The Rosie Effect
Page 29
‘You were fortunate. Normally we talk about baseball.’
‘Bloody interesting, that stuff about genetics.’
‘Gene is not always technically accurate.’
‘I’ll bet he’s not.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t know what the connection is, but this is the first time I’ve felt like practising for donkey’s years. Reckon your mate’s brought out the alpha male in me.’
‘You’re drumming to annoy Gene?’
‘People pay money for this. You’re getting it for free.’
I could not think of a good counter-argument, but George smiled again.
‘I’ll play a chaser for him and call it a night.’
11
Deceiving Rosie the next morning was not straightforward.
‘What’s going on, Don?’
‘I’m feeling a bit unwell again.’
‘You too?’
‘I might go to the doctor.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you join me on the orange juice wagon? You smelled like a brewery when you came in last night.’
‘It was probably the beer leaking again.’
‘Don, I think we need to talk. I’m not sure you’re coping.’
‘Everything is fine. I’ll be back at work this afternoon. Everything will be back on schedule.’
‘Okay. But I’m just a little bit stressed too. My thesis is a mess.’
‘You need to avoid stress. You still have eight weeks. I recommend talking to Gene. You’re supposed to talk to your supervisor about your thesis.’
‘Right now I need to get the stats sorted, which is not exactly Gene’s thing. It was bad enough having to report to him once a month without him living in the house and knowing I’m in trouble. And getting my husband drunk.’
‘I’m an expert in statistics. What are you using?’
‘You want to help me cheat in front of my supervisor? Anyway, I need to do this myself. I’m just having trouble concentrating. I get something in my head and suddenly my brain’s somewhere else and I have to start again.’
‘You’re sure you’re not getting early-onset Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia?’
‘I’m pregnant. And I’ve got a lot of stuff going on. I walked past the counsellor today and she said, just casually, “I heard the news; any time you want to have a chat.” Shit, I can barely keep my head straight with what I’m doing and she’s talking about something that’s months away.’
‘Presumably the counsellor is an expert—’
‘Don’t. Just leave it for the moment. What did Gene say about moving out? You spoke to him last night, right?’
‘Of course. I’ll speak to him again today.’ Both statements were technically correct. Elaborating would have added to Rosie’s stress.
My second attempt to book an assessment at Bellevue was a disaster. Brendan, the person the senior police officer had referred me to, was on stress leave, joining Rosie and me and presumably much of New York in needing to lower his cortisol to safe levels. There were no other appointments available for eight days. I decided it would be more useful to appear in person, in the expectation that there would be cancellations or no-shows.
The clinic was at approximately the same latitude as our apartment, but on 1st Avenue on the East Side of Manhattan. I used the cross-town bicycle ride to plan my approach and had my speech ready when I arrived at the psychiatric-assessment unit. The sign above the receptionist’s barred window said Check-in.
‘Greetings. My name is Don Tillman and I am a suspected paedophile. I wish to put myself on standby for an assessment.’
She looked up from her paperwork for only a few seconds.
‘We don’t have a waiting list. You need to make an appointment.’
I had prepared for this tactic.
‘Can I speak to your manager?’
‘I’m sorry, she’s not available.’
‘When will she be available?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr—’ She waited as if expecting me to say something, then continued. ‘You really have to make an appointment. Those are the rules. And you need to take your bike outside.’
I restated my case for immediate assessment, this time in detail. It took some time, and she made multiple attempts to interrupt. She finally succeeded. ‘Sir, there are people waiting.’
She was right. I had a growing audience who seemed impressed by my arguments. I addressed my summary to them.
‘Statistically, at some time this morning, there will be a psychologist, supported by taxpayers, drinking coffee and surfing the internet due to failure of a client to keep his or her appointment, while a potential psychopathic paedophile is free to roam the streets of New York City, unassessed—’
‘You’re a paedophile?’ A woman of about thirty, wearing a tracksuit, BMI approximately forty, was asking the question.
‘An accused paedophile. I was arrested in a children’s playground.’
She spoke to the receptionist. ‘Someone oughta see this guy.’ It was clear that she had the support of the other people in the waiting area.
The receptionist scanned a list and picked up the phone. Approximately a minute later she said, ‘Ms Aranda will see you in an hour if you’re prepared to wait.’ She gave me a form to complete. A victory for rationality.
‘I gather you were anxious to talk to someone,’ said Ms Aranda (estimated age forty-five, BMI twenty-two), who introduced herself as Rani. She listened for the forty-one minutes required to explain the events of the previous day. I observed a progressive improvement in her facial expression from frown to smile.
‘Bloody interesting, that stuff about genetics.’
‘Gene is not always technically accurate.’
‘I’ll bet he’s not.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t know what the connection is, but this is the first time I’ve felt like practising for donkey’s years. Reckon your mate’s brought out the alpha male in me.’
‘You’re drumming to annoy Gene?’
‘People pay money for this. You’re getting it for free.’
I could not think of a good counter-argument, but George smiled again.
‘I’ll play a chaser for him and call it a night.’
11
Deceiving Rosie the next morning was not straightforward.
‘What’s going on, Don?’
‘I’m feeling a bit unwell again.’
‘You too?’
‘I might go to the doctor.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you join me on the orange juice wagon? You smelled like a brewery when you came in last night.’
‘It was probably the beer leaking again.’
‘Don, I think we need to talk. I’m not sure you’re coping.’
‘Everything is fine. I’ll be back at work this afternoon. Everything will be back on schedule.’
‘Okay. But I’m just a little bit stressed too. My thesis is a mess.’
‘You need to avoid stress. You still have eight weeks. I recommend talking to Gene. You’re supposed to talk to your supervisor about your thesis.’
‘Right now I need to get the stats sorted, which is not exactly Gene’s thing. It was bad enough having to report to him once a month without him living in the house and knowing I’m in trouble. And getting my husband drunk.’
‘I’m an expert in statistics. What are you using?’
‘You want to help me cheat in front of my supervisor? Anyway, I need to do this myself. I’m just having trouble concentrating. I get something in my head and suddenly my brain’s somewhere else and I have to start again.’
‘You’re sure you’re not getting early-onset Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia?’
‘I’m pregnant. And I’ve got a lot of stuff going on. I walked past the counsellor today and she said, just casually, “I heard the news; any time you want to have a chat.” Shit, I can barely keep my head straight with what I’m doing and she’s talking about something that’s months away.’
‘Presumably the counsellor is an expert—’
‘Don’t. Just leave it for the moment. What did Gene say about moving out? You spoke to him last night, right?’
‘Of course. I’ll speak to him again today.’ Both statements were technically correct. Elaborating would have added to Rosie’s stress.
My second attempt to book an assessment at Bellevue was a disaster. Brendan, the person the senior police officer had referred me to, was on stress leave, joining Rosie and me and presumably much of New York in needing to lower his cortisol to safe levels. There were no other appointments available for eight days. I decided it would be more useful to appear in person, in the expectation that there would be cancellations or no-shows.
The clinic was at approximately the same latitude as our apartment, but on 1st Avenue on the East Side of Manhattan. I used the cross-town bicycle ride to plan my approach and had my speech ready when I arrived at the psychiatric-assessment unit. The sign above the receptionist’s barred window said Check-in.
‘Greetings. My name is Don Tillman and I am a suspected paedophile. I wish to put myself on standby for an assessment.’
She looked up from her paperwork for only a few seconds.
‘We don’t have a waiting list. You need to make an appointment.’
I had prepared for this tactic.
‘Can I speak to your manager?’
‘I’m sorry, she’s not available.’
‘When will she be available?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr—’ She waited as if expecting me to say something, then continued. ‘You really have to make an appointment. Those are the rules. And you need to take your bike outside.’
I restated my case for immediate assessment, this time in detail. It took some time, and she made multiple attempts to interrupt. She finally succeeded. ‘Sir, there are people waiting.’
She was right. I had a growing audience who seemed impressed by my arguments. I addressed my summary to them.
‘Statistically, at some time this morning, there will be a psychologist, supported by taxpayers, drinking coffee and surfing the internet due to failure of a client to keep his or her appointment, while a potential psychopathic paedophile is free to roam the streets of New York City, unassessed—’
‘You’re a paedophile?’ A woman of about thirty, wearing a tracksuit, BMI approximately forty, was asking the question.
‘An accused paedophile. I was arrested in a children’s playground.’
She spoke to the receptionist. ‘Someone oughta see this guy.’ It was clear that she had the support of the other people in the waiting area.
The receptionist scanned a list and picked up the phone. Approximately a minute later she said, ‘Ms Aranda will see you in an hour if you’re prepared to wait.’ She gave me a form to complete. A victory for rationality.
‘I gather you were anxious to talk to someone,’ said Ms Aranda (estimated age forty-five, BMI twenty-two), who introduced herself as Rani. She listened for the forty-one minutes required to explain the events of the previous day. I observed a progressive improvement in her facial expression from frown to smile.
