The Rosie Effect (20 page)

‘No, there are no faults. What if there were?’

‘It would depend on the nature of the fault, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Good news, then,’ said Gene. ‘Some of us imagine every possible scenario, and some of us cross the bridge when we come to it. Like Don.’

‘I’ve got another item,’ said Rosie. ‘I forgot to tell you. I’ve got a study group tomorrow night. Here.’

‘The semester hasn’t started,’ I said. ‘You need to focus on your thesis.’

‘The thesis is screwed. I’m not going to get it done in ten days.’

‘It’ll be all right,’ said Gene. ‘I’ll organise an extension.’

Rosie shook her head. ‘This is Columbia. They have rules.’

‘For ordinary mortals. Relax.’

Rosie did not look relaxed. ‘I talked to someone in admin. She wasn’t exactly helpful.’

Gene smiled. ‘I’ve already spoken to Borenstein. As long as it’s in by the start of your clinical year, you’ll be fine.’

The study-group meeting would be a major disruption to my schedule, but Rosie was overloaded. I needed to be
supportive during this challenging time of change for both of us, as recommended by The Book. ‘I’ll scale up the dinner. How many people?’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll get pizza. One night won’t hurt.’

‘I’m not worried. I can easily cook a vastly superior meal.’

‘Maybe you guys could have your night out tomorrow.’

‘That’s a more serious disruption to the schedule than multiplying the dinner.’

‘It’s just…you’re faculty, and it’s the first time they’ve been here. They’ve never met you.’

‘Obviously there has to be a first meeting. I can meet them all together.’

‘They’re strangers. You don’t like meeting strangers.’

‘Medical students. Almost scientists. Pseudo-scientists. I can have fascinating arguments with them.’

‘Which is why I’d rather you went out. Please.’

‘You think I’ll be annoying?’

‘I guess I just want my own space.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Gene. ‘I’ll look after Don.’

Rosie smiled. ‘Sorry to spring it on you. Thanks for understanding.’ She was looking at Gene.

George called as Gene and I were leaving for the bar the following evening. ‘Don, do you want to come up here instead? We can send out for pizza. I’ve got a few things I want to throw at the Gene Genie.’

I called Dave. If George was paying and we could watch the baseball, location was of minor importance.

During the seventh-inning stretch George turned to Gene.
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about genetics. Quite a bit, actually. It still doesn’t explain why one of my sons is a drug addict and two aren’t.’

‘Two words.
Different genes
. I can’t know for sure, but I’d guess he got an overdose of genes that tell his body to keep doing what feels good. Fine in an environment without pharmaceuticals.’

George sat back and Gene continued. ‘All of us are programmed—genetically programmed—to keep doing what’s worked for us, and to avoid things that didn’t work.’

‘Ayahuasca,’ said George. ‘Tried once, never again.’

‘Most of the time, what we do works well enough. So here’s a principle that most psychologists would agree with but that comes straight out of genetics:
people repeat themselves
.’

I asked the obvious question. ‘How do they know what to do the first time?’

‘They copy their parents. In the ancestral environment, they were, by definition, successful people. They’d succeeded in breeding. If you want to understand individual human behaviour, the magic words are
repeating patterns
.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said George. ‘I’m a drummer. Repeating patterns. Same songs, same boat, same journey.’

‘Why do you continue?’ I asked.

‘Now there’s a good question,’ said George. ‘When I got this apartment, I had an idea I’d move here, find somewhere that’d give me a solo gig once a week. I play a bit of guitar. Get back to writing my own stuff. Every year I promise myself I’ll do it, and every year I get back on the bloody boat.’

He put his beer glass down. ‘You gents want to switch to wine? I bought a case of Chianti.’

George fetched a bottle of Sassicaia 2000, which is not technically Chianti, but from the same region.

‘Jesus,’ said Gene. ‘A bit good for pizza.’

‘World’s best pizza,’ I said, to clarify, and everyone laughed. It was a minor but notably good moment, and I was sorry Rosie was not sharing it with me.

George was looking for a corkscrew without success. There was a simple solution.

‘I’ll get mine.’ My cork extractor, selected after a significant research project, would be equal or superior to any George might own.

I went downstairs and opened the door to the apartment, expecting to find it full of medical students. The living room was empty. Rosie was in the bedroom, asleep. The light was on and a novel was open on the bed. On the floor was a single, small pizza box. The receipt was stuck to the top:
$14.50. Meatlovers’ Special.

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.