The School for Good Mothers(30)

She tears off a handful of pine needles and rubs them between her fingers. She told Will to ask Gust to take extra pictures of Harriet, film extra videos. She needs a record of every single day. So do her parents.

Renee tried to get her parents some phone privileges, but the judge thought that would be too confusing. Seeing the Lius would remind Harriet of Frida, and those reminders would interfere with her recovery.

Frida flops down on one of the Adirondack chairs. Her father loves visiting campuses. Even during trips to Paris and Bologna, they made time to tour at least one university in each city. When they visited this campus, her parents mused about teaching at this kind of college, living in a faculty house. It was a dream world, they said.

She needs to have Gust give them some updates. They’ll be worried sick otherwise. Someone needs to make sure they’re keeping up with their doctor’s appointments and eating enough protein. He needs to remind her mother to take her blood pressure medicine and drink enough water. He needs to remind her father to wear sunscreen.

“Did you feel loved as a child?” the psychologist asked. She feels guilty for telling that man anything about them. She shouldn’t have fought with them when they visited in July, shouldn’t have scolded her father for not fastening Harriet’s diaper tightly enough, shouldn’t have yelled at her mother for breaking the cup holder on Harriet’s stroller.

Frida’s hands are frozen. She has a sore throat. It’s already dark. From far away, the dinner bell rings. Mothers emerge from the stone courtyard, the lacrosse field, the chapel. Some have ventured too far. They migrate toward the dining hall.

By the time Frida reaches the front of the dinner line, there isn’t enough food left. She receives a tiny medallion of pork and three carrots.

Helen waves to her. She’s found the trio of middle-aged white women. “This is my roommate, Frida,” Helen says. “She’s here for neglect and abandonment.”

“Hi, Frida, Hi, Frida,” the mothers say in unison.



* * *



The mothers shower furtively. As they wait their turn, they pass information in whispers. The numbers. Approximately two hundred women. Supposedly, if they get in trouble, they’ll be sent to “talk circle.” Every trip to talk circle will be added to their files.

On Frida’s floor, there are twenty-six women and four shower stalls. Frida tries to feel grateful for her flip-flops, for her toiletries and clean towel and flannel pajamas. There are no flip-flops or pajamas in prison.

The hot water runs out during her turn. She quickly rinses off, dries herself, and dresses, runs her hair under the hand dryers. The next mother screams. Frida leaves before anyone can blame her.

Helen returns to the room in just her towel. She begins applying lotion to every inch of her body, using up half the small bottle. Her breasts resemble deflated tube socks. Her thighs and belly have deep pockets of cellulite.

She catches Frida looking at her breasts and smiles. “Don’t be embarrassed. We’re all the same animal underneath.”

“Sorry,” Frida says. Helen seems like someone who’s spent a lifetime feeling pleased with herself. Her body is soft and ruined and gleaming. She’s still topless when Ms. Gibson knocks on the door.

“Ladies, thirty minutes until lights-out.”

Frida climbs under the covers. At least the blankets are thick, at least she can make herself small and pull the blankets around her so that only her face is showing. She’s hungry, and she thinks that if she makes herself warm and small, perhaps the hunger will dissipate. What little she knows about the lives of saints comes back to her now and she thinks, this year, she might become holy.

Helen beats on her pillows. “You still awake?”

“I’m trying to sleep.”

“Aren’t you curious what the dads are doing? I heard they don’t have uniforms. They can wear their regular clothes.” Helen thinks the fathers probably have fewer guards. Their minders probably don’t wear lab coats. If their minders are female, the lab coats would be too sexually suggestive.

“They probably have better food,” she says. “I bet they’re allowed to keep their kids’ pictures. Or have visitors. They probably don’t have cameras.”

“Everyone has cameras, Helen. Our phones have cameras. Our phones listen to us. Someone might be listening to us right now.”

“Maybe they don’t need cameras if there are only five dads.”

“There are more than five. There have to be more.”

“Doubt it,” Helen says. “What about us? Who do you think will be the first to go?”

“Go like pass?”

“No, drop out.”

Frida rolls over and stares at the wall. She’s been wondering the same thing. Her money is on one of the middle-aged white ladies. Someone is probably placing bets on her. She says that everyone should get their kid back.

“Maybe some of them shouldn’t.”

“Helen, don’t say that. Never say that again. I’d never wish this on anyone. You think anyone deserves to end up here? Shit. I’m sorry. I’m not complaining. Do not tell anyone I said that.”





6.


THE MOTHERS ANNOUNCE THEMSELVES WITH a rustle of fabric. The jumpsuits are huge and sexless and infantilizing, inspiring a chorus of complaints on the way to breakfast. The mothers want better uniforms, more comfortable boots. They want softer towels, extra lotion, different roommates, no roommates, longer showers, curtains on the windows, locks on the doors. They want their children. They want to go home.