I decided not to call the Eslers. I did not want them to join Rosie, Gene, George, Dave, Sonia and Stefan—Stefan!—in knowing there was a problem.
That left Claudia. World’s best psychologist.
This time she decided to use voice rather than text when I connected with her on Skype. I had not yet worked out what determined her preference, but the speed of voice
communication allowed me to explain the problem in less than an hour.
Claudia delivered her analysis almost as soon as I had finished. ‘She’s looking for perfect love. She’s idealised something that she lost before she could understand that love is never perfect.’
‘Too abstract.’
‘Her mother died when she was ten. Even if her mother—her mother’s love—wasn’t perfect, Rosie had no chance to find out. So she went off looking for a perfect father, who didn’t exist, of course, and then she found a perfect husband.’
‘I’m not perfect,’ I said.
‘In your own way, you are. You believe in love more than any of us. There’s no grey with you.’
‘You’re suggesting I’m incapable of dealing with continuous concepts; that my mind is somehow Boolean?’
‘You’re never going to cheat on Rosie, are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s not right.’ I realised what I was saying. ‘Unless you have an open marriage, of course.’
‘Let’s not go there, Don. This is about you and Rosie. But at some point Rosie will have discovered that you’re human. You forget an anniversary, you don’t read her mind.’
‘It’s unlikely I would forget a date. But mind-reading is not my strongest attribute.’
‘So now she’s on another quest for perfect love.’
‘Repeating patterns,’ I said.
‘Where did you get that from? Don’t bother answering.
But it’s valid in this case. And from what you’re saying, she’s not seeing you as part of that perfect love. Being yourself probably works beautifully with just the two of you, but not so well with a baby. In her mind.’
‘Because I’m not an average father.’
‘Perhaps. But average may not be enough. Her picture of a father is problematic. She had a lot of issues with her own father, didn’t she?’
‘The problems with Phil have been resolved. They’re friends.’ Even as I said it, I remembered Gene’s observation about childhood problems.
‘It doesn’t change the past. It doesn’t change her subconscious.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘That’s always the hard part.’ I was reaching the conclusion that psychology researchers needed to give more attention to problem-solving. ‘Keep working on being a father. Maybe try to discuss the issue with Rosie. But not in the terms I’ve used.’
‘How can I discuss it without using the terms you’ve used to explain it?’ It would be like trying to explain genetics without mentioning DNA.
‘You’ve got a point. Maybe just keep trying and let her know you’re committed.’
There’s a problem. Don’t give up.
‘And Don.’
I waited for Claudia to finish the sentence.
‘I’d rather you didn’t say anything to Gene, but I’m seeing someone. I’m in a relationship with a new man. So I think the time has passed for you to worry about getting Gene and me back together.’
The conversation appeared over, so I terminated the call. Claudia obviously had not finished. She sent me two text messages.
Good luck, Don. You’ve surprised us all so far.
Then:
I think you know the new man in my life. Simon Lefebvre—Head of the Medical Research Institute.
The data-gathering stage of the Lesbian Mothers Project was complete, and I had reviewed the initial draft paper. At my request, B3, the helpful nurse, had sent me the raw data, and I had undertaken my own analysis. The results were fascinating and definitely a useful contribution to the field. There were numerous ways to improve the paper, and I sent my notes to B2. She did not respond, but B1 demanded a meeting with the Dean who invited me to join them.
‘Don’s demanding that we include data that was gathered before the protocols were properly in place. It’s misleading.’
‘It’s the most interesting data,’ I said. ‘It establishes that neither mother raises the baby’s oxytocin levels through play rituals.’
‘That’s because the original play rituals were male-biased. The female carers weren’t comfortable with them. The babies sensed this. We had to make them more appropriate to women.’
‘They would be classified as cuddling,’ I said.
‘You didn’t see them. You weren’t there.’
The second part was true. Emails advising me of the schedule had failed to arrive, and the technicians I had
contacted had not located the problem despite multiple followups and escalation. Fortunately B3 had found a more efficient solution.
‘I was provided with video.’
‘Who—’
‘Does it matter?’ asked David. ‘Don’s surely entitled to see the video.’
‘He’s not qualified to determine the difference between play and cuddling.’
‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘I sent the videos to experts for analysis.’
‘Who? Who did you send the videos to?’
‘The original researchers in Israel, obviously. They confirmed that the second protocol should be classified as cuddling. Hence your research establishes that the secondary carer, if female, stimulates the production of oxytocin in the child by cuddling rather than play. Which is a clear difference from the results with male secondary carers. Hence interesting.’
It seemed that B1 had not understood my point, as she stood up with an expression that I provisionally diagnosed as angry. I clarified. ‘Hence highly publishable. The researcher I spoke to on Skype was extremely interested.’
‘What Don’s done is totally unethical,’ said B1. ‘Showing our results to other researchers.’
‘Naive, perhaps. Not unethical. This is the Columbia medical school, open and cooperative with researchers around the world. Don has our support.’
After B1 had left, the Dean congratulated me on my persistence. ‘They tried to cut you out, Don. I think most
researchers would have walked away. Refusing to take no for an answer has given us a good result.’
The weather had turned cold, as was usual for early December. Bud’s diagram was now taking up four tiles. At twenty-nine weeks, with the medical services available in New York, he could possibly survive in the external world.
Our marriage was surviving in shared-house mode.
Rosie had invited her study group to our apartment to celebrate the end of classes prior to exams and also her deferral from the course.
‘It’ll probably be the last time I see these guys,’ she said. ‘We’ve got nothing much in common—most of them are younger than me.’
‘Only by a few years. They’re adults.’
‘Just. And they’re not into babies and stuff. Anyway, if you and Gene want to go out with Dave—’
‘We had a boys’ night out last night. Dave is being criticised for insufficient attention to Sonia and also has to perform paperwork. Gene has a date with Inge.’
‘A date.’
‘Correct.’ It was pointless to use a less accurate term. Gene had confessed that he was in love with Inge. George had argued that the age difference was irrelevant, and Dave had no opinion. Gene’s visa allowed him to remain in the US for a month’s vacation on completion of his sabbatical, and he planned to spend the time looking for a permanent position in New York.
‘How about George?’ Rosie had not met George.
The persistent suggestion of alternatives led to an inevitable conclusion. I had learned something from the Lesbian Mothers Project.
‘You don’t want me here?’
‘It’s my study group.’
‘This is also my apartment. The study-group meeting is a social occasion. I’m your partner. Are other people bringing partners?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Excellent. I am RSVPing in the affirmative.’
The Dean would have been impressed.
Gene provided me with some guidelines for hosting a party.
‘Loud music, low lights, salty food, plenty of booze. Fresh shirt and jeans. The shoes you wore for Dave the Calf, if you’ve cleaned them. Don’t tuck your shirt in. The unshaven look is fine. Shake hands, serve food, serve drinks, don’t do anything to embarrass Rosie.’
‘What makes you think I’ll embarrass her?’
‘Experience. And she told me. Not in so many words, but she tried to get me to break my date with Inge so I could take you off her hands. Fat chance. This is the big one.’
‘The big one? You plan to have sex with Inge?’
‘Believe it or not, it’s been remarkably chaste so far. But my professional instincts tell me that tonight’s the night.’
I made the party arrangements, and Rosie confirmed that
all was going according to plan when I arrived home.
‘What’s all this booze?’ she asked. ‘I had to sign for five cases of liquor. We can’t afford to be spending like this.’
‘Delivery was free. And there was a discount for the quantity. Based on past behaviour, you’ll be drinking to excess again once Bud is born.’
‘I told people to bring their own. We’re just students.’
‘I’m not,’ I said.
‘And Don, I’m thinking of moving back to Australia, remember. Before the baby is born. I won’t be around to drink it.’
I had moved my weekly discussion with my mother forward by thirty minutes to accommodate the party and made a decision to lie in order to avoid inflicting emotional pain.
‘Has it arrived yet?’ my mother asked.
I told the truth. ‘It arrived on Thursday.’
‘You should have called. Your father was in a state about it. It cost a fortune to send. God knows what he’s spent on it already. He was talking to people in Korea—
Korea—
half the night and then the boxes arrived and he had to sign all these documents about patents and secrecy and of course he had to read every word—you know what your father’s like, he’s worked on it day and night, Trevor’s had no help in the shop for weeks… I think you should speak to him.’ She turned away and called out, ‘Jim, it’s Donald.’
My father’s face replaced my mother’s. ‘Is it what you wanted?’ he said.
‘Excellent. Perfect. Incredible. I’ve tested it. Meets all requirements.’ This was true too.
‘What does Rosie think?’ asked my mother in the background.
‘Totally satisfied. She considers Dad the world’s greatest inventor.’
This was a deception. I had not shown Rosie the crib. It was in Gene’s closet. After the pram problem, I considered there was a high probability that she would reject my father’s most amazing project.
The first to arrive for the study-group celebration was a couple, vindicating my decision to be present. Rosie introduced them.
‘Josh, Rebecca, Don.’
I extended my hand which they shook in turn. ‘I’m Rosie’s partner,’ I said. ‘What would you like to drink?’
‘We’ve brought some beer,’ said Josh.
‘There’s cold beer in the fridge. We can drink it while yours returns to optimum temperature.’
‘Thanks, but this is English beer. I worked in London in a pub for six months. Got a taste for it.’
‘We have six real ales on tap.’
He laughed. ‘You’re kidding me.’
I showed him to the coolroom and drew off a pint of Crouch Vale Brewers Gold. Rebecca followed and I asked if she wanted beer or would prefer a cocktail. The social protocols were familiar and I was feeling very comfortable as I mixed her a Ward 8 and performed a few tricks with the cocktail shaker.
Other guests arrived. I mixed cocktails to their specification and handed around the salted Padrón peppers and edamame. Rosie turned off the music I had selected and replaced it with a more current recording. The noise level remained high, lights low, alcohol consumption steady. People appeared to be having fun. Gene’s formula was working. So far, there were no indications that I had embarrassed anyone.
At 11.07 p.m. there was a knock. It was George. In one hand he had a bottle of red wine and in the other a guitar case.
‘Revenge, eh? Keeping an old man awake. Mind if I join you?’
George was our de facto landlord. It seemed inadvisable to refuse him entry. I introduced him, took his wine and offered him a cocktail. By the time I returned with his martini, all of the guests were seated and George had started playing and singing. Disaster! It was 1960s-style music similar to that which Rosie had turned off earlier. I assumed George’s performance would be similarly unacceptable to young people.
I was wrong. Before I could think of a way of silencing George, Rosie’s guests were clapping and singing along. I focused on refilling drinks.
While George was playing, Gene arrived home. We had an apartment full of young people, a significant percentage of whom were unaccompanied women, disinhibited by alcohol. I was worried that he might behave inappropriately, but he went directly to his bedroom. I presumed his libido had been exhausted.
The party finished at 2.35 a.m. One of the last to leave was a woman who had introduced herself as Mai, age approximately twenty-four, BMI approximately twenty. We spoke together in the beer fridge while I selected liquor for her final cocktail.
‘You’re so not like what we were expecting,’ she said. ‘To be honest, we all thought you’d be some kind of geek.’
It was a notable milestone. Tonight, at least in this limited domain of social interaction, I had managed to convince a cool young person, and apparently her fellow students, even in the face of a preconception, that I was within the normal range of social competence. But I was concerned with how the preconception had arisen.
‘How did you deduce that I was a geek?’
‘We just thought—well, you’re with Rosie, the only person on the planet doing an MD and a PhD at the same time. And the way she just says what she thinks, how we’ve got to drag her into doing anything social…and then it’s like, oh yeah, I’m having a baby but let me get these stats done first. We thought she’d have gone for someone the same and here you are with the apartment and the cocktails and the muso buddy and the retro shirt.’
She sipped her cocktail.
‘This is awesome. Is it okay to ask, is she getting any help with the clinical thing?’