I took Inge to the lab, without Gene, and introduced her to the alcoholic mice—collectively rather than individually. It is unwise to form attachments to individual mice. Given her attractiveness and nationality, I thought it important to offer a subtle warning. The mice provided an opportunity.
‘Basically, they get drunk, have sex and die. Gene’s life is similar except for his duties as a professor. He may also have some incurable sexually transmissible disease.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Gene is extremely dangerous and should be avoided socially.’
‘He didn’t seem dangerous to me. He seemed very nice.’ Inge was smiling.
‘That’s why he’s dangerous. If he seemed dangerous, he would be less dangerous.’
‘I think he’s lonely here in New York. He told me he’s just arrived. We are in similar situations. There is no rule against me having a drink with him this evening, is there?’
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.