The Rosie Effect

33

When Rosie returned from the shower, changed into clean clothes, Lydia and I were sitting on the sofa.

‘Who are you?’ Rosie asked Lydia. I detected a minor level of aggression.

‘I’m a social worker. Lydia Mercer. I came to see Don and Rosie, and then all this happened.’

‘Don didn’t say anything about it. Is there some issue?’

‘I don’t think it’s something I can discuss with… Did you just take a shower? I thought you were with the ambulance team. The first ambulance team. With the tall professor.’

It was an odd description of Gene, who is five centimetres shorter than I am and hence approximately the same height as Lydia. And Lydia seemed to have confused herself. Why would a professor be included in a paramedical team?

‘Gene left with the band,’ I explained. ‘But he’ll be back. He lives here.’

‘I’m Rosie,’ said Rosie. ‘I live here too. So I hope you don’t have a problem with me using the shower.’

‘Your name’s Rosie?’

‘Is there a problem with that? You just said you came—’

‘No…just a coincidence with Don’s—Don-Dave’s—wife being…Rosie too.’

‘There is no Rosie II,’ I explained. ‘Only the Georges are numbered.’

‘I’m Don’s wife,’ said Rosie. ‘Is that okay with you?’

‘You’re his wife?’ Lydia turned to me. ‘I need to speak to you privately, Don-Dave.’

I assumed Lydia had concluded I had two wives, both named Rosie, both pregnant and living in the same house, and referred to as Rosie I and Rosie II to avoid confusion. This was improbable, but so were the chances of the real situation occurring randomly. Of course it had not. I took a few moments to contemplate its cause. I, Don Tillman, had woven a web of deceit. Incredible. Fortunately there was no longer any purpose in deception. And Lydia could now provide advice based on her assessment of the real Rosie.

‘No privacy is required,’ I said.

I began to tell them both the story. In detail. I refilled Lydia’s glass and then mine and also drew a glass for Rosie, which I justified on the basis of three facts:

1. Her pregnancy was in the third trimester, where the risk of damage to the foetus from small quantities of alcohol was minimal as shown by research previously cited by Rosie.

2. English ale has a lower alcohol content than American or Australian lager.

3. Rosie said, ‘I need a drink,’ with an expression that indicated something bad would happen if this need was not met.

Approximately twenty minutes into the story, when Rosie was interspersing her usual requests for ‘overview’ and ‘cutting to the chase’ with profane expressions of astonishment, Gene returned.

‘You might as well join us,’ said Lydia. ‘What sort of professor are you?’

‘I’m the head of the Department of Psychology at Australia’s highest-ranked university, currently undertaking research at Columbia.’ Gene’s statement was correct, but did not actually answer the question, which could have been responded to precisely and accurately with a single word: Genetics. And I was the one being accused of unnecessary detail.

‘Well,’ said Lydia, ‘it’s nice to have some professional support. Let me summarise what Don’s told us, which so far is not news to me. But apparently it is to this Rosie.’

‘Not necessary,’ I said. ‘Gene is familiar with the Playground Incident and the requirement for psychological assessment.’

Rosie looked at Gene. She did not appear happy.

‘Sworn to secrecy,’ he said. ‘Don didn’t want to upset you.’

I continued the story. ‘So then I asked Sonia to impersonate Rosie.’

I had not told Gene this part. I had allowed him to think that the pending charges had been dropped after the first meeting with Lydia. Another component of the web of deceit.

The reactions of Rosie, Gene and Lydia varied in intensity and detail, but were all variants of ‘You did what?’

‘Wait, wait, wait,’ said Lydia. ‘You’re saying she’—she pointed at Rosie—‘is your wife? Rosie is Rosie?’

This question could be answered with zero contextual knowledge. It was the simplest of tautologies and the fact that it was asked at all was an indicator of Lydia’s confusion. Rosie had also stated explicitly that she was my wife.

Gene took the opportunity to make some sort of witticism.

‘A Rosie is a Rosie is a Rosie,’ he said.

I tried to help. ‘There is only one Rosie relevant to this story. She has red hair. She is my wife. I have exactly one wife. This is her.’

‘Who’s Sonia, then?’ asked Lydia.

This was easy. ‘You’ve met Sonia. She’s currently delivering a baby.’

‘No. Who is she? You recruited some Italian village girl…’

‘She’s Dave’s wife.’

‘Dave?’

‘Oh my God,’ said Rosie. ‘We need to call Dave. I was so caught up in not screwing up, I forgot about Dave.’

‘Dave?’ said Lydia to me. ‘There’s another Dave? Your father? I thought he was another Don.’

‘I’ve called Dave,’ I said.

‘This is getting surreal,’ said Gene. ‘Now we’re relying on Don to look after the people issues.’

We were becoming distracted. Distractions were everywhere. Text messages, Lydia consulting her watch, Gene responding to Lydia consulting her watch.

‘Do you have to be somewhere?’ he said to Lydia.

‘Not really, but I have to eat. I feel like this is going to take a while.’

‘I’ll order pizza,’ said Gene.

While Gene was on the phone, there was a knock. It was the young journalist and the photographer who had been interviewing the Dead Kings: Sally and Enzo.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Sally. ‘We just wanted to check that everything was okay with the lady who went to hospital. And…it seems there’s a story here, if you’d like to share it.’

‘Not if it means Don going through it again,’ said Gene, who had rejoined us. He paused. ‘I suppose I’m here all night anyway. I’ll get some pizza for you guys too.’

‘We won’t be that long,’ said Sally.

‘That’s what you think,’ said Gene. ‘Family-size margheritas and pepperonis to share?’

Sally the journalist was obsessed with the details of the Sonia Emergency, whereas I remembered Rosie’s and B1’s concern about misreporting of the Lesbian Mothers Project. I considered it vastly more important for their readers to have information about important research than an isolated instance of a pregnancy complication. Although I did my best to relate both stories accurately, while accommodating Sally’s frequent requests to omit detail, I suspected she did not achieve a full understanding of events. Rosie spent most of the time on the phone.

After Sally and Enzo left, I resumed the conversation with Lydia, Rosie and Gene. I had classified it as very important, but not so urgent as to require refusing the press interview. I was having to perform some real-time schedule adjustment to maintain sanity.

‘I’ve been trying to reach Dave,’ Rosie said.

‘Why?’

‘To find out what’s happened with Sonia and the baby, that’s why.’

‘Emergency caesarean, as predicted. No permanent damage to either party.’

‘What? How do you know?’

‘Text message from Dave 138 minutes ago.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

I explained about priorities. Now I could resume the explanation of the therapy deception.

‘Boy or girl?’ said Rosie.

‘Male, I think.’ I checked my message. ‘No, female.’ It was a detail that could have waited. It would be years before the difference was important.

‘Wait,’ said Lydia. ‘Why did Sonia do all this for you? She could have gotten herself in a lot of trouble. She still could.’ The last statement was obviously a threat, but even I could see that Lydia lacked conviction.

‘She said it was in compensation for assistance that I gave to Dave. I did some work that was necessary to prevent his business failing. In fact, it was necessary but not sufficient. Dave’s filing and computer systems were also inadequate. His invoice generation procedure—’

Rosie interrupted. ‘Dave’s business is in trouble?’

‘Was. I’ve now rectified all problems. Except the lack of time for administration. I sourced a Hewlett Packard four-in-one and reconfigured—’

It was Gene’s turn to interrupt. ‘Dave’s filing system is all very interesting but can we focus on the Number One priority: Don’s got it into his head that he’s not going to make it as a father. That Rosie’s better off without him. And Rosie’s picked up on that and thinks he doesn’t want to be a father. That’s crap. Don can do whatever he puts his mind to. Am I right, Lydia?’

‘Technically, I’m sure he can,’ said Lydia. ‘My concern was about him understanding others’ needs and being supportive.’

‘Like understanding that his friend’s business is failing and that if it happens everything is going to come tumbling down, marriage and all? And then fixing it?’

‘I’m talking about emotional—’

‘I only provide practical advice,’ I said. ‘I avoid emotional issues.’

‘I try not to provide advice at all,’ said Lydia. ‘This is something you have to work out for yourselves.’

‘Not so fast, Lydia,’ said Gene. ‘Don left Rosie because you told him he was bad for her. He made a life-changing decision based on your advice.’

‘In response to a fictitious scenario. An accountant pretending to be an Italian peasant girl pretending to be an Australian medical student.’

I corrected Lydia’s oversimplified scenario. ‘You assessed me as unsuitable prior to meeting Sonia.’

She spoke to Gene. ‘I was concerned. I’d met Don before. Over lunch.’

Rosie stood up. I recognised anger. ‘You had lunch with Don? And then saw him as a patient? When did you have lunch with him?’

‘With my friend, Judy Esler.’

‘My friend Judy Esler. At the Japanese fusion place in Tribeca? So you’re the bitch from hell who diagnoses autism at twenty paces? Fuck.’

‘Judy called me that?’

Lydia stood up, then Gene stood up and put one hand on Rosie’s shoulder and the other on Lydia’s. ‘Let’s hear Lydia out first. She’s not the only one who overstepped the mark.’

Lydia sat down. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I was out of line at lunch. Don got under my skin. I stayed involved because I felt for Rosie…Sonia…because I felt sorry for any woman having a baby with a man who wasn’t connected.’

Rosie sat down too.

‘After all this,’ Lydia continued, ‘I’m not concerned with Rosie becoming psychotic or depressed and nobody noticing. If you’d told me you had an eminent professor of psychology, a trained observer, living in the house’—she smiled at Gene and Gene smiled back—‘I would have let it go.’

It seemed that the problem was solved. But Lydia had not finished.

‘I’m not Don’s therapist. But you two are going to have some challenges. I don’t think Don’s dangerous, and I’m sure he’s done many good things for his friends, but he’s—’

I saved Lydia the problem of finding tactful words. ‘Not exactly average.’

She laughed. ‘Good luck working it out. You’re both smart people but parenting isn’t easy for anyone. And forget any of that evolutionary-psychology crap that idiot friend of yours told you.’

The evolutionary-psychology crap was presumably the information I had shared about sexual compatibility on the day of the Bluefin Tuna Incident.

‘How are you getting home?’ said the person Lydia had just called my idiot friend.

‘I’ll get the subway.’

‘I’ll come for the walk,’ said Gene. ‘Sounds like we have a common issue with these geneticists who think they’ve got human behaviour sewn up.’

Rosie and I were left alone in the apartment. There was some pizza left over. I pulled out the cling wrap and Rosie moved to take it from me. I held on to it and in a practised motion—a very practised motion—I tore off a perfectly sized sheet and wrapped the pizza.

Rosie watched. She had not spoken since identifying Lydia as someone that Judy Esler had criticised.

‘You don’t have to go back to Dave’s tonight,’ she said. ‘But you know I’ve got a ticket home tomorrow, don’t you?’

‘Lydia’s assessment didn’t change your mind?’ I asked.

‘Did it change yours?’

‘My reason for leaving was that I was a net negative in your life. Based primarily on Lydia’s evaluation of me as an unsuitable father.’

‘Don, she’s wrong. It’s the opposite. You’re probably the world’s greatest father. For the right partner. You know everything. You know about diet and exercise and what pram to buy. You know stuff about prolapsed cords that I don’t even know as a medical student. We’d be arguing all the time and you’d be right all the time. As you always are.’

‘Incorrect. I—’

‘Don’t give me your counter-example. I’m sure you’ve been wrong once. I’m speaking broadly. I want to care for and love and bring up my baby without you telling me what to do. I don’t want to be just a pair of hands. Like I was tonight.’ Rosie stood up and walked around. ‘Or a part of your Baby Project. I just want to have a relationship with my baby that’s my own.’

‘You think my input would be in opposition to yours?’ Claudia had been right. Rosie wanted a perfect new relationship without interference.

Rosie walked to the kitchen and activated the kettle. The hot-chocolate cycle was commencing for the night. I spent the time trying to construct an argument that would keep Rosie in New York. Approximately six minutes passed before she returned to the living-room zone.

‘Maybe we wouldn’t disagree on anything. That’d be a problem too. I have no other role now except to be a mother. And you’d just keep walking in and doing it better. Part-time. Trying not to be a fuck-up as a mother is hard enough without having a partner who reminds me every time I get it wrong.’

‘Maybe I can transfer my knowledge to you rather than apply it directly.’

‘No! Maybe I’m being too nice. I’m making you sound like Superdad, but there’s more to being a parent than theory. Babies need more than the nappy being folded the right way.’

‘You’re definitely going home? Without me?’

‘Don, I didn’t want to bring it up, but I told you: there’s someone else. It’s the hardest decision I’ve ever made. I did a spreadsheet.’