The School for Good Mothers(27)

Last night, Will kept saying that Harriet won’t remember, that, yes, this year will be horrible, but one day it will be a story. Like Frida went off to war. Like she was kidnapped. He thinks Frida should count down the days until her reunion with Harriet rather than tallying lost time.

“She’ll still be your baby,” he said. “She won’t forget you. Gust and Susanna won’t let that happen.”

They reach a rotunda that houses the college’s old theater. The mothers grumble. They’re freezing and hungry and tired and need to use the bathroom. Guards escort them to the ladies’ room in groups of five.

Frida finds a seat in the second-to-last row of the auditorium. There’s a podium at center stage. Behind it, a huge screen. She overhears someone say they’ll probably have to wear ankle monitors. Another thinks they’ll be identified by number instead of by name. Ms. Gibson seemed to be having way too much fun with the check-in.

Frida has needed to pee for the past hour, but she’ll wait. She crosses her legs and starts tapping her foot, driven by the invisible metronome of Harriet memories and thoughts of the judge’s patronizing tone, worries about her parents’ blood pressure, visions of Susanna with Harriet.

The mother from the bus recognizes Frida and chooses a spot two seats away in the same row. She’s cried off her makeup, looks much younger now. Frida shakes the woman’s hand. “Sorry, I should have said hello earlier.”

“It’s okay. This isn’t camp.”

The woman’s name is April. She has a teenager’s hunched shoulders and a wide, elastic mouth. They make small talk about the freakish cold weather, how stupid they feel for desperately missing their phones.

Talk turns to their missing children. April is from Manayunk. “They caught me spanking my kid at the grocery store. Some old lady followed me to the parking lot and took down my license plate.”

Frida nods. She’s not sure what to say. There might be hidden devices recording them. She doesn’t know anyone who spanks, wants to believe that spanking is worse than leaving, that she’s different, better. But the judge said she’d traumatized Harriet. Harriet’s brain, the judge said, may develop differently because of those two-plus hours alone.

Ms. Gibson enters the auditorium and climbs up to the stage. She taps the microphone. “Testing,” she says. “Testing.”

This morning, they meet the program’s executive director, Ms. Knight, a towering blonde in a beige skirt suit who’s unnaturally tan for November. Ms. Knight removes her jacket, revealing a body that’s been bullied into bone and gristle. She wears her hair long and fluffy, like an aging trophy wife.

The mothers fidget. Ms. Knight’s diamond ring catches the light. She shows them charts that demonstrate the link between bad parenting and juvenile delinquency, bad parenting and school shooters, bad parenting and teen pregnancy, bad parenting and terrorism, not to mention high school and college graduation rates, not to mention expected earnings.

“Fix the home,” she says, “and fix society.”

Training centers are being developed all over the country, Ms. Knight reports, but these two are the first to be operational. This one for mothers, another for fathers across the river. Governor Warren won the first bid. There will be periods next year when the parents will train together. They’re still working out the details for co-ed lessons.

“You’re the lucky ones,” she says. Only a few months ago, they would have been sent to parenting classes. They would have studied an outdated manual. But what good is learning about parenting in the abstract? Bad parents must be transformed from the inside out. The right instincts, the right feelings, the ability to make split-second, safe, nurturing, loving decisions.

“Now, repeat after me: I am a bad mother, but I am learning to be good.”

A slide appears with the phrase in all caps. Pale pink letters on a black background. Frida sinks lower in her seat. April mimes shooting herself in the head.

Ms. Knight cups a hand to her ear. “I can’t hear you, ladies. Let me hear you say it. It’s important that we’re all on the same page.” She speaks slowly, enunciating each word. “I am a bad mother, but I am learning to be good.”

Frida looks to see if others are playing along. This whole year may depend on playing along. Renee said to take a micro rather than macro approach. One day at a time, one week at a time. Closer and closer to Harriet.

Someone behind them says this must be a joke. She calls Ms. Knight “Dictator Barbie.”

Ms. Knight tells them to chant louder. Frida cringes, but eventually, she too mouths the words.

Finally satisfied, Ms. Knight explains the rules of conduct. “You’re expected to treat the state’s property with care. You’ll have to pay for any damaged equipment. Your rooms will be kept clean. You’ll treat your roommates, classmates, and one another with the utmost respect and consideration. With empathy. Empathy is one of the cornerstones of our program.”

She continues. “Drug or alcohol possession, consumption, or smoking will lead to automatic expulsion, and thus, the termination of your parental rights. There will be weekly check-ins with a counselor, who’ll monitor your progress and help you process your feelings. We’re all here for you, ladies. Drug and alcohol support groups will meet each evening after dinner. You’ll have some grooming privileges, as well. We know you still need to feel like yourselves here.”