The School for Good Mothers(20)

Corrected page proofs were due back to her boss this morning. She spreads the pages out on her desk, checking for errant commas and misspelled faculty names and titles. She used to pride herself on her sharp eye, but now she can barely make sense of the words, couldn’t care less about getting the files to the printer. She needs Gust to apologize on her behalf. Harriet needs to know that her mother is thinking about her every second. This isn’t Mommy’s choice. This isn’t Mommy’s fault. Ms. Torres could have canceled on that other family.



* * *



After dinner, Frida retreats to Harriet’s nursery, as she has every night since the visitation. She faces the camera and kneels in the dark, her mind roaming to the past and future, unwilling to accept the unbearable present. Renee thinks the state should see her atoning. She should work or pray or exercise. She should clean. She shouldn’t watch television or waste time on her computer or phone. She must show them that she’s wrestling with her guilt. The more she suffers, the more she cries, the more they’ll respect her.

The room smells of chemicals. Fake lemon verbena. It doesn’t smell like Harriet anymore, and for that and everything else, Frida is sorry. A few toys faded in the wash. The stuffing in one of the quilts was ruined. She’s polished the crib and rocking chair. She’s cleaned the baseboards and windowsill, washed the walls. Her hands are rough from scrubbing her bathroom and kitchen twice a week, always without gloves, her chapped palms and broken nails like a little hair shirt.

Renee is worried about how the bite will play in court. She’s worried that the social worker didn’t observe any playing. But she plans to say that Harriet was provoked, that Harriet’s response was natural under the circumstances. They’d been apart for many days. Harriet’s routine had been disrupted. She never plays with her mother at Gust and Susanna’s, never on command, never with a timer.

Frida’s legs are falling asleep. She wonders what shapes she should make with her body, whether there’s a person watching her, or only a machine, if they’re looking for certain expressions or postures. She could bow to them, press her palms and forehead to the ground three times, the way her family prayed to Buddha for protection.

Who will protect her now? She hopes the family court judge has feelings, that the judge, if he or she is childless, at least has a cat or dog, something with a soul and a face, that he or she has experienced unconditional love, knows regret. CPS should require this of their employees.

She moves so the camera is seeing her in profile. Her hips hurt. Her lower back hurts. Lately, she’s been trying to remember the beginning. Bringing Harriet to the window in their hospital room and showing her daylight for the first time. Harriet’s rosy skin, newly exposed to the air and beginning to peel. She couldn’t stop touching Harriet’s face, amazed by her daughter’s huge cheeks and Western nose. How had she made a baby with blue eyes? At the beginning, it felt like they were taking care of a benevolent creature, not yet a human. Making a new human felt so grave.

Frida begins to weep. She needs to tell the judge about the house of her mind in the house of her body. Those houses are cleaner now and less afraid. She would never leave Harriet like that, not again.



* * *



The social worker keeps changing the date of the next visitation. September turns to October, and by the fourth postponement, Frida has dropped a dress size. She’s been sleeping four hours a night, sometimes three, sometimes two. She has no appetite. Breakfast is coffee and a handful of almonds. Lunch is a green smoothie. Dinner is an apple and two slices of toast with butter and jam.

She’s seen Will on campus twice, bumped into him once at the bookstore, once at the main food court. She asked him to stop calling, wouldn’t let him hug her in public. Her work is slow and scattered. She sometimes shows up at her desk having obviously been crying in the bathroom. Emotion makes her boss uncomfortable. After another round of late articles, her boss rescinds her work-from-home days. He’s sorry this will mean less time with Harriet, but the organization must come first.

“I don’t want to have to speak to HR,” her boss says.

“It won’t happen again. I promise. There have been…” Problems at home, she wants to say.

She’s thought about looking for another position, has considered quitting, but she needs health insurance. Penn has good benefits. Her father called in favors to help her get this job.

She’s been lying to everyone at work. The professors never ask her personal questions, but the support staff is mostly female, married with children. Convention dictates that they talk about their children at every opportunity. Never How are you?, but How is Tommy? How is Sloan? How is Beverly?

She told them, “Harriet’s new word is bubble.”

“Harriet has been asking to go to the zoo.”

“Harriet is obsessed with butter cookies.”

She doesn’t tell them that Harriet is in therapy. That in the office of some court-appointed child psychologist, Harriet is supposedly being healed. Renee said the child psychologist would probably use a dollhouse, have Harriet act out her feelings with a mama doll and baby doll, have her draw and see how hard she presses down with the crayons. The psychologist would look for signs. There’s a trauma checklist, but everyone responds to trauma differently. To Frida, it sounded an awful lot like guessing.