And he showed that he’s learned something about America, too.

‘Of course lesbian parents are not average,’ he said. ‘Hence we should not expect average outcomes. But it would seem un-American to seek averageness.’

There was a photo of me, posing with my Santoku cook’s knife as the photographer had requested.

I showed Rosie the newspaper article.

‘You said this?’

‘Of course not. The article is full of ludicrous errors. Typical of science reporting in the popular press.’

‘I meant the quote about not-average outcomes. It sounds like you, but it’s so…’

I waited for her to finish the sentence, but she seemed to be unable to find an adjective to describe my statement.

‘The quote is correct,’ I said. ‘Do you disagree?’

‘No, not at all. I don’t want Bud to be average either.’

I emailed the link to my mother. She insisted on copies of all mentions of me in the press to show our relatives, regardless of accuracy. I included a note that I had not impregnated any lesbians.

‘That’ll explain why we’re flying business class tomorrow and not sitting in Guantanamo Bay,’ said Rosie. ‘They didn’t want a headline saying Hero Surgeon Harassed by TSA for Being Exceptional.’

‘I’m not a surgeon.’

‘No, but you’re exceptional. You were right about the blood and mess phobia. I just had to do it once. We were a good team, right?’

Rosie was right. We had been an excellent team. A team of two.

38

The subway was full of people wearing Santa hats. Had I been acceptable as a father, I would one day have played that role. I would have been required to do all the things my own father had done. He had been an expert at producing non-average gifts and experiences for Michelle, Trevor and me.

I would have had to learn a whole new set of skills and master numerous activities. Based on observations of my parents and of Gene and Claudia, some of the activities would surely have been joint projects with Rosie.

The faculty party was held in a large meeting room. I estimated the number of guests as 120. Only one was unexpected. Lydia!

‘I didn’t realise you were employed by Columbia,’ I said. If she was a colleague, there was surely some further ethical problem with our interactions.

She smiled. ‘I’m with Gene.’

As is usual with these occasions, there was low-quality alcohol, uninteresting snacks and too much noise for productive interaction. Incredible to collect some of the world’s most eminent medical researchers in one place and then dull their faculties with alcohol and drown out their voices with music that they would probably require their children to turn down at home.

It took me only eighteen minutes to consume enough food to eliminate any requirement for dinner. I hoped Rosie had done the same. I was about to find her and suggest we leave when David Borenstein made an amplified announcement from the stage. I could not see Rosie. She might not realise that the commencement of formalities was our signal to depart.

‘It’s been a big year for the College,’ said the Dean. I might as well have been back in Melbourne; the Dean at home would have used the same words. It was always a big year. It had been a big year for me too. With a disastrous ending.

‘There have been some significant achievements,’ the Dean continued, ‘and these will all doubtless be given due recognition in appropriate forums. But tonight I’d like to celebrate a few that may not…’

As the Dean called researchers to the stage to receive applause for achievements in support and teaching, showing poor-quality videos of them at work, I began to feel better. It was not my destiny to raise children directly, but there was every possibility that one day a good father—someone who was making a valuable contribution to his child’s upbringing—would choose not to drink alcohol to excess as a result of a genetic test that indicated he was susceptible to cirrhosis, and would survive to raise his child. That test would be a result of my six years of work breeding mice, getting them drunk and dissecting their livers. Perhaps a lesbian couple would make better and more confident decisions about bringing up their child thanks to the Lesbian Mothers Project of which I was a part. I would have perhaps forty-five to fifty years more to make contributions, to live a worthwhile life.

I was going to miss Rosie. Like Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday, I had been granted an unexpected bonus that was destined to be temporary because of who I was. Paradoxically, happiness had tested me. But I had concluded that being myself, with all my intrinsic flaws, was more important than having the thing I wanted most.

I realised that Gene was standing beside me, jabbing me in the ribs with his elbow.

‘Don,’ he said, ‘are you okay?’

‘Of course.’ My thoughts had blocked out the Dean’s words, but now I focused on them again. This was my world.

‘And, in the same spirit as the Australian Nobel Laureate who swallowed bacteria to demonstrate that it would give him an ulcer, one of our own Australians put himself on the line in the cause of science.’

Behind the Dean, a video recording had appeared on the screen. It was me, on the day I had lain on the floor and allowed a lesbian couple’s baby to crawl over me to determine the effect on its oxytocin. Everyone started laughing.

‘Professor Don Tillman as you’ve never seen him before.’

It was true. I was amazed to see myself. I was obviously happy, far more so than I remembered. I had probably not fully appreciated my emotional state at the time, due to my focus on conducting the experiment correctly. The video went for approximately ninety seconds. I became aware of someone on my other side. It was Rosie. She was gripping my arm hard and crying, profusely.