The Rosie Effect
Page 34
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13
Our three-person household was settling into a regular schedule. After dinner, Rosie went to her office while Gene and I consumed cocktail ingredients.
‘What’s the deal?’ said Gene. ‘You’ve signed up for some sort of assessment?’
‘You were able to deduce that from my conversation?’
‘Only because of my professional knowledge of the subtleties of human discourse. I’m amazed Rosie didn’t grill you harder.’
‘I think her mind is occupied with other matters,’ I said.
‘I think you’re right. So?’
I was in a quandary. My EPDS questioning had absolved Rosie of postnatal depression risk, but her answers had revealed the presence of stress. Should I add to it by telling her the full story, or fail to meet Lydia’s requirement, which in turn would result in an adverse report to the police, possible arrest and incarceration, and hence even greater stress to Rosie?
Gene seemed to offer my only hope. His social skills and manipulative abilities are more sophisticated than mine will ever be. Perhaps he could propose a solution that did not involve telling Rosie or going to jail.
I told him the story of the Playground Incident, reminding him that the sequence of events was initiated by his suggestion. His overall reaction appeared to be one of amusement. I took no consolation from this: in my experience, amusement is often correlated with embarrassment or pain on the part of the person causing it.
Gene poured himself the last of the blue Curaçao. ‘Shit, Don. I’m sorry if I’ve somehow contributed to this, but I can tell you that just turning up with a completed questionnaire isn’t going to work. I can’t see any way out that doesn’t involve telling Rosie or going to jail.’ I could see that he was unhappy with his conclusion: as a scientist he regarded an unsolved problem as a personal insult. He emptied his glass. ‘Got anything else?’
While I visited the coolroom, Gene must have continued to work on the problem.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve got to take this woman—Lydia—at her word. What’s the difference between a social worker and a Rottweiler?’
I was unable to see the relevance of the question, but he answered it himself.
‘The Rottweiler gives you your baby back.’ It was a joke, probably in bad taste, but I understood that we were two buddies who had been drinking and this was the context in which such jokes were told. ‘God, Don, what is this stuff?’
‘Grenadine. It’s non-alcoholic. You require a clear head. And you’re getting distracted. Continue.’
‘So the essence is this: you have to front the social worker and you have to bring Rosie. You can make an excuse—’
‘I could say she was ill due to pregnancy. Highly plausible.’
‘You’re only buying time. You might provoke her into submitting the report anyway. You don’t want to provoke a Rottweiler.’
‘I thought your point was that social workers and Rottweilers are different.’
‘My point was that they are only slightly different.’
Slightly different. The concept prompted an idea.
‘I could hire an actress. To impersonate Rosie.’
‘Sophia Loren.’
‘Isn’t she older?’
‘Joking. Seriously, the problem would be that she wouldn’t know you well enough. I figure that’s what the social worker’s going to be focused on—can this woman handle Don Tillman? Because you’re not—’
I finished his sentence for him ‘—exactly average. Correct. How long do you think it would take to know me adequately?’
‘I’d say six months. Minimum. Sorry Don, but I think telling Rosie is the lesser of two evils.’
I delegated the problem to my subconscious for a further week: Week 9 of Bud’s gestation. The mark on the tile representing his size was now 2.5 centimetres long, and my drawing of his slightly changed shape was more accomplished, due to practice.
The actor idea was attractive, and I found it difficult to abandon. In problem-solving parlance I had become anchored—unable to see alternatives. But Gene was right: there was no time to brief a stranger on my personality to the extent that she could answer probing questions from a professional. In the end, there was only one person who could help me.
I told her the story of the Playground Incident, and the requirement for an assessment. I tried to make it clear that my priority was to avoid causing stress and that the EPDS questionnaire had indicated that Lydia’s fears were unfounded. Nevertheless, I needed to emphasise the risk of not cooperating.
‘We have to show up and be assessed as parents and take her advice or I’m going to be prosecuted, deported and banned from contact with Bud.’ I may have exaggerated slightly, but Gene’s image of a Rottweiler was still in my mind. Martial-arts training did not cover attack dogs.
‘Bitch. She’s got to be way out of line doing this.’
‘She’s a professional who has detected risk factors. Her requirement seems reasonable.’
‘I think you’re being kind. Which is so like you. Anyway, I’m happy to do whatever I can to help.’
This was an incredibly generous response. I had been agonising over whether to proceed with my strategy, but the offer was clear.
‘I need you to impersonate Rosie.’
I interpreted Sonia’s expression as shock. I had not discussed the plan with Gene, but I was aware of his opinion that accountants were skilled at deception. I was relying on it being accurate.
Our three-person household was settling into a regular schedule. After dinner, Rosie went to her office while Gene and I consumed cocktail ingredients.
‘What’s the deal?’ said Gene. ‘You’ve signed up for some sort of assessment?’
‘You were able to deduce that from my conversation?’
‘Only because of my professional knowledge of the subtleties of human discourse. I’m amazed Rosie didn’t grill you harder.’
‘I think her mind is occupied with other matters,’ I said.
‘I think you’re right. So?’
I was in a quandary. My EPDS questioning had absolved Rosie of postnatal depression risk, but her answers had revealed the presence of stress. Should I add to it by telling her the full story, or fail to meet Lydia’s requirement, which in turn would result in an adverse report to the police, possible arrest and incarceration, and hence even greater stress to Rosie?
Gene seemed to offer my only hope. His social skills and manipulative abilities are more sophisticated than mine will ever be. Perhaps he could propose a solution that did not involve telling Rosie or going to jail.
I told him the story of the Playground Incident, reminding him that the sequence of events was initiated by his suggestion. His overall reaction appeared to be one of amusement. I took no consolation from this: in my experience, amusement is often correlated with embarrassment or pain on the part of the person causing it.
Gene poured himself the last of the blue Curaçao. ‘Shit, Don. I’m sorry if I’ve somehow contributed to this, but I can tell you that just turning up with a completed questionnaire isn’t going to work. I can’t see any way out that doesn’t involve telling Rosie or going to jail.’ I could see that he was unhappy with his conclusion: as a scientist he regarded an unsolved problem as a personal insult. He emptied his glass. ‘Got anything else?’
While I visited the coolroom, Gene must have continued to work on the problem.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve got to take this woman—Lydia—at her word. What’s the difference between a social worker and a Rottweiler?’
I was unable to see the relevance of the question, but he answered it himself.
‘The Rottweiler gives you your baby back.’ It was a joke, probably in bad taste, but I understood that we were two buddies who had been drinking and this was the context in which such jokes were told. ‘God, Don, what is this stuff?’
‘Grenadine. It’s non-alcoholic. You require a clear head. And you’re getting distracted. Continue.’
‘So the essence is this: you have to front the social worker and you have to bring Rosie. You can make an excuse—’
‘I could say she was ill due to pregnancy. Highly plausible.’
‘You’re only buying time. You might provoke her into submitting the report anyway. You don’t want to provoke a Rottweiler.’
‘I thought your point was that social workers and Rottweilers are different.’
‘My point was that they are only slightly different.’
Slightly different. The concept prompted an idea.
‘I could hire an actress. To impersonate Rosie.’
‘Sophia Loren.’
‘Isn’t she older?’
‘Joking. Seriously, the problem would be that she wouldn’t know you well enough. I figure that’s what the social worker’s going to be focused on—can this woman handle Don Tillman? Because you’re not—’
I finished his sentence for him ‘—exactly average. Correct. How long do you think it would take to know me adequately?’
‘I’d say six months. Minimum. Sorry Don, but I think telling Rosie is the lesser of two evils.’
I delegated the problem to my subconscious for a further week: Week 9 of Bud’s gestation. The mark on the tile representing his size was now 2.5 centimetres long, and my drawing of his slightly changed shape was more accomplished, due to practice.
The actor idea was attractive, and I found it difficult to abandon. In problem-solving parlance I had become anchored—unable to see alternatives. But Gene was right: there was no time to brief a stranger on my personality to the extent that she could answer probing questions from a professional. In the end, there was only one person who could help me.
I told her the story of the Playground Incident, and the requirement for an assessment. I tried to make it clear that my priority was to avoid causing stress and that the EPDS questionnaire had indicated that Lydia’s fears were unfounded. Nevertheless, I needed to emphasise the risk of not cooperating.
‘We have to show up and be assessed as parents and take her advice or I’m going to be prosecuted, deported and banned from contact with Bud.’ I may have exaggerated slightly, but Gene’s image of a Rottweiler was still in my mind. Martial-arts training did not cover attack dogs.
‘Bitch. She’s got to be way out of line doing this.’
‘She’s a professional who has detected risk factors. Her requirement seems reasonable.’
‘I think you’re being kind. Which is so like you. Anyway, I’m happy to do whatever I can to help.’
This was an incredibly generous response. I had been agonising over whether to proceed with my strategy, but the offer was clear.
‘I need you to impersonate Rosie.’
I interpreted Sonia’s expression as shock. I had not discussed the plan with Gene, but I was aware of his opinion that accountants were skilled at deception. I was relying on it being accurate.
