Claiming Noah by Amanda Ortlepp

something.
    â€˜My husband thinks I have postnatal depression,’ she said.
    The doctor nodded, tapping a pen against the wooden desk. ‘I’m wondering that too. It’s more common than you probably think; it affects around one in seven new mums. Have you had a visit from a child-health nurse yet?’
    â€˜A few weeks ago.’
    â€˜And did she conduct a test called the Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale with you?’
    â€˜I don’t know what it was called. She asked me questions about how happy I was, whether I was sleeping, things like that.’
    â€˜Did you answer it honestly?’
    Catriona hesitated, wondering whether she should lie. The doctor was watching her, waiting for her response.
    â€˜No,’ she said in a small voice.
    The doctor didn’t seemed surprised by Catriona’s admission. She turned to her computer and tapped at the keyboard.
    â€˜Do you mind if I go through it again with you?’ she asked.
    Catriona answered the test with the responses she thought the doctor would expect. She admitted to being anxious and worried for no good reason, and to not coping as well as she used to, but she lied about the extent of it. When asked if she ever thought about harming herself or Sebastian, she said no and tried hard to make it convincing.
    The doctor wrote something illegible on her prescription pad, then tore off the sheet and handed it to Catriona. ‘Get this filled. It’s a prescription for antidepressants.’
    She must have made a face because the doctor said, ‘Don’t get caught up in the stigma of antidepressants, they’re just a way to balance your levels until you don’t need them any more. You’d be surprised how many people take them.’
    Catriona studied the prescription for a moment and then folded it into thirds and put it in a side pocket of her handbag.
    â€˜Have you joined a mothers’ group?’ the doctor asked.
    Catriona grimaced, thinking about stories her friends had told her of their mothers’ groups, where the conversation rarely strayed from birth stories and bodily functions. They had described to her the barely concealed hostility some women displayed when comparing which stage of development their babies had reached. Competitive mothers weren’t something she wanted to deal with right now.
    â€˜I’d rather swallow razor blades,’ she said.
    The doctor laughed as if it wasn’t the first time someone had said that to her. ‘They’re not that bad. I highly recommend you join one. You need some support. It might help you to be around other mothers.’
    â€˜I’ll think about it.’
    â€˜You should. You’ll find that the other mothers are going through exactly the same things you are. It’ll help you to be able to talk to people other than your husband.’
    Catriona started to get up from the chair, relieved that the appointment was over, but then she remembered something the doctor had said and sat back down. ‘What’s the third type? You said there was the baby blues and postnatal depression. What’s the third one?’
    â€˜A condition called postpartum psychosis, or puerperal psychosis. It’s rare, it only affects about one or two in every thousand mothers.’
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜It’s a severe form of depression, usually involving hallucinations and a desire by the mother to harm either themselves or the baby. The treatment methods are more extreme.’
    Catriona felt her hands shake. She wedged them under her thighs so the doctor wouldn’t notice. ‘Like what?’
    â€˜Hospitalisation, usually. And antipsychotic medication.’ The doctor studied Catriona’s face for a few seconds. ‘Are you sure you haven’t had thoughts about harming yourself or your baby?’
    Yes, she had. But how could she admit that to the doctor? How could she tell her that every time she walked past the