‘What clinical thing?’
‘Sorry. I’m sticking my nose in. But we’ve talked about it because we want to help. She’s so obviously using the pregnancy as a way out.’
‘Of what?’
‘Her clinical year. I mean she wants to do psych, and she’ll never have to touch a patient after next year if she can get some help to get through it. I gather there was some sort of trauma in her childhood—a car accident or something that’s freaked her out about emergency medicine.’
Rosie had been in the car when her mother was killed and Phil badly injured. It would seem reasonable that confronting the injuries of others might stimulate traumatic memories. But she had never said anything to me.
Inge asked to see me urgently on the Monday morning after the party, then offered to buy me coffee. ‘It’s more of a personal matter,’ she said.
I can see no logical reason why personal and social topics need to be discussed in a café and accompanied by beverages, whereas research topics can be discussed in both the work environment and in cafés. But we changed location and purchased coffee to enable the conversation to begin.
‘You were right about Gene. I should have listened to you.’
‘He attempted to seduce you?’
‘Worse. He says he’s in love with me.’
‘And that emotion is not reciprocated?’
‘Of course not. He’s older than my father. I thought of him as a mentor, and he treated me like an equal. But I never did anything to suggest... I can’t believe he got it so wrong. I can’t believe
I
got it so wrong.’
In the evening, I knocked on Rosie’s door and entered. I had expected she would be performing some task at her computer,
but she was lying on the mattress. There was no book visible. The lack of distractions created an ideal opportunity to raise an important topic.
‘Mai told me there was some problem with clinical activities. A phobia about patient contact. Is this correct?’
‘Fuck. I told you, I’m dropping the medical program. The reasons don’t matter.’
‘You said you were deferring. David Borenstein—’
‘Fuck David Borenstein. I
am
deferring. Who knows, I may go back, I may not. Right now I’m a bit busy with exams and having a baby.’
‘Obviously if there is some obstacle preventing you from achieving a goal, you should investigate methods for overcoming it.’
I could empathise with Rosie, and was in a position to help. I had faced an almost identical situation when I switched my studies from computers to genetics. My revulsion at handling animals increased in proportion to the size of the animal. It was irrational but felt instinctual, hence difficult to overcome.
I undertook hypnotherapy, but attributed my cure to the Cat Rescue Incident, in which it had been necessary to save a housemate’s kitten which had jumped into the toilet—a doubly unpleasant task. I learned that I could create an intellectual separation from the physical sensation in an emergency. Once I knew the brain configuration, I was able to reproduce it well enough to dissect mice and assist in the delivery of a calf. I was confident that I could function in a medical emergency, and that I could coach Rosie to do so too.
I began to explain, but she stopped me. ‘Forget it, please. If I wanted to do it enough, I’d sort it out. I’m just not that interested.’
‘Do you want to see a play? Tonight?’
‘What play?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
‘So you haven’t bought tickets or anything. Haven’t you got stuff…scheduled?’
‘I’ve scheduled a play. For both of us. As a couple.’
‘Sorry, Don.’
I saw Gene next. He was also in his room lying on the bed. Our household was aggregately depressed.
‘Don’t say anything,’ he said. ‘Inge spoke to you, right?’
Gene had asked me not to speak, then asked a question that required me to answer. I decided that the latter overrode the former.
‘Correct.’
‘Christ, how do I face her? I’ve been a complete idiot.’
‘Correct. Fortunately she has been similarly imperceptive in failing to note that your interactions with her were aimed at seduction. I recommend—’
‘It’s okay, Don, I don’t need your advice on etiquette.’
‘Incorrect. I’m extremely experienced at dealing with embarrassment resulting from insensitivity to others. I’m an expert. I recommend an apology and admission that you are a klutz. I have recommended to her that she apologise for not making her position clear. She is similarly embarrassed. Nobody else knows except me.’
‘Thanks. Appreciate it.’
‘Do you want to go to a play? I have tickets,’ I said.
‘No, I’ll stay in, I think.’
‘Bad decision. You should come to the play with me. Otherwise you’ll reflect on your error but make zero progress.’
‘All right. What time?’
Don Tillman. Counsellor.
Before leaving, I prepared a meal for Rosie and put the other two serves in the fridge for Gene and me to eat later. I had a minor problem with managing the cling wrap, as a result of poor dispenser design. Rosie got up from the table and pulled out a new sheet.
‘I can’t believe you can’t manage cling wrap. How would you ever fold a nappy? Can’t you just be normal about some things?’ She turned around. Gene had joined us from his bedroom. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Forget I said it. I just get frustrated sometimes because you have to do everything differently.’
‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Gene. ‘Don’s not the only man who has trouble with cling wrap. Or can’t find things in the fridge. I remember your friend Stefan back in Melbourne throwing a wobbly over someone stealing the sugar from the tearoom. He went on for about five minutes, and by the time he’d finished half the department was standing there, all looking at the sugar bowl, right in front of him.’
‘What’s Stefan got to do with anything?’ said Rosie.
‘Do you or Rosie want to do a shift?’ It was Jamie-Paul, the following night, texting from the wine bar that used to be a cocktail bar.
I texted back: ‘Has Wineman forgiven me?’
‘Who’s Wineman? Hector’s gone.’
Rosie offered to join me, but Jamie-Paul had said ‘you
or
Rosie’, which I interpreted as per common English usage as an exclusive
or
.
It was not quite the same as before, in part due to the absence of Rosie, but Jamie-Paul informed me that former clients were returning and asking for cocktails. Wineman had been dismissed following an incident in which nobody could produce a satisfactory whiskey sour for the owner’s brother. Christmas was only fifteen days in the future and the bar was busy—hence the need for my services. I left Rosie and Gene to eat the dinner I had prepared.
It was a good feeling making cocktails, an incredibly good feeling. I was competent and people appreciated my competence. Nobody cared about my opinions on gay couples raising children or whether I could guess what they were feeling or if I could manipulate cling wrap. I stayed past the end of my shift, working unpaid until the bar closed and I could walk home in the snow to an apartment made empty in a virtual sense by its occupants being asleep.
It did not work out exactly as planned. As I was writing a note to advise Gene and Rosie not to disturb me before 9.17 a.m., Rosie’s door opened. Her shape had definitely changed. I had a feeling that I was unable to name: some combination of love and distress.
‘You’re very late,’ she said. ‘We missed you. But Gene was nice. It’s difficult for all of us at the moment.’
She kissed me on the cheek, to complete the set of contradictory messages.
I had an opportunity to compensate for failing to attend the two ultrasound examinations.
The antenatal briefing was to be conducted at the hospital where Rosie had arranged for the birth to take place. I was determined to attend and perform well. The Good Fathers class, where I had graduated after only one session, was the benchmark.
Dave had already attended an antenatal class. ‘It’s mainly for the fathers,’ he said. ‘About what to expect, how to support your partner, that sort of stuff. The women know it all already. The guys embarrass themselves and their wives by how little they know.’
I would not be an embarrassment to Rosie.
‘I’m only doing this because it’s part of the deal,’ said Rosie as we rode the subway to the hospital. ‘I was tempted not to show up, just to call their bluff. What are they going to do? Not let me have my baby? Anyway, I’m probably not even going to have it here.’
‘It would be unwise to take any risk on such a crucial matter.’
‘Yeah, yeah. But like I said before, you didn’t have to come. They’d be discriminating against single mothers if they made the fathers come.’
‘Fathers are expected to attend,’ I said. ‘Fathers are provided with an understanding of what to expect in a supportive, non-threatening and fun environment.’
‘Thanks for that,’ said Rosie. ‘Non-threatening is good. Wouldn’t want a karate exhibition.’
Rosie’s statement was completely unjustified, as she was unaware of the two occasions on which I had used martial arts in
reasonable self-defence
in New York. She was presumably referring to the Jacket Incident on our first date, and confirming her recent selective memory for events that cast me in a bad light,
even though she had been amused at the time and come home with me.
In the foyer there was an urn, a selection of low-quality instant beverages, including several that were caffeinated, and sweet biscuits which were definitely not on the list of pregnancy power foods. We were three minutes early, but there were approximately eighteen people already present. All the women were at various stages of pregnancy. I did not see anyone who appeared to be a lesbian secondary carer.
A group of three introduced themselves to us: two pregnant women and a man. The women were named Madison (estimated age thirty-eight, BMI not estimated due to pregnancy but probably low under normal conditions) and Delancey (approximately twenty-three, BMI probably above twenty-eight under normal conditions). I pointed out that Madison and Delancey were both New York street names. My mind was working at maximum efficiency, hence noticing interesting patterns. The man, who was the husband of Madison and aged approximately fifty, BMI approximately twenty-eight, was named Bill.
‘There’s also a William Street,’ I said.
‘No big surprise there,’ said Bill, reasonably. ‘Got a name picked out for your boy or girl yet?’
‘Not yet,’ said Rosie. ‘We haven’t even talked about it.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Bill. ‘It’s all we talk about.’
‘What about you?’ Rosie asked Delancey.
‘Madison and I talk about it a lot, but it’s a girl and it’s going to be Rosa after my mom. She was a single mom too.’ Repeating patterns.
Rosa was a similar name to Rosie. If her surname was Jarmine her name would be an anagram of ‘Rosie Jarman’. Or if it was Mentilli, it would be an anagram of ‘Rosie Tillman’ which would only be interesting if Rosie had adopted my surname when we were married.
‘I recommend avoiding a name associated with your ethnicity. To reduce prejudice,’ I said.
‘I think you might be the one bringing your prejudices with you,’ said Madison. ‘This is New York, not Alabama.’
‘Bertrand and Mullainathan’s study of discrimination in job applications was based on research in Boston and Chicago. It would seem unwise to take the risk.’
Another idea popped into my head unbidden. ‘You could call your child Wilma. A combination of William and Madison.’
‘There’s a name that’s due to come back,’ said Bill. ‘Since prehistoric times. What do you think, Mad?’ He was laughing. I was performing well—
hyper-well
—socially.
‘And how do you and Madison know each other?’ Rosie asked Delancey.
Madison answered. ‘Delancey’s my best friend. And our housekeeper.’
The relationship sounded very efficient. Interestingly, the first two letters of
Delancey
appended to the first two letters of
Madison
made (
made!
)
made
which was a homophone for Delancey’s role. Which was an anagram of
Dame
, which seemed to relate to Madison’s role. Also
Edam
, which is a cheese and
mead
, which is a honey-based alcoholic drink. It would be interesting to create a meal in which all foods were paired with anagram drinks.
My racing mind was interrupted by the late arrival of the convenor. Before she could be distracted by educational tasks, I informed her of the catering problem, in some detail.
Rosie interrupted. ‘I think she’s got the message, Don.’
‘Oh, I’m glad we have a dad who knows about nutrition in pregnancy. Most don’t have a clue.’ Her name was Heidi (age approximately fifty, BMI twenty-six) and she seemed very friendly.
The education component commenced with introductions,
followed by a video of actual births. I moved to the front row when one male student vacated his seat and left the room hurriedly. I had already watched numerous online videos covering the most common situations and complications, but the bigger screen was a definite benefit.
At the end, Heidi asked, ‘Any questions?’ She moved to the whiteboard in the front corner.
Remembering Jack the Biker’s recommendation, I shut the fuck up initially to give others an opportunity.
The first question was from a woman who identified herself as Maya. ‘In the breech presentation, wouldn’t they normally do a caesarean?’
‘That’s right. In this case, I guess they didn’t pick it up until labour was well along, and it was too late. And, as we all saw, it still worked out fine.’
‘I’ve been told I have to have a caesarean unless the baby turns. I really wanted a natural birth.’
‘Well, there are risk factors with a natural birth in breech position.’
‘How risky is it?’
‘I can’t give you all the facts and numbers—’
Fortunately, I could. I walked to the whiteboard and, using the red and black markers, showed how the umbilical cord could be crushed in a breech birth, and provided a breakdown of factors contributing to the decision to perform a caesarean section. Heidi stood beside me with her mouth open.