The Rosie Effect
Page 44
I waited a few moments for Gene to calm down.
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re about to be a father. And every father is Phil Jarman.’ Gene sat down. ‘Go and get us both a coffee. And then I want to talk to you about the anniversary. Which you’ve planned nothing for, right?’
17
Rosie’s exercise habits were random in the extreme, in violation of The Book. Medical classes were due to resume in two weeks, and now seemed like the ideal time to address the problem. My plan was to insert a workout an hour before she would otherwise have departed for university. She could then travel directly from the exercise venue. As a result of our recently improved proximity to Columbia, the net impact on waking time would be only forty-six minutes.
It all seemed straightforward, but new initiatives require piloting.
I woke Rosie forty-six minutes before her usual time. Her reaction was predictable.
‘What time is it? It’s dark. What’s wrong?’
‘6.44 a.m. It’s only dark because the curtains are closed. The sun rose approximately forty minutes ago and there would have been pre-dawn light prior to that. Nothing is wrong. We’re going to the pool.’
‘What pool?’
‘The indoor swimming pool at the Chelsea Recreation Center on West 25th. You’ll require your bathing costume.’
‘I don’t have a bathing costume. I hate swimming.’
‘You’re Australian. All Australians swim. Almost all.’
‘I’m one of the exceptions. Go by yourself and bring me back a muffin. Or the legal equivalent. I’m feeling a bit better. For this time of the morning.’
I pointed out that Rosie had limited experience of this time of the morning, that she was the person requiring the exercise and that swimming was a recommended form of exercise for pregnant women.
‘Swimming is the recommended form of exercise for everything.’
‘Correct.’
‘So why don’t you do it?’ she said.
‘I don’t like the crowds in the pool. I strongly dislike getting water in my eyes. And putting my head under.’
‘So there you go,’ said Rosie. ‘You can empathise. I won’t make you swim if you don’t make me. In fact, maybe there’s a general rule there.’
I began the Phil Empathy Exercise as I jogged to Columbia, imagining myself in his shoes, a practice also recommended by Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. It was a terrible scenario, but I could not achieve what Gene wanted. I was reaching the conclusion that the exercise would require months, and possibly the intervention of a hypnotist or bartender, when my subconscious took over.
I woke that night from the World’s Worst Nightmare. I was in command of a spaceship, typing instructions at the console. Rosie was in the scout capsule, drifting away from the mother ship, and I couldn’t bring her back. The keyboard was touch-sensitive and my fingers kept making mistakes. My frustration turned to anger and I was unable to function.
I woke up breathing rapidly and reached out. Rosie was still there. I wondered if Phil had similar nightmares and woke to find that the world was exactly as he had dreamed it.
Our first wedding anniversary was on 11 August. This year it was a Sunday. Gene’s instructions were to make a booking at a high-quality restaurant, purchase flowers and acquire a gift made from a material determined by the ordinal year of the anniversary.
‘You’re suggesting I purchase some object every year? For the duration of the marriage?’
‘The two may be related,’ said Gene.
‘Did you do this for Claudia?’
‘You have the opportunity to learn from my mistakes.’
‘Rosie agrees that we don’t require vast quantities of junk.’
‘Claudia said the same thing. I suggest you ignore it and buy something made from paper.’
‘Can it be a consumable? Disposable?’
‘As long as it’s paper. And demonstrates thoughtfulness. You may want to run it past me first. You will run it past me first.’
I began to make plans in accordance with Gene’s instructions, but they were derailed by an envelope that I found on my bathroom-office floor on the Saturday morning, the day before the anniversary. I had the door closed as I was working on the Bud sketch for Week 12; Gene or Rosie must have slipped it under the door rather than risk interrupting some bodily function. There were advantages in combining bathroom and office.
It was an invitation—identifiable by the word Invitation on the front. Inside was a small, thin notebook with a red cover. On the first page, Rosie had written:
Don: I want to give you the maximum surprise without exceeding your tolerance. Turn the pages until you’re happy. The fewer the better. Love, Rosie.
It seemed that the Jarman family had decided to communicate with me via handwritten letters. I turned the page.
Our wedding anniversary is tomorrow. I’m in charge.
I had booked a restaurant, which I would now need to cancel. Already I was being surprised and disrupted by an initiative that was intended to buffer me from these effects.
I was about to turn to the next page when Gene knocked on the door.
‘Are you okay, Don?’
I opened the door and explained the situation.
‘As a man of integrity, you can’t read the whole thing then pretend you haven’t,’ said Gene.
‘My intention is to minimise stress, and then to tell Rosie.’
‘Wrong. Accept the challenge. She’s not going to do anything to hurt you. She just wants to surprise you. Which she will enjoy doing. You’ll enjoy it too if you loosen up a bit.’ Gene snatched the book from me. ‘No choice now.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re about to be a father. And every father is Phil Jarman.’ Gene sat down. ‘Go and get us both a coffee. And then I want to talk to you about the anniversary. Which you’ve planned nothing for, right?’
17
Rosie’s exercise habits were random in the extreme, in violation of The Book. Medical classes were due to resume in two weeks, and now seemed like the ideal time to address the problem. My plan was to insert a workout an hour before she would otherwise have departed for university. She could then travel directly from the exercise venue. As a result of our recently improved proximity to Columbia, the net impact on waking time would be only forty-six minutes.
It all seemed straightforward, but new initiatives require piloting.
I woke Rosie forty-six minutes before her usual time. Her reaction was predictable.
‘What time is it? It’s dark. What’s wrong?’
‘6.44 a.m. It’s only dark because the curtains are closed. The sun rose approximately forty minutes ago and there would have been pre-dawn light prior to that. Nothing is wrong. We’re going to the pool.’
‘What pool?’
‘The indoor swimming pool at the Chelsea Recreation Center on West 25th. You’ll require your bathing costume.’
‘I don’t have a bathing costume. I hate swimming.’
‘You’re Australian. All Australians swim. Almost all.’
‘I’m one of the exceptions. Go by yourself and bring me back a muffin. Or the legal equivalent. I’m feeling a bit better. For this time of the morning.’
I pointed out that Rosie had limited experience of this time of the morning, that she was the person requiring the exercise and that swimming was a recommended form of exercise for pregnant women.
‘Swimming is the recommended form of exercise for everything.’
‘Correct.’
‘So why don’t you do it?’ she said.
‘I don’t like the crowds in the pool. I strongly dislike getting water in my eyes. And putting my head under.’
‘So there you go,’ said Rosie. ‘You can empathise. I won’t make you swim if you don’t make me. In fact, maybe there’s a general rule there.’
I began the Phil Empathy Exercise as I jogged to Columbia, imagining myself in his shoes, a practice also recommended by Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. It was a terrible scenario, but I could not achieve what Gene wanted. I was reaching the conclusion that the exercise would require months, and possibly the intervention of a hypnotist or bartender, when my subconscious took over.
I woke that night from the World’s Worst Nightmare. I was in command of a spaceship, typing instructions at the console. Rosie was in the scout capsule, drifting away from the mother ship, and I couldn’t bring her back. The keyboard was touch-sensitive and my fingers kept making mistakes. My frustration turned to anger and I was unable to function.
I woke up breathing rapidly and reached out. Rosie was still there. I wondered if Phil had similar nightmares and woke to find that the world was exactly as he had dreamed it.
Our first wedding anniversary was on 11 August. This year it was a Sunday. Gene’s instructions were to make a booking at a high-quality restaurant, purchase flowers and acquire a gift made from a material determined by the ordinal year of the anniversary.
‘You’re suggesting I purchase some object every year? For the duration of the marriage?’
‘The two may be related,’ said Gene.
‘Did you do this for Claudia?’
‘You have the opportunity to learn from my mistakes.’
‘Rosie agrees that we don’t require vast quantities of junk.’
‘Claudia said the same thing. I suggest you ignore it and buy something made from paper.’
‘Can it be a consumable? Disposable?’
‘As long as it’s paper. And demonstrates thoughtfulness. You may want to run it past me first. You will run it past me first.’
I began to make plans in accordance with Gene’s instructions, but they were derailed by an envelope that I found on my bathroom-office floor on the Saturday morning, the day before the anniversary. I had the door closed as I was working on the Bud sketch for Week 12; Gene or Rosie must have slipped it under the door rather than risk interrupting some bodily function. There were advantages in combining bathroom and office.
It was an invitation—identifiable by the word Invitation on the front. Inside was a small, thin notebook with a red cover. On the first page, Rosie had written:
Don: I want to give you the maximum surprise without exceeding your tolerance. Turn the pages until you’re happy. The fewer the better. Love, Rosie.
It seemed that the Jarman family had decided to communicate with me via handwritten letters. I turned the page.
Our wedding anniversary is tomorrow. I’m in charge.
I had booked a restaurant, which I would now need to cancel. Already I was being surprised and disrupted by an initiative that was intended to buffer me from these effects.
I was about to turn to the next page when Gene knocked on the door.
‘Are you okay, Don?’
I opened the door and explained the situation.
‘As a man of integrity, you can’t read the whole thing then pretend you haven’t,’ said Gene.
‘My intention is to minimise stress, and then to tell Rosie.’
‘Wrong. Accept the challenge. She’s not going to do anything to hurt you. She just wants to surprise you. Which she will enjoy doing. You’ll enjoy it too if you loosen up a bit.’ Gene snatched the book from me. ‘No choice now.’
