‘In the baby’s room.’
‘Correct.’
‘Rosie,’ Lydia said, and Sonia glanced at the door before realising that Lydia was speaking to her. ‘You’re comfortable with this?’
Sonia’s response suggested extreme discomfort. She returned to the living room and looked around frantically. I diagnosed panic.
‘I need to use the bathroom. Where’s the bathroom?’ she asked in what was supposed to be her own apartment.
We were standing just outside my bathroom-office. I opened the door for Sonia.
‘There’s a desk in the bathroom,’ said Lydia as Sonia closed the door behind her. I was aware of this. I had not taken it with me to Dave and Sonia’s, as it would have been impractical to carry it on the subway.
We were interrupted by Sonia calling from the bathroom-office. ‘I’ve got a problem.’
‘With the plumbing?’ I asked. The toilet sometimes jammed in flush mode.
‘With my plumbing. Something’s wrong.’
It is socially extremely inappropriate to enter a bathroom containing an unrelated individual of the opposite gender. I was aware of this, but my behaviour was justified by the probability that the problem was related to Sonia’s advanced state of pregnancy. I guessed the onset of labour.
I entered the forbidden zone, and Sonia explained the problem. Her description of the symptoms was unambiguous.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Lydia. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Making a phone call,’ I said. ‘No.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Prolapsed umbilical cord. I’ve called an ambulance. The problem should not require immediate intervention if labour hasn’t commenced.’
‘Oh God,’ said Sonia. ‘I think it has.’
Following my instructions, Lydia assisted Sonia to Rosie’s study, and I once again dragged the mattress from the main bedroom which Rosie had resumed using. I needed space to manoeuvre. Sonia lay on the mattress. I had already specified maximum urgency when I phoned 911, so there was no point in phoning again and adding a load to the system that might delay assistance to other emergencies.
Sonia was extremely agitated, almost hysterical. ‘Oh God, I read about this. The baby’s head crushes the cord and there’s no oxygen, oh shit, shit, shit—’
‘Potentially,’ I said. I attempted to adopt a bedside manner, the exact thing that had dissuaded me from considering medicine as a career. ‘The chances of maternal death are virtually zero. Without intervention, the baby will probably die. However, intervention has been summoned.’
‘What if it doesn’t come? What if it doesn’t come?’
‘I consider myself capable of the necessary intervention. I’ve had significant practice.’ I thought it unnecessary to mention that there had been no prolapsed cord in the birth of Dave the Calf.
‘What practice? What practice?’ Sonia’s hysteria seemed to be causing her to say everything twice.
I reassured her. ‘The procedure is straightforward. I’m going to have to perform an examination.’ I was not looking forward to this: the thought of intimate contact with a human female who was a close friend was causing a wave of revulsion, but I could not be responsible for failing to do everything possible to ensure the survival of the baby. It would be extremely disappointing if Dave and Sonia’s five-year project failed at the final stage. I did my best to imagine Sonia as the mother of Dave the Calf. I would probably have some sort of post-traumatic stress to deal with later.
Lydia was pacing aimlessly. I diagnosed anxiety. ‘Do you know what you’re doing, Don?’ Very poor bedside manner.
‘Of course, of course.’ I was feeling much less sure, but was adhering to the principle of inspiring calm: profess total confidence even at the expense of honesty. I was about to commence the examination when I heard the external door open.
‘Hello? Is that you, Don?’ It was Rosie’s voice. Gene was with her. They stood in the doorway of Rosie’s study. ‘What’s happening?’
I explained the problem. ‘I need to do an examination.’
‘You need to do an examination?’ said Rosie. ‘You’re going to examine her? I don’t think so, Professor. Everybody out. Including you.’ She indicated me.
‘Thank God you got here in time,’ said Lydia to Gene and Rosie.
Rosie evicted us and closed the door. Less than a minute later, she opened it again, exited, and closed it behind her.
‘You’re right,’ she said, speaking in a loud whisper. ‘Oh my God, what are we going to do? I haven’t done obstetrics.’
I attempted to match the volume of her whisper. ‘You’ve done anatomy.’
‘What the fuck use is that? We need someone who knows what to do, right now.’
‘I know what to do.’
‘I’m the medical student, I should know what to do.’
Rosie’s tone indicated a descent into irrationality.
‘They’re sending medical students now?’ said Lydia to Gene. She also sounded panicked.
Sonia was calling out incoherently. Gene had been right about Italian women.
‘I know what to do,’ I said to Rosie again.
‘Bullshit, you’ve got no experience.’
‘Theory will be sufficient. You will need to execute my instructions.’
‘Don, you’re a geneticist: you don’t know anything about obstetrics.’
I did not want to remind Rosie of an incident that had been instrumental in our relationship breakdown, but it was more important that she had confidence in my obstetric knowledge than in my social skills.
‘Heidi the antenatal class convenor was convinced I was an OBGYN.’
I was feeling calm now that I had been relieved of the human-contact aspect. Then I remembered Rosie’s problem with physical medicine.
‘Do you have a problem touching Sonia?’ I said.
‘Not as big a problem as having you do it, Professor. Just tell me what to do.’
Lydia turned to Gene. ‘Can’t you do something? You’re qualified, aren’t you?’
‘Full professor,’ said Gene. ‘New to this city. My wife and I parted company and Columbia made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’ He extended his hand. ‘Gene Barrow.’
I left Gene speaking to Lydia, while I instructed Rosie on the procedure. Essentially, the objective is to keep the baby’s head from putting pressure on the cord, by pushing it back if necessary. It was apparently difficult. Rosie kept saying ‘Fuck,’ which made Sonia hysterical, which in turn caused Rosie to say ‘Fuck’. Meanwhile, I was repeating the information that we were totally competent, which seemed to have a short-term positive effect on Sonia. It would have been easier if we could each have said, in turn, ‘Oh God, it’s going to die,’ ‘Fuck, keep her still,’ and ‘Don’t panic, we’re in control,’ with an instruction to iterate as necessary.
Unfortunately humans are not computers. The intensity of our conversation increased, with Sonia actually screaming and not keeping still, Rosie shouting ‘Oh fuck,’ and me attempting to create calm by lowering the pitch and raising the volume of my
voice. Our verbal efforts were rendered irrelevant when the band started up again.
After no more than ninety seconds, the band stopped. Approximately thirty seconds later, the study door opened. Gene entered, followed by George the Third, the Prince and the remaining Dead Kings, whom I had met in Greenwich Village on the night of the Passing of the Batons. There was also a woman of about twenty (BMI in normal range, no more accurate estimate possible due to overall confusion) and a male of about forty-five, with a camera around his neck. A few seconds later, three uniformed paramedics pushed through the crowd with a stretcher.
‘Are you a doctor?’ one (female, approximately forty, BMI normal range) asked Rosie.
‘Are you?’ said Rosie. I was impressed. Rosie’s emotional state had transformed during the musical performance from panicked to professional.
‘The medical situation is under control,’ I said. I gave the officer a quick briefing.
‘Outstanding work,’ she said. ‘We can take it from here.’ I watched her take over from Rosie. In keeping with the bedside-manner protocol, I advised Sonia of the status.
‘The paramedic appears competent. The chances of your baby’s survival have increased significantly.’
Sonia wanted Rosie and me to ride in the ambulance with her, but one of the other paramedics (male, approximately forty-five, BMI approximately thirty-three) provided further reassurance in a highly professional manner, and Sonia allowed them to carry her to the ambulance. The photographer took photos. The overweight paramedic gave me a card with the hospital location.
Lydia pushed through the crowd to me. ‘You’re not going with her?’
‘I see no reason. The paramedics seem highly competent. My contribution is complete. I plan to drink a glass of beer.’
‘Jeeesus,’ she said. ‘You don’t have any feelings at all.’
I was suddenly angry. I wanted to shake not just Lydia but the whole world of people who do not understand the difference between control of emotion and lack of it, and who make a totally illogical connection between inability to read others’ emotions and inability to experience their own. It was ridiculous to think that the pilot who landed the plane safely on the Hudson River loved his wife any less than the passenger who panicked. I brought the anger under control quickly, but my confidence in Lydia’s qualifications to advise me had been reduced.
Rosie interrupted my thoughts. ‘I’m going to take a shower. Can you clear everybody out?’
I realised I had failed to perform the basic social ritual of introductions, due partly to not knowing some of the people who had arrived. I began by filling in what gaps I could.
‘Lydia, this is George the Third and the Prince, Eddie, Billy, Mr Jimmy. Guys, Lydia is my social worker.’
George introduced the journalist (Sally) and photographer (Enzo) who had been interviewing the Dead Kings about the change in line-up.
‘Who was the lady?’ said George.
‘Dave’s wife.’
‘You’re in shock. You’re dissociating,’ said Lydia to me. ‘Try to take some deep breaths.’
‘Has someone rung Dave?’ said George.
I had forgotten about Dave. He would definitely be interested.
I waited for the Dead Kings and the journalists to leave, then phoned Dave. Lydia walked to the kitchen and filled the kettle. I diagnosed confusion.
Dave seemed panicked. ‘Is Sonia all right?’ he asked.
‘The risk to Sonia was minimal. The danger—’
‘I’m asking you, is Sonia all right?’
I needed to reply to Dave’s question several times. He seemed to have caught the sentence-repetition problem. Obviously my answer did not change, so our dialogue was like a looping error. Finally I managed to force an interrupt and was able to convey details of the hospital. As he did not ask, I did not inform him of the risk to the baby. I drew myself a glass of beer from the beer room. Lydia followed me.
‘Would you like a beer?’ I asked. ‘We have unlimited beer.’
‘Nothing surprises me anymore,’ she said. ‘Actually, I will have one.’
33
When Rosie returned from the shower, changed into clean clothes, Lydia and I were sitting on the sofa.
‘Who are you?’ Rosie asked Lydia. I detected a minor level of aggression.
‘I’m a social worker. Lydia Mercer. I came to see Don and Rosie, and then all this happened.’
‘Don didn’t say anything about it. Is there some issue?’
‘I don’t think it’s something I can discuss with… Did you just take a shower? I thought you were with the ambulance team. The first ambulance team. With the tall professor.’
It was an odd description of Gene, who is five centimetres shorter than I am and hence approximately the same height as Lydia. And Lydia seemed to have confused herself. Why would a professor be included in a paramedical team?
‘Gene left with the band,’ I explained. ‘But he’ll be back. He lives here.’
‘I’m Rosie,’ said Rosie. ‘I live here too. So I hope you don’t have a problem with me using the shower.’
‘Your name’s Rosie?’
‘Is there a problem with that? You just said you came—’
‘No…just a coincidence with Don’s—Don-Dave’s—wife being…Rosie too.’
‘There is no Rosie II,’ I explained. ‘Only the Georges are numbered.’
‘I’m Don’s wife,’ said Rosie. ‘Is that okay with you?’
‘You’re his wife?’ Lydia turned to me. ‘I need to speak to you privately, Don-Dave.’
I assumed Lydia had concluded I had two wives, both named Rosie, both pregnant and living in the same house, and referred to as Rosie I and Rosie II to avoid confusion. This was improbable, but so were the chances of the real situation occurring randomly. Of course it had not. I took a few moments to contemplate its cause. I, Don Tillman, had woven a web of deceit. Incredible. Fortunately there was no longer any purpose in deception. And Lydia could now provide advice based on her assessment of the real Rosie.
‘No privacy is required,’ I said.
I began to tell them both the story. In detail. I refilled Lydia’s glass and then mine and also drew a glass for Rosie, which I justified on the basis of three facts:
1. Her pregnancy was in the third trimester, where the risk of damage to the foetus from small quantities of alcohol was minimal as shown by research previously cited by Rosie.
2. English ale has a lower alcohol content than American or Australian lager.
3. Rosie said, ‘I need a drink,’ with an expression that indicated something bad would happen if this need was not met.
Approximately twenty minutes into the story, when Rosie was interspersing her usual requests for ‘overview’ and ‘cutting to the chase’ with profane expressions of astonishment, Gene returned.
‘You might as well join us,’ said Lydia. ‘What sort of professor are you?’
‘I’m the head of the Department of Psychology at Australia’s highest-ranked university, currently undertaking research at Columbia.’ Gene’s statement was co
rrect, but did not actually answer the question, which could have been responded to precisely and accurately with a single word: Genetics. And I was the one being accused of unnecessary detail.
‘Well,’ said Lydia, ‘it’s nice to have some professional support. Let me summarise what Don’s told us, which so far is not news to me. But apparently it is to this Rosie.’
‘Not necessary,’ I said. ‘Gene is familiar with the Playground Incident and the requirement for psychological assessment.’
Rosie looked at Gene. She did not appear happy.
‘Sworn to secrecy,’ he said. ‘Don didn’t want to upset you.’
I continued the story. ‘So then I asked Sonia to impersonate Rosie.’
I had not told Gene this part. I had allowed him to think that the pending charges had been dropped after the first meeting with Lydia. Another component of the web of deceit.
The reactions of Rosie, Gene and Lydia varied in intensity and detail, but were all variants of ‘You did what?’
‘Wait, wait, wait,’ said Lydia. ‘You’re saying she’—she pointed at Rosie—‘is your wife? Rosie is Rosie?’
This question could be answered with zero contextual knowledge. It was the simplest of tautologies and the fact that it was asked at all was an indicator of Lydia’s confusion. Rosie had also stated explicitly that she was my wife.
Gene took the opportunity to make some sort of witticism.
‘A Rosie is a Rosie is a Rosie,’ he said.
I tried to help. ‘There is only one Rosie relevant to this story. She has red hair. She is my wife. I have exactly one wife. This is her.’
‘Who’s Sonia, then?’ asked Lydia.
This was easy. ‘You’ve met Sonia. She’s currently delivering a baby.’
‘No. Who is she? You recruited some Italian village girl…’
‘She’s Dave’s wife.’