The Rosie Effect

32

‘Rosie. I need to discuss something with you.’

I was visiting the apartment to check the beer. The system was functioning well; prior to leaving I had checked it only once per week. But the weather was unusually warm for December, and it seemed reasonable to visit more frequently. I had also taken the opportunity to draw the Week 32 diagram of Bud on the tiles. His or her development remained interesting, despite the reduced connection to my own life. Having gone this far, it seemed reasonable to complete the forty weeks.

‘I closed the door for a reason, Don. It doesn’t make it easy for me, you coming in twice a day.’

Gene had indicated that Rosie was not currently receptive to a surprise dinner—or even a scheduled dinner—or to relationship discussions.

‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to give it time,’ he said.

But I was not discussing the relationship.

‘This is a research question. Since you’re considering returning to psychology, you’ll find it interesting.’

‘I’ll reserve judgement.’

I explained the Lesbian Mothers Project. Any justification for refraining from mentioning it was no longer relevant. It was time to begin disclosing the information I had withheld. This was the first, and least risky, step. My participation in the project was not illegal, unethical or weird.

‘This is the project you started to tell me about, right,’ said Rosie. ‘You never mentioned it again.’

‘I didn’t want to invade your territory.’

‘You mean you didn’t want to tell me you were invading my territory.’

‘Correct. The problem is that they don’t want to publish the results.’

‘Why do you think that is?’ asked Rosie.

‘If I knew the answer, I wouldn’t have woken you up to ask.’

‘What do you think of people who take scientific findings out of context to push their own barrows?’

‘You’re referring to Gene?’ I said.

‘Him too. These women are trying to make a point that two women can bring up a child as well as a heterosexual couple.’ She sat up in bed. ‘They don’t want to publish something that suggests otherwise.’

‘Surely that’s pushing their own barrow.’

‘Not to the extent of some dinosaur who’s going to pick it up and say kids who don’t have a father are deprived. Which is an issue that’s a little close to my heart right now. So don’t expect me to be rational about it.’

‘But the results don’t indicate any requirement for a father,’ I said. ‘Both carers can raise the baby’s oxytocin. It’s just that an unconventional parent uses an unconventional method. I predict zero problem for the child.’

‘Don’t expect the Wall Street Journal to see it that way.’

I had turned to leave when Rosie spoke again.

‘And Don. I’ve got a flight home tomorrow. Judy’s taking me to JFK. I got the cheapest fare. It’s non-refundable.’

I was leaving to check the beer again before dinner when Sonia stopped me.

‘Wait an hour and I’ll come with you.’

‘Why?’

‘We’re going to see Lydia.’

‘She indicated she was unavailable for further consultation. And it’s a Sunday. A Sunday evening.’

‘I know. I called her. I told her that you and Rosie—you and I—had split up as a result of what she said to you. She was a bit blown away: she thought she’d reassured you to stay with me—with Rosie.’

‘She merely provided objective advice.’

‘Well, she’s feeling responsible now. She overstepped the line and she knows it. We’re meeting at your apartment. I couldn’t do it here because of Dave. I’ve told him I’m taking you to see Rosie before she flies home. I haven’t mentioned Lydia. Obviously.’

‘What about Rosie?’

‘Gene’s taking her out.’

‘Gene’s involved in this?’

‘Everyone’s involved, Don. We think you’re both making a mistake, and if you won’t listen to anyone except Lydia, then she can tell you. I’m going to channel Rosie—I’ll be Rosie—and Lydia is going to tell us to stay together. And when she does, you’re going to solve the Marriage Disaster Problem. Am I speaking your language?’

Sonia and I arrived at the apartment two minutes before Lydia was due. I realised Sonia had never visited; it had not occurred to me to invite her and Dave to dinner. It was probably a social error.

‘My God, what’s that smell?’ she said. ‘I think I’m going to throw up. I’ve been feeling terrible all day.’

‘Beer. There’s a small leak that’s impossible to access. Dave blames the workman who replaced the ceiling.’

Sonia smiled. ‘That’s so Dave. How does Rosie cope with it?’

‘Humans adapt to smells quite quickly,’ I said. ‘It’s only recently that regular washing has been conventional. Prior to that humans did not wash for months, and there was no problem. Except disease, obviously.’

Lydia arrived on time.

‘My God, what’s that smell?’ she said.

‘Beer,’ said Sonia. ‘Humans adapt to smells quite quickly. It’s only recently that regular washing has been conventional.’

‘I guess hygiene was not quite at New York standards in a small Italian village.’

‘That’s right. Lucky Don’s a hygiene freak or the baby—’

I gave Sonia a look intended to remind her that she was supposed to be Rosie, who would not be defending weirdness and had not been raised in a small Italian village with poor hygiene. Of course, neither had Sonia. I suspected things were going to become confusing.

Then one of the Georges began drumming.

‘What’s that?’ asked Lydia.

It was a reasonable question, as the initial beats could have been confused with the discharge of a firearm. But the drumming became more rhythmic, and a bass and two electric guitars joined in. Now the answer would be obvious to Lydia, which was fortunate as she could not have heard mine.

We attempted to communicate in rudimentary sign language for approximately three minutes. I deduced that Lydia was asking, ‘How will the baby sleep?’ and Sonia was responding, ‘Skull, bye-bye, bird, kangaroo, no, no, no, eating spaghetti.’

The music stopped. Sonia said, ‘I am thinking about flying home to Italy.’

‘And if you stay? If you and Don are able to get through this misunderstanding?’

I led them to Gene’s room, where I had stowed the gift from my father.

‘Oh God, it’s a coffin,’ said Lydia. ‘A transparent coffin.’

‘Don’t be ludicrous,’ said Sonia. ‘I feel like you’re trying to find reasons to criticise Don.’

‘What is it then? A spaceship?’

In fact the soundproof crib was incompatible with space travel as it was permeable to air. I set the alarm on my phone, and as soon as it started ringing put it in the crib and secured the lid. The noise disappeared.

‘But if the phone needed to breathe, it could do so,’ I said.

‘What if it cries?’ asked Lydia.

‘The phone?’ I realised my error and pointed out the microphone and transmitter in the crib. ‘Rosie will sleep with earphones. I will have earplugs, hence not be disturbed by the baby myself.’

‘Nice for you,’ said Lydia. She looked around. ‘Is someone else sleeping here?’

‘My friend. His wife evicted him for immoral behaviour and now he’s living with Rosie.’

‘In the baby’s room.’

‘Correct.’

‘Rosie,’ Lydia said, and Sonia glanced at the door before realising that Lydia was speaking to her. ‘You’re comfortable with this?’

Sonia’s response suggested extreme discomfort. She returned to the living room and looked around frantically. I diagnosed panic.

‘I need to use the bathroom. Where’s the bathroom?’ she asked in what was supposed to be her own apartment.

We were standing just outside my bathroom-office. I opened the door for Sonia.

‘There’s a desk in the bathroom,’ said Lydia as Sonia closed the door behind her. I was aware of this. I had not taken it with me to Dave and Sonia’s, as it would have been impractical to carry it on the subway.

We were interrupted by Sonia calling from the bathroom-office. ‘I’ve got a problem.’

‘With the plumbing?’ I asked. The toilet sometimes jammed in flush mode.

‘With my plumbing. Something’s wrong.’

It is socially extremely inappropriate to enter a bathroom containing an unrelated individual of the opposite gender. I was aware of this, but my behaviour was justified by the probability that the problem was related to Sonia’s advanced state of pregnancy. I guessed the onset of labour.

I entered the forbidden zone, and Sonia explained the problem. Her description of the symptoms was unambiguous.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Lydia. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Making a phone call,’ I said. ‘No.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Prolapsed umbilical cord. I’ve called an ambulance. The problem should not require immediate intervention if labour hasn’t commenced.’

‘Oh God,’ said Sonia. ‘I think it has.’

Following my instructions, Lydia assisted Sonia to Rosie’s study, and I once again dragged the mattress from the main bedroom which Rosie had resumed using. I needed space to manoeuvre. Sonia lay on the mattress. I had already specified maximum urgency when I phoned 911, so there was no point in phoning again and adding a load to the system that might delay assistance to other emergencies.

Sonia was extremely agitated, almost hysterical. ‘Oh God, I read about this. The baby’s head crushes the cord and there’s no oxygen, oh shit, shit, shit—’

‘Potentially,’ I said. I attempted to adopt a bedside manner, the exact thing that had dissuaded me from considering medicine as a career. ‘The chances of maternal death are virtually zero. Without intervention, the baby will probably die. However, intervention has been summoned.’

‘What if it doesn’t come? What if it doesn’t come?’

‘I consider myself capable of the necessary intervention. I’ve had significant practice.’ I thought it unnecessary to mention that there had been no prolapsed cord in the birth of Dave the Calf.

‘What practice? What practice?’ Sonia’s hysteria seemed to be causing her to say everything twice.

I reassured her. ‘The procedure is straightforward. I’m going to have to perform an examination.’ I was not looking forward to this: the thought of intimate contact with a human female who was a close friend was causing a wave of revulsion, but I could not be responsible for failing to do everything possible to ensure the survival of the baby. It would be extremely disappointing if Dave and Sonia’s five-year project failed at the final stage. I did my best to imagine Sonia as the mother of Dave the Calf. I would probably have some sort of post-traumatic stress to deal with later.

Lydia was pacing aimlessly. I diagnosed anxiety. ‘Do you know what you’re doing, Don?’ Very poor bedside manner.

‘Of course, of course.’ I was feeling much less sure, but was adhering to the principle of inspiring calm: profess total confidence even at the expense of honesty. I was about to commence the examination when I heard the external door open.

‘Hello? Is that you, Don?’ It was Rosie’s voice. Gene was with her. They stood in the doorway of Rosie’s study. ‘What’s happening?’

I explained the problem. ‘I need to do an examination.’

‘You need to do an examination?’ said Rosie. ‘You’re going to examine her? I don’t think so, Professor. Everybody out. Including you.’ She indicated me.

‘Thank God you got here in time,’ said Lydia to Gene and Rosie.

Rosie evicted us and closed the door. Less than a minute later, she opened it again, exited, and closed it behind her.

‘You’re right,’ she said, speaking in a loud whisper. ‘Oh my God, what are we going to do? I haven’t done obstetrics.’

I attempted to match the volume of her whisper. ‘You’ve done anatomy.’

‘What the fuck use is that? We need someone who knows what to do, right now.’

‘I know what to do.’

‘I’m the medical student, I should know what to do.’

Rosie’s tone indicated a descent into irrationality.

‘They’re sending medical students now?’ said Lydia to Gene. She also sounded panicked.

Sonia was calling out incoherently. Gene had been right about Italian women.

‘I know what to do,’ I said to Rosie again.

‘Bullshit, you’ve got no experience.’

‘Theory will be sufficient. You will need to execute my instructions.’

‘Don, you’re a geneticist: you don’t know anything about obstetrics.’

I did not want to remind Rosie of an incident that had been instrumental in our relationship breakdown, but it was more important that she had confidence in my obstetric knowledge than in my social skills.

‘Heidi the antenatal class convenor was convinced I was an OBGYN.’

I was feeling calm now that I had been relieved of the human-contact aspect. Then I remembered Rosie’s problem with physical medicine.

‘Do you have a problem touching Sonia?’ I said.

‘Not as big a problem as having you do it, Professor. Just tell me what to do.’

Lydia turned to Gene. ‘Can’t you do something? You’re qualified, aren’t you?’

‘Full professor,’ said Gene. ‘New to this city. My wife and I parted company and Columbia made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’ He extended his hand. ‘Gene Barrow.’

I left Gene speaking to Lydia, while I instructed Rosie on the procedure. Essentially, the objective is to keep the baby’s head from putting pressure on the cord, by pushing it back if necessary. It was apparently difficult. Rosie kept saying ‘Fuck,’ which made Sonia hysterical, which in turn caused Rosie to say ‘Fuck’. Meanwhile, I was repeating the information that we were totally competent, which seemed to have a short-term positive effect on Sonia. It would have been easier if we could each have said, in turn, ‘Oh God, it’s going to die,’ ‘Fuck, keep her still,’ and ‘Don’t panic, we’re in control,’ with an instruction to iterate as necessary.

Unfortunately humans are not computers. The intensity of our conversation increased, with Sonia actually screaming and not keeping still, Rosie shouting ‘Oh fuck,’ and me attempting to create calm by lowering the pitch and raising the volume of my voice. Our verbal efforts were rendered irrelevant when the band started up again.

After no more than ninety seconds, the band stopped. Approximately thirty seconds later, the study door opened. Gene entered, followed by George the Third, the Prince and the remaining Dead Kings, whom I had met in Greenwich Village on the night of the Passing of the Batons. There was also a woman of about twenty (BMI in normal range, no more accurate estimate possible due to overall confusion) and a male of about forty-five, with a camera around his neck. A few seconds later, three uniformed paramedics pushed through the crowd with a stretcher.

‘Are you a doctor?’ one (female, approximately forty, BMI normal range) asked Rosie.

‘Are you?’ said Rosie. I was impressed. Rosie’s emotional state had transformed during the musical performance from panicked to professional.

‘The medical situation is under control,’ I said. I gave the officer a quick briefing.

‘Outstanding work,’ she said. ‘We can take it from here.’ I watched her take over from Rosie. In keeping with the bedside-manner protocol, I advised Sonia of the status.

‘The paramedic appears competent. The chances of your baby’s survival have increased significantly.’

Sonia wanted Rosie and me to ride in the ambulance with her, but one of the other paramedics (male, approximately forty-five, BMI approximately thirty-three) provided further reassurance in a highly professional manner, and Sonia allowed them to carry her to the ambulance. The photographer took photos. The overweight paramedic gave me a card with the hospital location.

Lydia pushed through the crowd to me. ‘You’re not going with her?’

‘I see no reason. The paramedics seem highly competent. My contribution is complete. I plan to drink a glass of beer.’

‘Jeeesus,’ she said. ‘You don’t have any feelings at all.’

I was suddenly angry. I wanted to shake not just Lydia but the whole world of people who do not understand the difference between control of emotion and lack of it, and who make a totally illogical connection between inability to read others’ emotions and inability to experience their own. It was ridiculous to think that the pilot who landed the plane safely on the Hudson River loved his wife any less than the passenger who panicked. I brought the anger under control quickly, but my confidence in Lydia’s qualifications to advise me had been reduced.

Rosie interrupted my thoughts. ‘I’m going to take a shower. Can you clear everybody out?’

I realised I had failed to perform the basic social ritual of introductions, due partly to not knowing some of the people who had arrived. I began by filling in what gaps I could.

‘Lydia, this is George the Third and the Prince, Eddie, Billy, Mr Jimmy. Guys, Lydia is my social worker.’

George introduced the journalist (Sally) and photographer (Enzo) who had been interviewing the Dead Kings about the change in line-up.

‘Who was the lady?’ said George.

‘Dave’s wife.’

‘You’re in shock. You’re dissociating,’ said Lydia to me. ‘Try to take some deep breaths.’

‘Has someone rung Dave?’ said George.

I had forgotten about Dave. He would definitely be interested.

I waited for the Dead Kings and the journalists to leave, then phoned Dave. Lydia walked to the kitchen and filled the kettle. I diagnosed confusion.

Dave seemed panicked. ‘Is Sonia all right?’ he asked.

‘The risk to Sonia was minimal. The danger—’

‘I’m asking you, is Sonia all right?’

I needed to reply to Dave’s question several times. He seemed to have caught the sentence-repetition problem. Obviously my answer did not change, so our dialogue was like a looping error. Finally I managed to force an interrupt and was able to convey details of the hospital. As he did not ask, I did not inform him of the risk to the baby. I drew myself a glass of beer from the beer room. Lydia followed me.

‘Would you like a beer?’ I asked. ‘We have unlimited beer.’

‘Nothing surprises me anymore,’ she said. ‘Actually, I will have one.’