‘Dave predicted embarrassment. It’s normal.’

But I was conscious that it was unlikely that anyone at Dave’s class had been the catalyst for the public breakup of two best friends and their employment relationship and an unstructured discussion involving most of the participants that violated the promise that the classes would be ‘non-threatening’.

‘Keep executing,’ Dave had said. To extend his baseball analogy, I was in imminent danger of being dropped from the roster. I needed help from the coach: my therapist.

‘I’m not your therapist, Don.’

I intercepted Lydia as she left the clinic at the end of the day. I’d had no success securing an appointment and detected obstruction. She refused my offer of coffee and insisted on returning upstairs to her office. I had come alone.

I told her everything, excluding the Rosie-Sonia substitution. More correctly, I planned to tell her everything, but the description of the Antenatal Uproar, which I commenced with in response to her question ‘What prompted you to come to see me?’, occupied thirty-nine minutes and was not finished when she interrupted. She was laughing. I could not have imagined Lydia laughing, but now she was laughing inappropriately at a situation that had driven my marriage to the brink of disaster.

‘Oh God, breastfeeding nazis. Women whose maids are their best friends. You know what David Sedaris says? None of these women have someone else’s maid as their best friend.’

It was an interesting observation, but not useful in solving my problem.

‘All right,’ said Lydia. ‘We didn’t get off to a very good start, you and I, and that’s partly my issue. We do need people like you. You should know that I cleared you with the police after the first session. The only child you’re a danger to is your own.’

I was shocked. ‘I’m a danger to my own child?’

‘I thought there was a risk. That’s why I used the lever of the police report to see you again. I wanted to make sure you were safe. Report me if you like, but I was doing it for a good reason, and now you’ve come back voluntarily.’ She looked at the clock. ‘Do you want a coffee?’

I almost missed the social signal because it was so unexpected. She wanted to continue the conversation. ‘Yes, please.’

She left me and returned with two coffees.

‘I’m officially finished for the day. I’m an hour past officially finished. But I want to tell you something. It might help to explain a few things.’

Lydia sipped her coffee and I did likewise. It was of the quality I would expect from a university tea-room. I continued drinking it anyway, and Lydia proceeded with her explanation.

‘About a year ago, I lost a patient. She had postpartum psychosis. You know what that is?’

‘Of course. One birth in 600. Frequently no prior history. More common in primagravidae. First births,’ I explained.

‘Thank you for the clarification, Doctor,’ she said. ‘Anyhow, I lost her and the baby. She killed the baby and committed suicide.’

‘You failed to diagnose the psychosis?’

‘I never saw it. The husband didn’t report anything wrong. He was…insensitive, so insensitive he didn’t notice his wife was psychotic.’

‘And you considered me capable of similar insensitivity?’

‘I know you’re trying to do the right thing. But I thought Rosie might be at risk of depression and you wouldn’t pick it up.’

‘Postnatal depression occurs in between ten and fourteen per cent of births. But I’m adept at administering the Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale.’

‘She completed the questionnaire?’

‘I asked her the questions.’

‘Trust me, Don, you’re not adept. But I’ve met Rosie. She’s remarkably robust, probably a result of her early life in Italy. She’s got your number. She obviously loves you, she’s got purpose and structure through her medical studies, she’s worked through her family issues, she’s got a good network of friends.’

It took me a moment to remember she was talking about Sonia.

‘What if she wasn’t studying? And didn’t have friends? And didn’t love me? Surely even the support of an insensitive husband would be better than zero.’

Lydia finished her coffee and stood up. ‘Luckily that’s not the position you’re in. But, paradoxically, having a husband like that is worse than having no supports. He may well keep the woman from taking some positive action by herself. In my opinion—and there’s research to support it—she’d be better off without him.’

29

I spent the next day at work, alone, attempting to deal with the problem generated by Lydia’s observations. I undertook some supplementary research on the desirable attributes of a father.

Non-violence was at the top of the list. My actions had led to arrest and referral to an anti-violence class. My meltdown was virtually indistinguishable from the outbreaks of anger that Jack the Biker had discussed. I did not consider myself a threat to others, but I presumed many violent people would make the same self-assessment.

Drug Use—Lack of. My alcohol consumption, already at the highest daily limit I had been able to find, had risen significantly during the pregnancy. This was doubtless a response to stress. Jack the Biker was right: it probably made me more vulnerable to meltdowns.

Emotional stability. One word. Meltdown.

Sensitivity to Child’s Needs. One word. Empathy. My most serious weakness as a human being.