The School for Good Mothers(19)

Harriet hits Frida and scratches her face. Frida grabs Harriet’s wrists. “Look at me. I don’t like that. You do not hit Mommy. We do not hit. You need to apologize.”

Harriet stomps her feet and screams. The social worker inches closer.

“Ms. Torres, could you please sit at the table? You’re making her nervous. You can just zoom in, can’t you?”

The social worker ignores the request. Harriet won’t apologize. She wants more hugging. “C’mon, bub, we need to play. Ms. Torres needs to see us play. Mommy doesn’t have much time left.”

The social worker lowers her camera and sweetens her voice. “Harriet, can we see some playing? Play with your mother, okay?”

Harriet arches her back. She wriggles free from Frida’s grasp. She charges. There’s no time to catch her. Frida watches in horror as Harriet sinks her teeth into the social worker’s forearm.

The social worker yelps. “Ms. Liu, control your child!”

Frida pulls Harriet away. “Apologize to Ms. Torres right now. You never bite. We do not bite anyone.”

Harriet unleashes a stream of gibberish and vitriol. “No no no no no!”

Gust comes to check on them. The social worker informs him of Harriet’s vicious attack.

“Gust, she was nervous,” Frida says.

Gust asks to see the social worker’s arm. He asks if she’s in pain. Harriet has left teeth marks. He apologizes profusely. Harriet never behaves this way. “She’s not a biter,” he says.

He takes Harriet to the couch to have a talk. Frida escapes to the kitchen to get a glass of water for the social worker. She packs a Ziploc bag with ice and wraps it in a towel. She feels mortified but proud. This is her demon child. Her ally. Her protector.

The social worker holds the ice to her injury. No apology is forthcoming from Harriet, despite her parents’ best efforts.

“Ms. Liu, you have five more minutes. Let’s try to finish.”

Frida begs Harriet for one game, but Harriet only wants her father now. She won’t let go of Gust. Every other word is Daddy.

Frida plants herself beside them and looks on helplessly as they play with Harriet’s wooden pony set. Weren’t they allies a moment ago? Is every child as fickle as hers? There are still two more visits. Gust will coach her next time. He’ll explain how much these visits matter. The judge will understand that Harriet is not yet two. He’ll see that Harriet loves her. That Harriet wants to be with her. He’ll see her daughter’s wild heart.





4.


IT’S A HUMID FRIDAY AFTERNOON in late September, six days since she last saw Harriet, nearly three weeks since her very bad day, and Frida is hiding in the ladies’ room at work, listening to the social worker’s maddeningly casual voice mail. Tomorrow morning’s visitation has been postponed. The social worker has double-booked herself.

“It happens,” Ms. Torres says. She’ll call back with a new date and time when something opens up.

Frida plays the message again, thinking she missed an apology that never comes. She smacks her palm on the stall door. All week she’s been using the visit to measure time. The days since Harriet, the days until Harriet. Another hour to win back her baby.

She should have known she’d be punished. When they said goodbye last Saturday, she stole extra time, gave Harriet extra hugs and kisses. She can still feel the social worker gripping her elbow, can still hear the woman saying, “That’s enough, Ms. Liu.”

Once outside, the social worker lectured her about boundaries. The child was clearly ready to say goodbye. The child didn’t want any more hugs.

“You have to recognize the difference between what you want and what she wants,” the social worker said.

Frida’s fists were clenched. Her toes curled inside her shoes. She kept her head bowed, stared at the rosary tattooed on the social worker’s ankle. Had she looked the social worker in the eye, she might have delivered the first punch of her life.

The bathroom door opens. Two students begin gossiping at the sinks. One of them has a date tonight, met someone on that app that matches people by their pheromones.

Frida texts Renee about the cancellation. She wants to call Ms. Torres the sadist that she is, but her communications must be discreet. Tomorrow is off, she writes. Second visitation = ???

There’s nowhere to speak freely. No, Renee said, she shouldn’t buy a burner phone. She shouldn’t set up new email accounts, shouldn’t do research at the library, must watch what she says to her parents or friends or coworkers. Any of them could be questioned.

“You have nothing to hide,” Renee said. “Repeat it back to me, Frida: I have nothing to hide.”

Frida hears lipstick tubes and compacts being opened and closed. The girls discuss the merits of the app that matches people by voice. The one that matches people based on their commuting patterns, mimicking the likelihood of meeting a stranger on the train.

She could laugh. The idea of a normal weekend. She blots her eyes with a piece of toilet paper and returns to her desk.

Whatever relief she felt by coming here has faded, her cubicle simply a different place to miss Harriet and consider her mistakes. If she’d been more solicitous to Ms. Torres. If they’d had several hours, not one. If she’d never gone to Will’s house. If she’d been able to convince Harriet to play. If there had been no tantrum and no bite. If it were just the two of them, without clocks or cameras or that woman telling them to act normal.