The School for Good Mothers(15)

“But aren’t all children inherently needy? They are, after all, entirely dependent on caregivers for their survival. I take it you’re letting her watch television?”

Frida finds a tear in her stocking behind the right knee. “There’s some screen time, yes. I let her watch Sesame Street and Mister Rogers. Or Daniel Tiger. I’d rather spend the whole day playing with her, but I have to work. It’s better than sending her to day care. I don’t want strangers taking care of her. I see her so little as it is. If she went to day care, I’d only see her for maybe twelve waking hours a week. That’s not enough.”

“Do you often allow her to play alone?”

“Not often,” she says, straining to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Sometimes she plays on her side of the living room, sometimes she plays next to me. At least we’re together. Isn’t that the most important thing?”

The psychologist scribbles in silence. Before the divorce, she argued with her mother about when she’d return to work, whether she’d work part-time or full-time, whether she’d freelance. They hadn’t sent her to good schools so she could be a stay-at-home mom. The idea of living off Gust’s salary was a fantasy, her mother said.

The psychologist asks whether Frida finds child-rearing overwhelming or stressful. He asks about her drug and alcohol consumption, whether she has a history of substance abuse.

“Ms. Torres’s notes mention depression.”

Frida pulls at the hole in her stocking. How did she forget that they have this strike against her? “I was diagnosed with depression in college.” She grabs her knee to stop her leg from twitching. “But my symptoms were mild. I used to take Zoloft, but I went off it a long time ago. Before we started trying to conceive. I’d never expose my baby to those chemicals.”

Did she relapse? Did she experience postpartum depression or anxiety? Postpartum psychosis? Has she ever considered harming herself or her baby?

“No. Never. My baby healed me.”

“Was she difficult?”

“She was perfect.” This man doesn’t need to know about the first month, those miserable weight checks at the pediatrician’s office, when Harriet was taking too long to get back to her birth weight, when Frida wasn’t producing enough milk. The pediatrician was having her pump after every feeding. How savagely she envied the mothers in the waiting room with their clean hair and well-rested faces. Their breasts were surely overflowing. Their babies’ latches were perfect. Their babies purred with happiness. Harriet never purred with Frida, not even when she was first born. To Frida, Harriet seemed forlorn and not of this earth.

Questioned about physical affection, Frida admits that her parents rarely hugged her or said “I love you” in so many words, but they’ve become more affectionate as they’ve grown older. Chinese families are more reserved. She doesn’t hold it against them. She hasn’t repeated that pattern with Harriet, might hug and kiss Harriet too much.

“Your parents sound withholding.”

“I don’t think that’s fair. Most of the day-to-day childcare was done by my maternal grandmother. My popo. She died twelve years ago. I still think about her all the time. I wish she could have met Harriet. We shared a room for most of my childhood. Popo was extremely affectionate. You have to understand, my parents had demanding careers. They were under serious pressure. Just because they were professors doesn’t mean everything was easy. They weren’t just taking care of us. They were responsible for their parents. And their siblings. They helped everyone get established. Some relatives had debt. My father had ulcers from all the stress. They didn’t have time to hover over me. You can’t judge them by American standards.”

“Ms. Liu, I sense you getting defensive.”

“My parents gave me a good life. They did everything for me. I’m the one who messed up. I don’t want anyone blaming them.”

The psychologist lets the subject drop. They discuss her response to Harriet’s crying, whether she has fun taking care of Harriet, whether she initiates playtime, her use of praise. She answers as she imagines the playground mothers would, describing a life governed by patience and joy, her voice becoming high and girlish. If any of those mothers were in her position, she knows they’d blind themselves or drink bleach.

“You mentioned your husband leaving.”

Frida stiffens. She tells him that she and Gust were together for eight years, married for three, introduced by mutual friends at a dinner party in Crown Heights.

“Gust said he knew right away. It took me a little longer.”

The marriage was fulfilling. Happy. Gust was her best friend. He made her feel safe. She refrains from saying that they used to have more in common, that Gust used to have a sense of humor, that wanting to have his baby is what convinced her to have a baby at all, that he used to be a reasonable person who trusted science and medicine, that later, they fought over a birth plan. Her refusal to consider a homebirth or doula. Her blasé attitude about epidurals.

She explains the timeline of her pregnancy and Harriet’s birth, her discovery of Susanna, the short-lived attempt at reconciliation.

“Harriet was two months old when I found out about the affair. We didn’t get a chance to be a family. I think if Gust had given us a chance—” She looks out the window. “I was waking up three times a night to breastfeed. I’m sorry, is that too intimate?”