The School for Good Mothers(21)

She doesn’t tell anyone that her parents have wired her $10,000 for her legal fees, that they’ll send more if she needs it, that they offered to take money from their retirement savings. Their generosity makes her feel even guiltier, unworthy of being their daughter or Harriet’s mother or waking up in the morning.

They sent the money without her asking. Their interview with Ms. Torres was tense. She kept asking them to repeat things, to speak more slowly, as if she couldn’t understand their accents. They said she didn’t talk like a normal person. Her tone was fake friendly, but she was cold like a scientist. She made parenthood sound like fixing a car. The food part, the safety part, the education part, the discipline part, the love part. They told the social worker that Harriet is Frida’s joy. Her bao bei. Her little treasure.

According to her mother, Frida is swallowing bitterness. Chi ku, a phrase Frida hadn’t heard in years. To bear hardships. They used the phrase to describe what her paternal grandmother, her ahma, endured during the Cultural Revolution. Her father sometimes told the story of the night Ahma was almost killed. She was the widow of a landowner. Soldiers came to their village to find her. They made her kneel. Her sons hid beneath the wooden bed in the room that served as their house. That night, both children screamed until they tore their vocal cords. They watched as soldiers put a gun to their mother’s head and threatened to shoot her.

Frida used to feel guilty whenever she heard that story. She felt spoiled and useless. She never learned Ahma’s dialect, could barely say more than hello and good morning to her. She had no way of asking her beloved ahma what happened. But Frida has no gun to her head, no soldier’s boot on her neck. She brought this bitterness on herself.



* * *



The visitation is supposed to begin at five. It’s the end of October, Tuesday night, eight weeks since they took Harriet, nearly six weeks since Frida last held her. The social worker gave them only an hour’s notice.

Frida steps around puddles. Jack-o’-lanterns are waterlogged from last night’s storm. Hurricane season lasts longer now. Fake cobwebs are drooping. Her coworkers have been asking about Harriet’s costume. To one woman, she said lion. To another, she said ladybug.

At 4:58, she spots the social worker getting out of a taxi. She walks over and thanks her for the appointment. She didn’t have time to return home to change. Fortunately, her weight loss is hidden under layers of wool—a gray-and-black-striped sweater dress, a purple scarf coiled high to obscure her newly sharp jawline.

The social worker doesn’t apologize for the many cancellations. She doesn’t apologize for interfering with Harriet’s evening routine. They chat about traffic and last night’s tornado warning.

Gust and Susanna’s apartment is lit for romance and warmed by the oven and smells of cinnamon. They have a wreath of twigs and dried berries on their door, a bowl of gourds on the dining table.

Frida is alarmed to see that Susanna and the social worker are on hugging terms. With Frida, Susanna’s hug is fierce and unyielding as ever. She kisses Frida on both cheeks, asks how she’s been holding up.

“I’m surviving.” Frida looks over at the social worker to make sure she’s paying attention. “Thank you for taking her to the appointments. I know the schedule has been tough. I want you to know I appreciate—”

“It’s nothing. I’m happy to do it.” Gust is with Harriet in the nursery. “She’s being fussy,” Susanna says. “She only napped for twenty minutes today. We tried to give her dinner early, but she didn’t eat much. You might need to give her something.”

Susanna takes their coats and invites them to sit down. She offers them tea and dessert. She’s made gluten-free apple crumble.

Frida says they don’t have time, but the social worker happily accepts. Ten minutes are lost to sipping and eating and chitchat.

The apple crumble is delicious. Frida eats despite herself. She resents the friendly looks that pass between Susanna and the social worker, the way they’re speaking in shorthand, discussing the jacket Harriet left behind at Ms. Torres’s office, how Susanna should bring a snack for Harriet’s next session with Ms. Goldberg. The social worker compliments Susanna’s paisley silk peasant dress, her gold bracelets.

Susanna says they’ll take Harriet trick-or-treating in West Philly on Thursday. The houses around Clark Park have the best decorations. There’s a children’s parade. A party on Little Osage. Harriet will be Dorothy. They’re going to meet up with Will and some other friends.

At the mention of Will, Frida bristles. She gulps down more tea, scalding the top of her mouth. “You’re going to let her have sugar?”

The social worker sets down her fork and begins taking notes.

“I don’t know about sugar. It’s more for the experience. I wish you could come with us.” Susanna will be the Tin Man. Gust will be the Scarecrow. “It’s too bad…,” she says. “You could have been… Excuse me, Janine. I should go check on them.”

Frida pushes leftover crumble around her ramekin. She licks her fork. Her parents call Susanna the evil egg, the white ghost. When this is over, she’ll ask them how to say whore in Mandarin, and that will be Susanna’s name going forward.

When Harriet appears, only twenty-three minutes remain. Harriet rubs her eyes. There’s a pause before she notices Frida, a split second into which Frida projects her nightmares. The social worker begins filming.