The Rosie Effect (17 page)

After dinner, Rosie headed for her study to work on her thesis. On average, she was devoting ninety-five minutes to this pre-bed session, although the variance was high. After eighty minutes, I made her a cup of fruit infusion, which I
accompanied with some fresh blueberries.

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

‘Not so bad. Except for the stats.’

‘There’s a lot of ugly things in this world. I wish I could keep them all away from you,’ I said. Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch in supportive mode. It was probably my most effective line. Opportunities to impersonate Gregory Peck had been significantly reduced by Gene’s presence.

Rosie stood up. ‘Good timing. I think I’ve had enough of ugly things for tonight.’ She put her arms around me and kissed me in passionate mode rather than greetings mode.

We were interrupted by a familiar noise from an unfamiliar location: someone was calling Gene on Skype. I was not sure of the rules for answering another person’s VoIP communication, but perhaps it was Claudia with an emergency. Or a proposal for reconciliation.

I entered Gene’s bedroom and saw Eugenie’s face on the screen. Gene and Claudia’s daughter is nine years old. I had not spoken to her since we moved to New York. I clicked on
Answer with video
.

‘Dad?’ Eugenie’s voice was clear and loud.

‘Greetings! It’s Don.’

Eugenie laughed. ‘I can tell from your face. I could have told from you saying
greetings
.’

‘Your father is out.’

‘What are you doing at his house?’

‘It’s my apartment. We’re sharing. Like students.’

‘That’s so cool. Were you and my dad friends at school?’

‘No.’ Gene is sixteen years older than I am and would not
have belonged to my social group if we had been contemporaries. Gene would have been dating girls, playing sport and soliciting votes for school captain.

‘Hey Don.’

‘Hey Eugenie.’

‘When do you think Dad will come home?’

‘His sabbatical is six months. Hence, technically December 24, but the semester ends on December 20.’

‘It’s a long time.’

‘Four months and fourteen days.’

‘Hey, move your head, Don.’

I looked at the small image of my face in the corner of the monitor and realised that Rosie had walked into the room behind me. I moved to one side and expanded the image. Rosie was wearing her one item of impractical nightwear. It was her equivalent of a blueberry muffin, although it was black rather than white with blue spots. She did a little dance and Eugenie called out to her.

‘Hey Rosie, hi.’

‘Can she see me?’ said Rosie.

‘Yep,’ said Eugenie. ‘You’re wearing a—’

‘I believe you,’ said Rosie, laughing, and left the room, waving to me from the doorway. Eugenie resumed our conversation but I was now distracted.

‘Does Dad want to come home?’

‘Of course! He misses everyone.’

‘Even Mum? Does he say that?’

‘Of course. I should go to bed. It’s late here.’

‘Mum says he needs to sort some things out. Is he?’

‘He’s making excellent progress. We have a men’s group as recommended in my book on pregnancy, consisting of a refrigeration engineer, your father, a rock star and me. I’ll give you a progress report in a few days.’

‘You’re so funny. You haven’t really got a rock star… Hey, why are you reading a book on pregnancy?’

‘To assist Rosie with production of our baby.’

‘You’re having a baby? Mum didn’t tell me.’

‘Probably because she doesn’t know.’

‘It’s a secret?’

‘No, but I saw no use in giving her the information. She’s not required to take any action.’

‘Mum! Mum! Don and Rosie are having a baby!’

Claudia pushed Eugenie out of the way, which seemed rude, and it was now obvious that the conversation would continue. I wanted to talk to Claudia, but not now and not with Eugenie present.

‘Don, that’s wonderful news. How do you feel?’

‘Excited, end of story,’ I said, combining Gene’s recommended answer with the conversation terminator I had learned from Rosie.

Claudia ignored my signal. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she repeated. ‘Where’s Rosie?’

‘In bed. Possibly not sleeping due to my absence. It’s extremely late.’

‘Oh, sorry. Well, please pass on my congratulations. When is she due?’

After conducting an interrogation on pregnancy-related topics, Claudia said, ‘So Gene’s out, is he? He’d promised to
talk to Eugenie. Where is he?’

‘I don’t know.’ I clicked the video off.

‘I’ve lost your face, Don.’

‘Some technical issue.’

‘I see. Or I don’t see. Well, doing whatever he’s doing isn’t going to solve Eugenie’s science problem.’

‘I’m an expert at science problems.’

‘And also a decent person. Are you sure you’ve got time?’

‘When does it need to be completed?’

‘She was very anxious to get it done tonight. But if you have other things…’

It would take less time to answer a primary-school science question than to negotiate an alternative arrangement with Claudia.

‘Proceed.’

Eugenie returned and I restored the video. Eugenie turned it off again.

‘What’s the science problem?’ I asked.

‘There’s no science problem. I just told Mum that. Like I’d have a science problem. Face-palm.’

‘Face-palm?’

‘Like
der
. I’m top of the class in science. And maths.’

‘Can you do calculus?’

‘Not yet.’

‘So you’re probably not a genius. Excellent.’

‘Why excellent? I thought it was good to be smart.’

‘I recommend being smart but not a genius. Unless the only thing you care about is numbers. Professional mathematicians are usually socially inept.’

‘Maybe that’s why everyone is saying mean things about me on Facebook.’

‘Everyone?’

She laughed. ‘No, just lots of kids.’

‘Can you construct some sort of filter?’

‘I can block them. I kind of don’t want to. I want to see what they say. They’re still kind of my friends. I’m sounding stupid, right?’

‘No. It’s normal to want information. It’s normal to want to be liked. Is there any threat of violence?’

‘Nah. They just say stupid things.’

‘Probably a result of being stupid. Highly intelligent people are often bullied. As a result of being different. That difference being high intelligence.’ I was conscious of not sounding highly intelligent.

‘Did you get bullied? I bet you did.’

‘You would win the bet. Initially violently, until I learned martial arts. Then more subtly. Fortunately I am not a subtle person, so once the violence stopped, things were much better.’

We talked for fifty-eight minutes, including the initial conversation and the Claudia interaction, exchanging information about bullying experiences. I could not see any obvious solution to her problem, but if her distress was at the level I had experienced as a child, I was obliged to offer any knowledge that might assist.

In the end, she said, ‘I have to go to horseriding. You’re the smartest person I know.’ In terms of intelligence quotient, she was probably right. In terms of knowledge of practical psychology, she was wrong.

‘I would not rely on my advice.’

‘You didn’t give me any. I just liked talking to you. Can we do this again?’

‘Of course.’ I had also enjoyed the conversation. Except for thinking about the alternative activity in the adjacent room.

I terminated the connection. As I was leaving Gene’s room, the computer beeped with a text message:
Good night. I
<
3
you, Don.

Rosie was barely awake when I joined her in bed.

‘Sounds like you had a nice chat,’ she said.

‘To begin with, this case should never have come to trial,’ I said, Atticus Finch defending the innocent Tom Robinson, scapegoated because of a minor genetic difference.

Rosie smiled. ‘Sorry, Mr Peck, I’m stuffed. Good night.’

Although I had described the group of males with whom I had recently watched baseball and eaten hamburgers as a men’s group, my suggestion that we formalise it was not well received by George.

‘I’m already in one,’ he said. ‘It’s ruined my life.’

‘Obviously, you should leave it. Join a more suitable one.’

‘Ah, but it made my life, too. I owe it.’ I realised he was talking about the Dead Kings.

‘You don’t want to watch the ballgame with us? And converse on non-baseball topics between innings?’

‘That’s fine by me. Just no beating drums. I get enough of that at work. Are Casanova and the big guy coming?’

I mentally mapped the two descriptions to Gene and Dave and answered after only a brief pause. ‘Correct.’

‘I’ll get my drinking shoes on.’

16

Calculon wants to connect with you on Skype
.

I didn’t know anyone called Calculon. One of the advantages of having a small number of friends is that communications are easily filtered. I ignored the request. The next evening I had an actual message from Calculon:
It’s me, Eugenie
.

I accepted the invitation and within seconds my computer was ringing.

‘Greetings, Eugenie.’ Her image came into view.

‘Oh gross!’

I recognised the problem from previous conversations with Simon Lefebvre, my Melbourne research colleague.

‘This is my office. It has its own toilet. I’m not currently using it except as a seat.’

‘Weird. I’m definitely going to tell Mum. Except I’m not supposed to be talking to you.’

‘Why not?’

‘I did what you said. I made it into a joke.’

‘What did you make into a joke?’

‘This girl was saying my dad had like a hundred girlfriends, so I said that’s because he’s so cool. And your dad is so not cool he could only score your mother, who’s a troll.’

‘Like someone who guards a bridge?’

Eugenie laughed. ‘No, it’s someone who’s annoying on social media. Dad said she was one. Anyhow, everyone started laughing at this girl instead of me, and then another girl dobbed us all in and we’ve all got a week’s detention and Mum got a note. So now we’re all picking on her.’

‘On your mother?’

‘No, the girl who reported us.’

‘Maybe you should have a schedule, a roster, of whose turn it is to be bullied. It would avoid unfairness.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But the problem is solved?’

‘We have another problem.’ She looked very serious. ‘Carl.’

‘He’s also being bullied?’

‘No. He says if Dad ever comes back he’s going to kill him. Because of the girlfriends.’ Eugenie’s voice indicated emotion. I detected a risk of crying. ‘And I really want Dad to come back.’ Prediction correct. Eugenie was now crying.

‘It won’t be possible to solve the problem while you’re emotionally incapacitated,’ I said.

‘Can you talk to Carl? He won’t talk to Dad.’

Carl’s stepmother is a clinical psychologist. His father is head of the Department of Psychology at a major university. Now I—a physical scientist hardwired to understand logic and ideas ahead of interpersonal dynamics—had been selected to counsel their son.

I needed help. Fortunately, it was readily available in the person of Rosie.

‘Gene’s son wants to kill him,’ I said.

‘He’ll have to wait in line. I can’t believe it—he’s out with Inge again, isn’t he?’

‘Correct. I’ve attempted to warn her. What do I say to Carl?’

‘Nothing. You can’t take responsibility for everyone’s life. The person who needs to talk to Carl is Gene. He’s Carl’s father. And your housemate. For the last six weeks. Which we need to talk about.’

‘There’s a vast list of things we need to talk about.’

‘I know, but not now, okay? I’ll lose my train of thought.’

Two hours later, I knocked on her door and entered. There was screwed-up printer paper on the floor. Screwing it up made it impossible to re-use and more bulky for disposal. I diagnosed frustration on Rosie’s part as well.

‘Do you require assistance?’

‘No, I can do it. It’s just so fucking annoying. I talked to Stefan on Skype and it all made sense, and now it doesn’t. I don’t know how I’m going to get it done in the next three weeks.’

‘Does that have serious implications?’

‘You know I’m supposed to get it finished over the vacation. Which I might have been able to do if I didn’t have baby brain
or have to worry about Gene’s problems. And my medical appointments. Which I made, by the way. The ultrasound is next Tuesday at 2.00 p.m. Is that okay with you?’

‘It’s almost two weeks overdue.’

‘My doctor said twelve weeks was fine.’

‘Twelve weeks and three days. The Book specifies eight to eleven weeks. A published consensus is more reliable than the opinion of one practitioner.’

‘Whatever. I’ve got an OBGYN now. I saw her today and she’s really good. We’ll do all the rest by the rules.’

‘According to best practice? The second ultrasound is due at eighteen to twenty-two weeks. I recommend twenty-two, since the first one was late.’

‘I’ll book it in at twenty-two weeks, no days, and zero hours. It’s called a sonogram here, by the way. But right now I just want to get this analysis done before I go to bed. And I want a glass of wine. Just one.’

‘Alcohol is banned. You’re still in the first trimester.’

‘If you don’t pour me a glass of wine, I’m going to have a cigarette.’

Short of physical restraint or violence, there was nothing I could do to stop Rosie drinking. I brought a glass of white wine to her study and sat in one of the spare chairs.

‘Not having one yourself?’ she said.

‘No.’

Rosie took a sip. ‘Don, have you watered this down?’

‘It’s a low-alcohol wine.’

‘It certainly is now.’

I watched as she took a second sip, imagining the alcohol
crossing the placental wall, damaging brain cells, reducing our unborn child from a future Einstein to a physicist who would fall just short of taking science to a new level. A child who would never have the experience described by Richard Feynman of knowing something about the universe that no one ever had before. Or, given the medical heritage on Rosie’s side, perhaps he or she would stand on the brink of a cure for cancer. But a few brain cells, destroyed by a mother driven to irrationality by pregnancy-induced hormones…