The Rosie Project

11




Besides Eamonn Hughes, Rosie knew of only two other ‘family friends’ from her mother’s medical graduation class. It struck me as unlikely that someone who had illicit sex with her mother would remain in contact, given the presence of Phil. But there was an evolutionary argument that he would wish to ensure that the carrier of his genes was receiving proper care. Essentially this was Rosie’s argument also.

The first candidate was Dr Peter Enticott, who lived locally. The other, Alan McPhee, had died from prostate cancer, which was good news for Rosie, as, lacking a prostate gland, she could not inherit it. Apparently he had been an oncologist, but had not detected the cancer in himself, a not-uncommon scenario. Humans often fail to see what is close to them and obvious to others.

Fortunately, he had a daughter, with whom Rosie had socialised when she was younger. Rosie arranged a meeting with Natalie in three days’ time, ostensibly to view Natalie’s newborn baby.

I reverted to the normal schedule, but the Father Project kept intruding into my thoughts. I prepared for the DNA collection – I did not want a repeat of the broken cup problem. I also had another altercation with the Dean, as a result of the Flounder Incident.

One of my tasks is to teach genetics to medical students. In the first class of the previous semester, a student, who did not identify himself, had raised his hand shortly after I showed my first slide. The slide is a brilliant and beautiful diagrammatic summary of evolution from single-cell organisms to today’s incredible variety of life. Only my colleagues in the Physics Department can match the extraordinary story that it tells. I cannot comprehend why some people are more interested in the outcome of a football match or the weight of an actress.

This student belonged to another category.

‘Professor Tillman, you used the word “evolved”.’

‘Correct.’

‘I think you should point out that evolution is just a theory.’

This was not the first time I had received a question – or statement – of this kind. I knew from experience that I would not sway the student’s views, which would inevitably be based on religious dogma. I could only ensure that the student was not taken seriously by other trainee doctors.

‘Correct,’ I replied, ‘but your use of the word “just” is misleading. Evolution is a theory supported by overwhelming evidence. Like the germ theory of disease, for example. As a doctor, you will be expected to rely on science. Unless you want to be a faith healer. In which case you are in the wrong course.’

There was some laughter. Faith Healer objected.

‘I’m not talking about faith. I’m talking about creation science.’

There were only a few moans from the class. No doubt many of the students were from cultures where criticism of religion is not well tolerated. Such as ours. I had been forbidden to comment on religion after an earlier incident. But we were discussing science. I could have continued the argument, but I knew better than to be sidetracked by a student. My lectures are precisely timed to fit within fifty minutes.

‘Evolution is a theory,’ I said. ‘There is no other theory of the origins of life with wide acceptance by scientists, or of any utility to medicine. Hence we will assume it in this class.’ I believed I had handled the situation well, but I was annoyed that time had been insufficient to argue the case against the pseudo-science of creationism.

Some weeks later, eating in the University Club, I found a means of making the point succinctly. As I walked to the bar, I noticed one of the members eating a flounder, with its head still in place. After a slightly awkward conversation, I obtained the head and skeleton, which I wrapped and stored in my backpack.

Four days later, I had the class. I located Faith Healer, and asked him a preliminary question. ‘Do you believe that fish were created in their current forms by an intelligent designer?’

He seemed surprised at the question, perhaps because it had been seven weeks since we had suspended the discussion. But he nodded in agreement.

I unwrapped the flounder. It had acquired a strong smell, but medical students should be prepared to deal with unpleasant organic objects in the interests of learning. I indicated the head: ‘Observe that the eyes are not symmetrical.’ In fact the eyes had decomposed, but the location of the eye sockets was quite clear. ‘This is because the flounder evolved from a conventional fish with eyes on opposite sides of the head. One eye slowly migrated around, but just far enough to function effectively. Evolution did not bother to tidy up. But surely an intelligent designer would not have created a fish with this imperfection.’ I gave Faith Healer the fish to enable him to examine it and continued the lecture.

He waited until the beginning of the new teaching year to lodge his complaint.

In my discussion with the Dean, she implied that I had tried to humiliate Faith Healer, whereas my intent had been to advance an argument. Since he had used the term ‘creation science’, with no mention of religion, I made the case that I was not guilty of denigrating religion. I was merely contrasting one theory with another. He was welcome to bring counter-examples to class.

‘Don,’ she said, ‘as usual you haven’t technically broken any rules. But – how can I put it? – if someone told me that a lecturer had brought a dead fish to class and given it to a student who had made a statement of religious faith, I would guess that the lecturer was you. Do you understand where I’m coming from?’

‘You’re saying that I am the person in the faculty most likely to act unconventionally. And you want me to act more conventionally. That seems an unreasonable request to make of a scientist.’

‘I just don’t want you to upset people.’

‘Being upset and complaining because your theory is disproven is unscientific.’

The argument ended, once again, with the Dean being unhappy with me, though I had not broken any rules, and me being reminded that I needed to try harder to ‘fit in’. As I left her office, her personal assistant, Regina, stopped me.

‘I don’t think I have you down for the faculty ball yet, Professor Tillman. I think you’re the only professor who hasn’t bought tickets.’

Riding home, I was aware of a tightness in my chest and realised it was a physical response to the Dean’s advice. I knew that, if I could not ‘fit in’ in a science department of a university, I could not fit in anywhere.

Natalie McPhee, daughter of the late Dr Alan McPhee, potential biological father of Rosie, lived eighteen kilometres from the city, within riding distance, but Rosie decided we should travel by car. I was amazed to find that she drove a red Porsche convertible.

‘It’s Phil’s.’

‘Your “father’s”?’ I did the air quotes.

‘Yeah, he’s in Thailand.’

‘I thought he didn’t like you. But he lent you his car?’

‘That’s the sort of thing he does. No love, just stuff.’

The Porsche would be the perfect vehicle to lend to someone you did not like. It was seventeen years old (thus using old emissions technology), had appalling fuel economy, little leg room, high wind noise and a non-functioning air-conditioning system. Rosie confirmed my guess that it was unreliable and expensive to maintain.

As we arrived at Natalie’s, I realised I had spent the entire journey listing and elaborating on the deficiencies of the vehicle. I had avoided small talk, but had not briefed Rosie on the DNA collection method.

‘Your task is to occupy her in conversation while I collect DNA.’ This would make best use of our respective skills.

It soon became clear that my back-up plan would be necessary. Natalie did not want to drink: she was abstaining from alcohol while breastfeeding her baby, and it was too late for coffee. These were responsible choices, but we would not be able to swab a cup or glass.

I deployed Plan B.

‘Can I see the baby?’

‘He’s asleep,’ she said, ‘so you’ll have to be quiet.’

I stood up and so did she.

‘Just tell me where to go,’ I said.

‘I’ll come with you.’

The more I insisted that I wanted to see the baby alone, the more she objected. We went to its room and, as she had predicted, it was sleeping. This was very annoying, as I had a number of plans that involved collecting DNA in a totally non-invasive way from the baby, who was, of course, also related to Alan McPhee. Unfortunately I had not factored in the mother’s protective instinct. Every time I found a reason to leave the room, Natalie followed me. It was very awkward.

Finally, Rosie excused herself to go to the bathroom. Even if she had known what to do, she could not have visited the baby, as Natalie had positioned herself so that she could see the bedroom door and was checking frequently.

‘Have you heard about the Genographic Project?’ I asked.

She hadn’t and was not interested. She changed the topic.

‘You seem very interested in babies.’

There was surely an opportunity here if I could find a way to exploit it. ‘I’m interested in their behaviour. Without the corrupting influence of a parent present.’

She looked at me strangely. ‘Do you do any stuff with kids? I mean Scouts, church groups …’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s unlikely that I’d be suitable.’

Rosie returned and the baby started crying.

‘Feeding time,’ said Natalie.

‘We should be going,’ said Rosie.

Failure! Social skills had been the problem. With good social skills I could surely have got to the baby.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said as we walked to Phil’s ridiculous vehicle.

‘Don’t be.’ Rosie reached into her handbag and pulled out a wad of hair. ‘I cleaned her hairbrush for her.’

‘We need roots,’ I said. But there was a lot of hair, so it was likely we would find a strand with its root attached.

She reached into her bag again and retrieved a toothbrush. It took me a few moments to realise what this meant.

‘You stole her toothbrush!’

‘There was a spare in the cupboard. It was time for a new one.’

I was shocked at the theft, but we would now almost certainly have a usable sample of DNA. It was difficult not to be impressed by Rosie’s resourcefulness. And if Natalie was not replacing her toothbrush at regular intervals Rosie had done her a favour.

Rosie did not want to analyse the hair or toothbrush immediately. She wanted to collect DNA from the final candidate and test the two samples together. This struck me as illogical. If Natalie’s sample were a match, we would not need to collect further DNA. However, Rosie did not seem to grasp the concept of sequencing tasks to minimise cost and risk.

After the problem with the baby access, we decided to collaborate on the most appropriate approach for Dr Peter Enticott.

‘I’ll tell him I’m thinking about studying medicine,’ she said. Dr Enticott was now in the Medical Faculty at Deakin University.

She would arrange to meet him over coffee, which would provide an opportunity to use the coffee-cup swab procedure that currently had a one hundred per cent failure rate. I thought it unlikely that a barmaid could convince a professor that she had the credentials to study medicine. Rosie seemed insulted by this, and argued that it did not matter in any case. We only had to persuade him to have a drink with us.

A bigger problem was how to present me, as Rosie did not think she could do the job alone. ‘You’re my boyfriend,’ she said. ‘You’ll be financing my studies, so you’re a stakeholder.’ She looked at me hard. ‘You don’t need to overplay it.’

On a Wednesday afternoon, with Gene covering a lecture for me in return for the Asperger’s night, we travelled in Phil’s toy car to Deakin University. I had been there many times before for guest lectures and collaborative research. I even knew some researchers in the Medical Faculty, though not Peter Enticott.

We met him at an outdoor café crowded with medical students back early from the summer break. Rosie was amazing! She spoke intelligently about medicine, and even psychiatry, in which she said she hoped to specialise. She claimed to have an honours degree in behavioural science and postgraduate research experience.

Peter seemed obsessed with the resemblance between Rosie and her mother, which was irrelevant for our purposes. Three times he interrupted Rosie to remind her of their physical similarity, and I wondered if this might indicate some particular bond between him and Rosie’s mother – and hence be a predictor of paternity. I looked, as I had done in Eamonn Hughes’s living room, for any physical similarities between Rosie and her potential father, but could see nothing obvious.

‘That all sounds very positive, Rosie,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t have anything to do with the selection process – at least officially.’ His wording appeared to imply the possibility of unofficial, and hence unethical, assistance. Was this a sign of nepotism and thus a clue that he was Rosie’s father?

‘Your academic background is fine, but you’ll have to do the GAMSAT.’ Peter turned to me. ‘The standard admission test for the MD programme.’

‘I did it last year,’ said Rosie. ‘I got seventy-four.’

Peter looked hugely impressed. ‘You can walk into Harvard with that score. But we take other factors into account here, so, if you do decide to apply, make sure you let me know.’

I hoped he never went for a drink at the Marquess of Queensbury.

A waiter brought the bill. As he went to take Peter’s cup, I automatically put my hand on it to stop him. The waiter looked at me extremely unpleasantly and snatched it away. I watched as he took it to a cart and added it to a tray of crockery.

Peter looked at his phone. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘But now that you’ve made contact, stay in touch.’

As Peter left, I could see the waiter looking towards the cart.

‘You need to distract him,’ I said.

‘Just get the cup,’ said Rosie.

I walked towards the cart. The waiter was watching me but, just as I reached the tray, he snapped his head in Rosie’s direction and began walking quickly towards her. I grabbed the cup.

We met at the car, which was parked some distance away. The walk gave me time to process the fact that I had, under pressure to achieve a goal, been guilty of theft. Should I send a cheque to the café? What was a cup worth? Cups were broken all the time, but by random events. If everyone stole cups, the café would probably become financially non-viable.

‘Did you get the cup?’

I held it up.

‘Is it the right one?’ she said.

I am not good at non-verbal communication, but I believe I managed to convey the fact that while I might be a petty thief I do not make errors of observation.

‘Did you pay the bill?’ I asked.

‘That’s how I distracted him.’

‘By paying the bill?’

‘No, you pay at the counter. I just took off.’

‘We have to go back.’

‘F*ck ’em,’ said Rosie, as we climbed into the Porsche and sped off.

What was happening to me?