The Rosie Effect
Page 53
‘A crib? A baby crib?’ Baby crib seemed to be a tautology. My father pointed this out to my mother.
‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘Donald, is this for a friend?’
‘No, no, it’s for Rosie’s baby. Our baby. It requires protection from noise but needs to breathe.’
My mother immediately became hysterical. I should have told her earlier, of course it was relevant, for God’s sake we speak every Sunday, when is it due, your aunt would be excited, is Rosie all right, I hope it’s a girl, I don’t mean that, it just came out, I was thinking of Rosie, girls are easier, do you know what it’s going to be, isn’t it amazing what they can do these days? Vast numbers of questions and observations that eventually occupied an additional eight minutes beyond the time I had scheduled for the discussion with my father. I have learned that tears do not necessarily equate to sadness and, despite my mother being understandably disappointed that we were in New York rather than Melbourne or Shepparton, she seemed pleased with the situation.
I spent almost two weeks with Dewhurst’s Textbook of Obstetrics and Gynaecology (Eighth Edition) and looking at videos available on the internet before deciding that these materials needed to be supplemented with practical experience. It was like reading a book on karate—useful to a point, but not sufficient for combat preparation. Fortunately, as a member of the medical faculty, I was in a position to gain access to hospitals and clinics.
I booked a meeting with David Borenstein in his office.
‘I’d like to deliver a baby.’
The Dean’s expression was difficult to interpret, but ‘enthusiastic’ was not one of the options.
‘Don, when I hired you, I expected some strange requests. So instead of me telling you all the practical and legal reasons why you can’t deliver a baby, how about you tell me why you want to do it?’
I began to explain the need to be ready for any emergency, but the Dean interrupted, laughing.
‘Let me put it like this. The odds of you having to deliver this baby in Manhattan without assistance are quite a bit lower than the odds of you having to do a competent job of raising it once it’s born. Which are 100 per cent. You agree?’
‘Of course. I have a separate sub-project—’
‘I’m sure you do. And you’ve just planted a seed in my mind. How’s Inge doing? How long has she been with you now?’
‘Eleven weeks and two days.’ She had started on the day of the Playground Incident, the day that led to my second meeting with Lydia, the recruitment of Sonia as an actress and my obligation to attend a group for violent men. The day the secrets began.
‘How is she doing?’
‘She’s highly competent. She’s made a significant change to my default position on research assistants.’
‘So maybe it’s time to give you something different to do.’
‘You have another genetics project?’
‘Not exactly. I didn’t bring you here because you’re a mouse-liver expert, or even a genetics expert. I brought you here because you’re a scientist I can trust to care only about the science.’
‘Of course.’
‘Not “of course”. Ninety per cent of scientists have some sort of agenda—whether it’s proving something they believe already or getting funding or a promotion or their name on a paper. These guys are no exception.’
‘Which guys?’
‘The guys I want you to work with. They’re looking at attachment-related hormones and different modes of synchrony with mothers and fathers.’
‘I know zero about this. I don’t even understand the title.’ I did recognise the word ‘attachment’ and remembered Gene’s advice to ‘run a mile’, but I let David continue.
‘That’s fine. The underlying question is: does a baby benefit from having a parent of each gender, as opposed to one parent only, or two women, or two men? What do you think, Don?’
‘I still know zero about the topic. How can I have an opinion?’
‘And that’s why I want you to take the medical school seat on the project. To make sure that the research design and whatever comes out of it are as free of prejudice as you are.’ He smiled. ‘And you’ll get to play with some babies.’
The Dean did not even make an appointment. We walked immediately to the New York Institute of Attachment and Childhood Development, located four blocks from the Dean’s office, where we were greeted by three women.
‘Briony, Brigitte and Belinda: I’d like you to meet Professor Don Tillman.’
‘The B Team,’ I said, making a small joke. Nobody laughed. It was an encouraging sign that they were not inclined to over-recognise patterns, but I mentally registered them as B1, B2 and B3. I had been assigned to the project to provide objectivity and it was important to avoid forming personal relationships with the other researchers.
‘Don’s one of my people,’ the Dean continued. ‘He’s a committed Catholic and a passionate Tea Party supporter.’
‘I hope you’re kidding me,’ said B1. ‘This project has had enough—’
‘I am kidding,’ said David. ‘But it shouldn’t matter. I said Don is one of my people. His personal philosophy won’t affect his judgement.’
‘They’re inseparable. But we won’t have that argument now. If that’s what you want, you could have sent us a computer.’ B1 again. She appeared to be the team leader.
‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘Donald, is this for a friend?’
‘No, no, it’s for Rosie’s baby. Our baby. It requires protection from noise but needs to breathe.’
My mother immediately became hysterical. I should have told her earlier, of course it was relevant, for God’s sake we speak every Sunday, when is it due, your aunt would be excited, is Rosie all right, I hope it’s a girl, I don’t mean that, it just came out, I was thinking of Rosie, girls are easier, do you know what it’s going to be, isn’t it amazing what they can do these days? Vast numbers of questions and observations that eventually occupied an additional eight minutes beyond the time I had scheduled for the discussion with my father. I have learned that tears do not necessarily equate to sadness and, despite my mother being understandably disappointed that we were in New York rather than Melbourne or Shepparton, she seemed pleased with the situation.
I spent almost two weeks with Dewhurst’s Textbook of Obstetrics and Gynaecology (Eighth Edition) and looking at videos available on the internet before deciding that these materials needed to be supplemented with practical experience. It was like reading a book on karate—useful to a point, but not sufficient for combat preparation. Fortunately, as a member of the medical faculty, I was in a position to gain access to hospitals and clinics.
I booked a meeting with David Borenstein in his office.
‘I’d like to deliver a baby.’
The Dean’s expression was difficult to interpret, but ‘enthusiastic’ was not one of the options.
‘Don, when I hired you, I expected some strange requests. So instead of me telling you all the practical and legal reasons why you can’t deliver a baby, how about you tell me why you want to do it?’
I began to explain the need to be ready for any emergency, but the Dean interrupted, laughing.
‘Let me put it like this. The odds of you having to deliver this baby in Manhattan without assistance are quite a bit lower than the odds of you having to do a competent job of raising it once it’s born. Which are 100 per cent. You agree?’
‘Of course. I have a separate sub-project—’
‘I’m sure you do. And you’ve just planted a seed in my mind. How’s Inge doing? How long has she been with you now?’
‘Eleven weeks and two days.’ She had started on the day of the Playground Incident, the day that led to my second meeting with Lydia, the recruitment of Sonia as an actress and my obligation to attend a group for violent men. The day the secrets began.
‘How is she doing?’
‘She’s highly competent. She’s made a significant change to my default position on research assistants.’
‘So maybe it’s time to give you something different to do.’
‘You have another genetics project?’
‘Not exactly. I didn’t bring you here because you’re a mouse-liver expert, or even a genetics expert. I brought you here because you’re a scientist I can trust to care only about the science.’
‘Of course.’
‘Not “of course”. Ninety per cent of scientists have some sort of agenda—whether it’s proving something they believe already or getting funding or a promotion or their name on a paper. These guys are no exception.’
‘Which guys?’
‘The guys I want you to work with. They’re looking at attachment-related hormones and different modes of synchrony with mothers and fathers.’
‘I know zero about this. I don’t even understand the title.’ I did recognise the word ‘attachment’ and remembered Gene’s advice to ‘run a mile’, but I let David continue.
‘That’s fine. The underlying question is: does a baby benefit from having a parent of each gender, as opposed to one parent only, or two women, or two men? What do you think, Don?’
‘I still know zero about the topic. How can I have an opinion?’
‘And that’s why I want you to take the medical school seat on the project. To make sure that the research design and whatever comes out of it are as free of prejudice as you are.’ He smiled. ‘And you’ll get to play with some babies.’
The Dean did not even make an appointment. We walked immediately to the New York Institute of Attachment and Childhood Development, located four blocks from the Dean’s office, where we were greeted by three women.
‘Briony, Brigitte and Belinda: I’d like you to meet Professor Don Tillman.’
‘The B Team,’ I said, making a small joke. Nobody laughed. It was an encouraging sign that they were not inclined to over-recognise patterns, but I mentally registered them as B1, B2 and B3. I had been assigned to the project to provide objectivity and it was important to avoid forming personal relationships with the other researchers.
‘Don’s one of my people,’ the Dean continued. ‘He’s a committed Catholic and a passionate Tea Party supporter.’
‘I hope you’re kidding me,’ said B1. ‘This project has had enough—’
‘I am kidding,’ said David. ‘But it shouldn’t matter. I said Don is one of my people. His personal philosophy won’t affect his judgement.’
‘They’re inseparable. But we won’t have that argument now. If that’s what you want, you could have sent us a computer.’ B1 again. She appeared to be the team leader.
