The Rosie Effect

12

Rosie arrived home before Gene, which gave me the opportunity to screen her for depression. She kissed me on the cheek then took her bag into her study. I followed.

‘How was your week?’ I asked.

‘My week? It’s only Thursday. My day has been okay. Stefan emailed me a tutorial about multiple-regression analysis. Made heaps more sense than the textbook.’

Stefan had been one of Rosie’s fellow PhD students in Melbourne. He had a careless attitude to shaving and had accompanied her to the faculty ball before Rosie and I became a couple. I found him irritating. But the immediate problem was to situate our discussion in the timeframe specified by the EPDS.

‘A single day is a poor indication of your overall happiness. Days vary. A week is a more useful indicator. It’s conventional to say “How was your day?” but more useful to say “How was your week?” We should adopt a new convention.’

Rosie smiled. ‘You could ask me how my day was every day, and then average it out.’

‘Excellent idea. But I need a starting point. So, just for today, how have things been since this time last Thursday? Have things been getting on top of you?’

‘Since you ask—a bit. I’m feeling like crap in the morning. I’m behind with the thesis; there’s Gene; I’ve got the counsellor on my case—I think she’s being wound up by David Borenstein; I’ve got to organise an OBGYN; and the other night I felt that you were sort of putting pressure on me to think about stuff that’s months away. It’s pretty overwhelming.’

I ignored the elaboration that followed the basic quantification: a bit. Not very much.

‘Would you say you’re not coping as well as usual?’

‘I’m okay.’

Zero points.

‘Are the problems causing you to lose sleep?’

‘Did I wake you up again? You know I’m a lousy sleeper.’

From lousy sleeper to lousy sleeper was no change.

It seemed a good point to throw in a random question, unrelated to the EPDS, to disguise my intent.

‘Are you confident of my ability to perform as a father?’

‘Of course, Don. Are you?’

Improvisation was getting me into trouble. I ignored Rosie’s question and moved on.

‘Have you been crying?’

‘I didn’t think you’d noticed. Just last night when it all got on top of me and you were out with Dave. It’s got nothing to do with you not being a good father.’

One occasion only.

‘You’re sad and miserable?’

‘No, I’m coping okay. Just under pressure.’

No. Zero.

‘Anxious and worried for no good reason?’

‘Maybe a little. I think I get it out of perspective sometimes.’ Oddly, given that this was the first answer that indicated some depressive risk, she smiled. The simplest means of quantifying maybe and sometimes was to reduce the score for the question by fifty per cent. One point.

‘Scared and a bit panicky?’

‘Like I said, a little. I’m really pretty okay.’

One point.

‘Possibly you’re blaming yourself unnecessarily for things.’

‘Wow. You’re being remarkably perceptive tonight.’

I decoded her response. She was saying I had got it right—hence yes. Full points.

She stood up and hugged me.

‘Thank you. You’re being really sweet. When we were talking about me taking time off, I thought we weren’t connecting…’

She started crying! A second occasion. But it was a few minutes outside the one-week survey period.

‘Are you looking forward to dinner?’ I asked.

She laughed, an extraordinarily rapid mood swing. ‘As long as it’s not tofu again.’

‘And to the future in general?’

‘More than I was a few minutes ago.’ Another hug, but there was an implication that Rosie had been looking forward to things rather less than she used to over the week, taken as a whole.

The last question was tricky, but I had laid a foundation for enquiry.

‘Have you thought about harming yourself?’ I asked.

‘What?’ She laughed. ‘I’m not going to top myself over multiple regression and some jerk in admin being stuck in the 1950s. Don, you’re hilarious. Go and make dinner.’

I counted this as able to laugh and see the funny side of things, but, considering the full week, there had been some diminution.

Nine points. A score of ten or greater indicated a risk of depression. Lydia was probably right to have been concerned, but the application of science had provided a definitive answer.

As I walked to the kitchen, Rosie called out, ‘Hey, Don. Thanks. I’m feeling a lot better. You surprise me sometimes.’

The following evening, Gene arrived home at 7.38 p.m.

‘You’re late,’ I said.

He checked his watch. ‘Eight minutes.’

‘Correct.’ There would be no impact on the quality of dinner, but my own schedule had now been thrown out. It was frustrating to be the only person in the house affected: Rosie and Gene would barely notice the shift. Having Gene as part of our family significantly increased the chances of such disruption.

Rosie was still in her study. It was a good time to confront Gene.

‘Were you drinking with Inge?’

‘I was. She’s quite charming.’

‘You’re planning to seduce her?’

‘Now, now Don. We’re just two adults free to enjoy each other’s company.’

This was technically true, but there were two reasons I needed to prevent Gene from adding another nationality to his list.

The first was the directive from David Borenstein, which I had been blackmailed into accepting in order to secure Gene’s sabbatical. The Dean’s requirement was that Gene keep his hands off PhD students, but I suspected he would extend it to a twenty-three-year-old researcher, though there is no law against professors having sex with junior researchers or even students, assuming the person is of legal age and the professor is not involved in their assessment.

The second reason was that, if Gene demonstrated celibacy, Claudia might forgive him, and his unfulfilled desire for sex might drive him back to her. I had expected that Gene would be unhappy at the breakup of his marriage and that Rosie and I would be required to console him. To date, I had seen no evidence of unhappiness on Gene’s part. I was faced with another human problem that would not be resolved without action by me.

Over the following week, I attempted to leave the Lydia situation for my subconscious to work on. Creative thinking benefits from an incubation period. On the Saturday evening, after my regular VoIP call to my mother, I initiated another interaction.

Greetings, Claudia.

I typed the message rather than attempting to establish a voice link. It was possible she was with a patient. I was operating at maximum personal empathy level, facilitated by isolation in my bathroom-office, a recent jog and a pink grapefruit margarita that I was still consuming. My schedule was up to date, and the previous night I had drawn the outline of Bud on the tile for Week 7.

Hi, Don. How are you? Claudia typed back.

I had changed my view on social formulas. I now realised that they were actually an advantage for people who found human interaction difficult.

Very well, thank you. How are you?

Fine. Eugenie’s keeping me on my toes, but otherwise good.

We should use audio—more efficient.

This is fine, Claudia typed.

Talking is superior. I can speak faster than I can type.

Let’s stay with text.

How is the weather in Melbourne?

I’m in Sydney. With a friend. A new friend.

You already have vast numbers of friends. Surely you don’t need any more.

This one is special.

Formalities had taken us off track. It was time to get to the point.

You and Gene should get back together.

I appreciate your concern, Don, but it’s a bit late.

Incorrect. You’ve only been apart a short time. You have a vast investment in the relationship. Eugenie and Carl. Gene’s infidelity is irrational; trivial to correct compared with the cost of divorce, marital disruption, potentially finding new partners.

I continued in this vein. One of the advantages of text is that the other person cannot interrupt, and my argument quickly filled several windows. In the meantime a message arrived from Claudia, thanks to the asynchronous capabilities of Skype.

Thanks Don. I really do appreciate your concern. But I have to go. How are you and Rosie?

Fine. Do you want to talk to Gene? I think you should.

Don, I don’t want to be harsh, but I’m a clinical psychologist and you’re not an expert on interpersonal relations. Maybe leave this one to me.

Not harsh. I have a successful marriage and yours has failed. Hence my approach is prima facie more effective.

It was approximately twenty seconds before Claudia’s response came through—the connection was obviously slow.

Maybe. I appreciate you trying. But I have to go. And don’t take your successful marriage for granted.

Claudia’s icon turned orange before I could text a standard goodbye message.

I was not taking my marriage for granted. After a further week of incubating the Lydia Problem, I decided that I could present it to Rosie as an opportunity to receive advice on our parenting. I attempted to introduce the idea over dinner, which of course included Gene, but as I was unable to disclose information about the Playground Incident, my intentions were misinterpreted. Rosie thought my mention of parenting responsibilities was a reference to her taking leave from the medical program.

‘If I was a male student having a baby, we wouldn’t even be having this discussion.’

‘The situation is biologically different,’ I said. ‘For the male, the birth process has minimal impact; he could be working or watching baseball concurrently.’

‘He better not be. Technically, I only need a few days off. You take a week off if you have a sniffle.’

‘To prevent the spread of disease.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know, but it doesn’t change the argument. I just need to find out how much time I can take without having to defer the whole year.’

Gene offered a more compelling, if disturbing, analysis. ‘Rightly or wrongly, if a male student didn’t take time off, the assumption would be that his partner was doing the child care. Are you thinking of Don taking time off?’

‘No, of course I’m not expecting Don to stay home with the baby…’

I had not envisaged baby care, but I had not envisaged much at all about life after Bud’s birth. It seemed that Rosie’s assessment of my abilities as a father was consistent with Lydia’s.

She must have seen my expression. ‘Sorry, Don. I’m just being realistic. I don’t think either of us are thinking of you being the main carer. I told you—I’ll take the baby with me.’

‘It seems unlikely that it would be permitted. Have you spoken to the counsellor?’

‘Not yet.’

I had raised Rosie’s idea of taking Bud to work with the Dean, and he had stated unambiguously that it would not be possible. But again, he recommended not citing the authoritative source of advice.

Rosie addressed Gene. ‘Don can’t take time off anyway. We need an income. Which is why I want to finish this program. So I can have a job and not be dependent on someone else.’

‘Don’s not someone else. He’s your partner. That’s how marriage works.’

‘You would know.’ Rosie, having complimented Gene on his knowledge, then inexplicably apologised. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I just don’t have time to think about it right now.’

It was a good opportunity to raise the Lydia issue.

‘Maybe you need some expert advice.’

‘Stefan’s been helping me,’ Rosie said.

‘With parenthood information?’

‘No, not with parenthood advice. Don, I’ve got about fifty problems in my life at the moment, and none of them is how to look after a baby that’s eight months away.’

‘Thirty-two weeks. Which is closer to seven months. We should prepare in advance. Have an assessment of our suitability as parents. An external audit.’

Rosie laughed. ‘Bit late now.’

Gene also laughed. ‘I think Don is being characteristically methodical. We can’t expect him to take on a new project without research, right Don?’

‘Correct. It would probably require only a short interview. I’ll schedule a date.’

‘I’ve got no problems with you having a talk to someone,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s great that you’re thinking about it. But I can look after myself.’