

‘Full-time at home with the baby? Won’t you go nuts?’

‘I’ll get a part-time job so that we’re self-sufficient. I’m thinking about different options. I might go home for a while. To Australia.’

There was a contradiction in the sentence. So that we’re self-sufficient. I might go home. My hope that Rosie might simply have made a grammatical error was extinguished when I realised that we must be referring to her and Bud. If we referred to Rosie and me, or to Rosie, me and Bud, our aggregate self-sufficiency did not require her to have a job. Nor had she consulted with me about moving back. I was stunned. The waiter brought the bill and I automatically put my credit card on it.

Rosie took a deep breath and looked at Gene, and then at both of us. ‘I guess that sort of brings me to the other thing I wanted to talk about. I mean, I don’t think it’s any secret—you don’t have many secrets living in the same house…’

She stopped as Gene stood up and waved at the waiter who approached our table with my credit card on a silver tray. I calculated the tip and filled it out, but Gene took the tray from me before I could sign.

‘What sort of tip is that?’ he said.

‘Eighteen per cent. The recommended amount.’

‘Exactly, judging by the odd cents.’

‘Correct.’

Gene crossed out my writing and wrote something else.

Rosie started to speak. ‘I really need to say—’

Gene interrupted. ‘I think we owe them a little more, tonight. They’ve given us a pretty special, and slightly crazy evening.’ He raised his coffee cup. I had never seen a coffee cup used in a toast, but I copied his action. Rosie did not raise her cup.

‘To Don, who put so much into this evening and who makes life just a little bit crazier for all of us.’ There was a pause. Rosie slowly lifted her cup and clinked it with Gene’s and mine. No one spoke.

As we left the restaurant, we were assaulted by the flashing of cameras. A group—a pack—of photographers was photographing Rosie!

Then one called out, ‘Wrong one. Sorry guys.’ We caught a cab home and went to our separate bedrooms.