The Rosie Result Read online

  Rosie laughed. ‘Anyway, it’s a medical model. Not even the only medical model.’

  ‘Correct. And the principal was incorrect. The term Asperger’s is still in use.’

  ‘Not for much longer. It’s going the way of manic depression and dropsy.’ She laughed. ‘I knew that’d be the first thing you looked up. Anyway, I’ve been talking to someone I went to school with who’s got a son with autism.’

  ‘Professionally diagnosed?’

  ‘By a specialist. Anastasios—her son—really struggled, but he had a lot of support and he’s doing way better. He’s at uni and he’s got a partner.’ Rosie made the stop signal. ‘Information. Let’s just take it in for now. And there’s a seminar next Wednesday. We’ll have to miss the play.’

  ‘Already in my calendar. I’ve given the tickets to Laszlo and Frances the Occasional Smoker. Can it still count as date night?’

  7

  Rosie’s discussion with her former schoolmate had yielded useful background information and an exercise to get Hudson to ‘open up’.

  ‘The idea is that we discuss our own school experiences, including a few negative ones,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Listing negative experiences won’t be difficult.’

  ‘It’s not a competition, and we don’t want to paint too dark a picture. And we need to let him find his own way into the conversation.’

  Hudson was highly skilled at finding his way into conversations.

  As it was a Thursday, dinner was crumbed whitefish (flathead), a green vegetable from the approved list (peas) and an acceptable farinaceous component (mashed potatoes with twenty-eight per cent celeriac, which I was gradually increasing to accustom Hudson to the taste). Rosie was a pescatarian and Hudson had a number of aversions. It had been a stimulating challenge to design meals suitable for all of us.

  The solution was the reinstatement of the Standardised Meal System, with variations to make it less obvious. It had been in place five months before Rosie noticed.

  ‘How was school?’ Rosie asked Hudson.

  ‘Fine.’ This was not part of the opening-up exercise; it was a conversational ritual. ‘I finished The Martian. Five stars. It’s about an astronaut. His name is Mark Watkins and the name of his ship is the Ares 3. Before that there was the Ares 1 and…’

  Over the main course, we continued the interesting-number game.

  ‘Sixteen,’ I said. ‘The smallest power of four, other than one.’

  Hudson thought for approximately ten seconds. ‘You can’t say “other than” or I could say, “Seven hundred and ninety-nine, the smallest number other than one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—’

  ‘We get it,’ said Rosie.

  Hudson’s criticism was reasonable and demonstrated an intuitive grasp of proof by induction. I modified my answer. ‘The smallest power of four which is not also a cubic number.’

  ‘What’s a cubic number?’

  I explained, then gave him the next number. ‘Seventeen.’

  He was silent, not eating, for about a minute, then put two thumbs up. ‘Sixteen plus one, so the sum of the first two powers of four.’

  ‘Very neat,’ I said. ‘Rosie’s turn: eighteen.’

  ‘That was how old I was when I left school,’ she said.

  ‘Doesn’t count,’ said Hudson. ‘That’s about you. It has to be about the number.’

  ‘Correct,’ I said. ‘Not accepted.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rosie. ‘The smallest number whose digital root is the same as its largest divisor other than itself. Will that do?’

  Hudson stared at her.

  ‘I’m not just the lady who does the laundry,’ said Rosie. ‘Did you play that game at school, Don?’

  I assumed the response Rosie wanted was ‘yes’ but I’d had no one to play it with at school. ‘No. I played it once at home. With my sister. She was older than me and became a maths teacher, but I still beat her.’

  ‘You played before,’ said Hudson. ‘You know the answers. You never told me you had a sister. Where is she?’

  ‘Dead,’ I said.

  ‘What did she die of?’

  ‘She just got sick,’ said Rosie.

  ‘AIDS,’ said Hudson.

  ‘What?’ said Rosie.

  ‘When people say someone just got sick and died, it’s probably AIDS. Mr Warren’s brother died of AIDS and nobody’s supposed to mention it.’

  ‘You just did,’ I said.

  ‘Which is fine,’ said Rosie. ‘Family is where we can share that sort of stuff.’

  ‘So, what did Dad’s sister die of?’

  ‘Undiagnosed ectopic pregnancy,’ I said.

  The word pregnancy would have terminated my enquiries at Hudson’s age. It appeared that times had not changed.

  Instead, he asked, ‘What was she like?’

  ‘World’s best person…you and Rosie excluded, obviously.’ I had a moment of inspiration. ‘At school, everyone called her Edna.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘An old-lady name, due to her being conservative and wearing glasses.’

  ‘There’s an Edna in The Incredibles,’ said Hudson. ‘Old but okay.’

  ‘I had coffee today with a friend from school,’ said Rosie. ‘They used to call her Miss Piggy.’

  ‘Pretty mean,’ said Hudson. ‘Was she ugly?’

  ‘Your dad would say not conventionally attractive, which is a good way of putting it, because what people think is attractive is not the same everywhere. In some cultures, being overweight is considered attractive.’

  ‘You’re saying that in some countries, Ms Williams would be attractive. No way.’

  ‘Don, you can answer that,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Attractiveness is irrelevant to performing the duties of a principal. Also, as an eleven-year-old, you are not configured to assess attractiveness in middle-aged women. It’s unlikely you would consider the principal for the role of girlfriend.’

  ‘Aaargh,’ said Hudson. ‘Gross.’

  ‘What did they call you at school?’ Rosie asked me.

  ‘Data,’ I said. ‘From Star Trek.’ I added an impression: ‘I remember every fact I am exposed to, sir.’ I could see the kids laughing, probably at me. But it was better than having nothing to say at all.

  Hudson, being a kid, was laughing too, and Rosie took advantage of his lowered defences.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘We’re not allowed nicknames. Counts as bullying.’

  ‘I’m not going to report it,’ said Rosie. ‘Unless you want me to.’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Promise,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Nasty,’ said Hudson. ‘Everyone calls me Nasty. Except Blanche. Can I be excused, please?’

  We arrived early for the autism seminar so that I could introduce Julie to Rosie, who considered unstructured conversation a legitimate research method. Julie saw us arrive and intercepted us.

  Before I could begin my interrogation on the topic of the evening, she asked, ‘Are you still in touch with Gene?’

  ‘No. We’re no longer friends.’

  The falling-out with Gene had occurred in New York, where he had been on sabbatical after separating from his wife, Claudia. During that year, he had established a romantic relationship with an American social worker named Lydia.

  They had invited Rosie and me to drinks, which Rosie refused, on the basis that she needed to wash her hair. Hair-washing was a standard excuse for avoiding Gene, whom she considered a misogynist pig.

  ‘She’s missing out on champagne,’ said Gene when I arrived at his apartment. ‘Lydia and I have a little announcement. Go ahead, Lydia.’

  ‘Gene has asked me to come back to Australia with him. And I’ve accepted.’

  ‘Have you investigated visas?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gene, ‘but in case Lydia wasn’t clear, there shouldn’t be any problem. She’ll be coming as my partner—my life partner.’

  I felt a shock of disappointment. The annou
ncement was the final blow to the possibility of two of my closest friends reconciling. I had privately—and publicly in our men’s group—encouraged him to consider that option. Lydia was a pleasant person, most of the time, but Gene seemed no happier with her than he had been with Claudia.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I said.

  Gene smiled. ‘This is why Don’s my dearest friend. Not afraid to test me, and I assure you he has done so assiduously. And my answer has never wavered.’ He lifted his glass in a toast.

  ‘I think that question is for me, too,’ said Lydia, incorrectly but usefully. ‘I have had my moments. Gene’s made mistakes in the past, but we’ve had full disclosure and he’s making a fresh start.’

  ‘Full disclosure?’ I said. ‘Incredible.’

  ‘He’s told me everything.’

  ‘Including the map?’

  Lydia looked at Gene. Despite my incompetence at interpreting expressions, I knew instantly what hers meant. What map? She confirmed it by saying, ‘What’—unnaturally long pause—‘map?’

  Gene hesitated, and Lydia looked at me. ‘Tell me, Don.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Gene. ‘You know Claudia and I had an open marriage. I had a little game, keeping a tally of the women I’d…been with. By nationality.’

  ‘You put pins in a map,’ said Lydia. ‘Didn’t you? And you hung it in a public place. Your office. Am I right?’ It was an impressive demonstration of her understanding of Gene, and in other circumstances it might have strengthened their relationship. But it was obvious Lydia was not happy.

  Fortunately—I thought at the time—I was in a position to make amends. Gene had revealed to our men’s group that his entire history of encounters with women had been a fabrication.

  ‘He was just showing off,’ I said. ‘He’s only actually had sex with five women other than Claudia.’ I realised the information was out of date. ‘Plus you, presumably.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Lydia.

  As I considered her response, which seemed inappropriate and even aggressive, I had a flash of insight. I didn’t believe me either. I had believed Gene because it was automatic to trust a friend. But his story was, I now realised, ludicrously unlikely, given the vast evidence to the contrary, including the constant searching for foreign nationals to increase his tally.

  At Gene’s instigation, I had communicated the lower number to his son, Carl, and it had been instrumental in saving the father–son relationship. I realised now what had happened and was so shocked that I blurted it out.

  ‘You lied to me. You manipulated me to convince Carl—because he’d believe me but not you.’

  ‘Yes, Don,’ said Lydia. ‘He lied to you. His best friend. It seems his children don’t trust him either. And nor do I.’

  Gene presumably finished the champagne alone, because I walked out with Lydia.

  There were two outcomes of the event that were continuing to affect my life. I’d had no further contact with Gene. And my position on social skills had changed. I had previously regarded them as unimportant, and still considered them overvalued, but I had to accept that in this case my ineptness had caused terrible damage. Gene and Lydia had generously invited me to celebrate an important moment in their lives. I had responded by destroying their relationship and preventing my best friend from making a new start.

  Once, I would have been unconcerned by Hudson’s delay in acquiring social facility, but now I understood that the deficit might lead to behaviour that he would be ashamed of, such as causing distress to marginalised students.

  It could even get him killed. I had twice had a gun drawn on me by law-enforcement officers—in a New York playground where I was suspected of being a paedophile, and in New Mexico when I exited my vehicle after being pulled over, as recommended in The Naked Ape.

  Julie did not pursue her enquiry about Gene. A crowd was building, largely adults. We had left Hudson with Phil, but I had been hoping to meet some children of his age to make an informal comparison. ‘It’s a support group, so it’s mainly parents and carers,’ said Julie.

  Before Julie excused herself to prepare for her chairperson role, she checked that I had updated her name correctly in my contacts list.

  ‘After two marriages, I decided to go back to my maiden name,’ she said.

  ‘Wise move,’ I said. ‘Stable no matter how many more marriages you have.’

  ‘Sykora,’ said Rosie. ‘Where’s that from?’

  ‘I was born in Czechoslovakia,’ said Julie. ‘Funny thing: I think that was what Gene found most interesting about me.’

  8

  ‘Remember,’ said Rosie, as we selected our seats, ‘we’re not here to debate the diagnosis and treatment of autism, but to get a sense of the community. Are they talking about kids like Hudson? Are those kids benefiting from whatever interventions are happening?’

  ‘You’re suggesting I avoid contributing? What about asking questions?’

  ‘Let’s just keep a low profile,’ said Rosie.

  There were two speakers. One was approximately forty, female, BMI approximately twenty-four, conservatively dressed. I guessed the other was fifteen years younger, with a BMI of thirty and short blond hair dyed partially purple. She was wearing a black T-shirt with the slogan Autistic Lives Matter.

  Julie introduced the older woman as Margot, the mother of a girl with autism. Margot began by expressing solidarity with the autism parents in the audience, and sympathy for their challenges and sacrifices. She thanked Julie for using ‘person-first’ language, rather than calling her daughter ‘autistic’. ‘She’s a girl with autism, but a lot less of it than she started with.’

  Margot’s daughter, who was now sixteen, had failed to develop language skills at the expected age and was diagnosed before her third birthday. After researching treatment options, Margot and her partner engaged professionals to provide intensive therapy. This all seemed rational and uncontroversial, but someone had a question. That person was Rosie.

  ‘You used the word intensive. How many hours a week?’

  ‘About twenty-five.’

  ‘That was in addition to her schoolwork?’

  ‘Yes, once she started school.’

  ‘And for how long?’

  ‘She’s still doing it. And she’s continuing to improve. I’m going to talk about this, but she’s at a mainstream school; she has friends. Yes, it is a lot of work, for her and us, but if you want—’

  ‘How do you motivate a three-year-old? To do all that therapy?’

  ‘The system we use—and I’m going to get to that—has built-in rewards.’

  Black T-shirt leaned into her microphone. ‘And punishments. Remembering that withholding a reward is punishment too. You’re using ABA, right?’

  Julie expanded the acronym: ‘Applied Behaviour Analysis. For those who are new here, it’s widely regarded as the gold standard for autism treatment. But we’re getting—’

  Black T-shirt interrupted. ‘I can’t let that go. Psychologists and parents love it. Of course they do, because that’s who it’s for—not for the kids being trained like puppies.’

  Now we were in Rosie’s area of expertise. Her research project was comparing therapists’ and patients’ perceptions of success in treating bipolar disorder.

  ‘What sort of work is being done to get feedback from the kids?’ she asked. ‘And, Margot, how does your daughter feel about her progress?’

  ‘She’s getting the dog treats, so how can we tell?’ said Black T-shirt. ‘She’s being trained to spend her life seeking approval from others. Ask her how it’s working out when someone uses her fucked-up reward system to abuse her.’

  This was excellent. Rosie’s questions had shifted the discussion from a single, possibly unrepresentative, case study to a discussion of contentious issues, with two opposing views being articulated. Unfortunately, Julie felt obliged to let Margot finish her prepared speech, which reiterated that her daughter had made impressive progress in acqui
ring speech and transitioning into a more socially acceptable person.

  Black T-shirt was introduced as Liz, and she immediately identified herself as both lesbian and autistic.

  ‘I’m not a person with autism any more than I’m a person with lesbianism. I’m lesbian. I’m autistic. When I get a cold, I have a cold; I’m a person with a cold and I want to get rid of it. Medical help appreciated. But being autistic and lesbian—that’s who I am, and I’m not interested in anyone trying to cure me of who I am. If they force me into conversion therapy—because that’s what ABA is—for being lesbian or for being autistic, they’re abusing me. If they do it to a child, they’re abusing that child.’

  Liz continued with a list of things not to say when speaking to autistic people (examples: You seem pretty normal to me or What’s your special talent? or We’re all on the spectrum) and explained the idea of social disability with a brilliant example. Imagine everyone used wheelchairs except you and society was designed to accommodate them. You’d knock your head on door frames and have to ask for a chair at restaurants. I thought of Hudson and the ski boots.

  Julie called for questions. The first came from a male of approximately forty. ‘I know you said not to say it, but you seem pretty normal to me.’ He laughed. Liz did not. ‘I mean, you’re obviously at the high-functioning end of the spectrum. How does what you say relate to—’

  Liz didn’t let him finish. ‘See,’ she said, ‘this happens. I ask you not to say something—I tell you it’s hurtful and insulting—but you treat it as a joke and say it anyway. So, let me say something hurtful and insulting to you. Fuck off. Arsehole.’

  Julie attempted to interject, but Liz raised her hand in a stop sign and spoke over her.

  ‘You didn’t shut him down when he was offensive, so don’t shut me down. But, yeah, some other people might want to know if what I said applies to all autistic people, and it does. Yes, there’s a spectrum, but it’s multidimensional and people’s place on it changes over time. Sometimes because of “treatment”.’ Liz used the air-quotes convention.

  ‘Some days I’m doing well in some areas and not in others, and the next day it’s different. But I’m always autistic. It’s my identity, my permanent way of being, and those of us who can speak out have to do it for those who can’t.’