The School for Good Mothers(56)

She thinks herself forward and backward. To March, when she’ll speak to Harriet again. To last August, when Harriet was still chubby and hers. She is a bad mother because she hates cooking. She is a bad mother because her knife skills need work. Her grip is hostile.

“A hostile grip will lead to accidents,” Ms. Khoury says, noting the bandages on Frida’s left hand.

Observing Frida quartering grapes, Ms. Khoury shows her how to line up several grapes in a row and use a bigger knife to slice them at the same time, rather than cutting them individually. Frida lines up five grapes on the cutting board, and slices horizontally, then vertically. She collects the grapes into a bowl and hands the bowl to Ms. Khoury for inspection, wondering how much force is required to stab a person dead, what Ms. Khoury would look like with a knife in her neck or stomach, whether she would try, if all of them would try, if there were no cameras and no guards and no daughters.



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Feeding Harriet had never been one of Frida’s primary sources of delight. Gust and Susanna began baby-led weaning at six months. Frida continued to spoon-feed Harriet until ten months, relying heavily on organic food pouches. After they insisted that she was hindering Harriet’s development, she began steaming vegetables, making pasta and eggs, serving solid fruit instead of purees. The laundry doubled. Feedings stretched to a full hour. After each meal, she had to clean up Harriet, then spend another twenty minutes cleaning the high chair and floor.

She tried serving food that was easy to grip, serving the same food she was eating, eating at the same time, scolding Harriet when she dropped food, praising her when she didn’t, not reacting. She bought bowls that adhered to the high-chair tray. She placed food on the tray directly. She took photos of the messy floor and texted them to Gust with a string of question marks. She occasionally resorted to spoon-feeding, darting in with a spoonful of yogurt when Harriet was distracted. But when meals were peaceful, when she stopped to pay attention, she loved watching Harriet eat. Harriet would stare at new food—a piece of cucumber, a raspberry, a bit of doughnut—as if it were a gold coin. Her cheeks jiggled as she chewed.

Back in the classroom, they’re feeding the dolls blue liquid molded into tiny pea-flavored balls. The food, the instructors explain, is made of a different substance than what’s inside the dolls’ cavities, but it’s blue for the sake of consistency.

Each mothering station has a white plastic high chair on top of a circular splat mat. The dolls are wearing bibs. The mothers are wearing gloves and goggles. The dolls don’t have functional digestive systems, but they have taste buds. They’ve been set to a high level of hunger and food curiosity.

One week has been allocated for feeding mastery. Demonstrating with Meryl’s doll, Ms. Khoury places a single pea on the high-chair tray and asks the doll to notice it. “Can you try it? Can you taste it for me?” She tickles the doll’s chin. “Auntie is so proud of you! Children who try new foods are curious and brave. They lead richer, more dynamic lives. Don’t you want to lead a rich, dynamic life?”

Ms. Khoury describes the nutrients contained in peas, the effect of those nutrients on the doll’s growth and development, the work that went into growing the peas and harvesting them and transporting them to this classroom.

“You’re picking it up! You’re opening your mouth. You’re tasting it! Good, good! Taste is one of the five senses! Swallow for Auntie now, yes, swallow, yes yes yes! I’m so proud of you! What a good girl you are! What a fulfilling life you’ll lead!”

She cheers as the doll swallows a single blue pea, then repeats the process. As far as Frida can tell, the ratio is ten minutes of motherese to one pea. It takes the mothers even longer, with a lower success rate.



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Winter is getting to everyone. There’s been a second doll casualty. During outdoor activity time, one of the eleven-year-old-boy dolls ran for the tree line and threw himself against the electrified fence. His silicone skin melted, the burned patches making it look as if he was dipped in acid. His mother was blamed for the suicide. She was charged for the damaged equipment and received a new doll, who, her classmates say, won’t even speak to her. Reunification with her real child seems doubtful.

Frida would like to tell the family court judge that last summer, Harriet’s favorite food was strawberries. She remembers slicing strawberries and handing them to Harriet one piece at a time, Harriet casually dropping the strawberries on the floor, Harriet examining and prodding and mashing every piece of fruit until the juice ran down her arms.

Sometimes she let Harriet sit in her lap while she ate, though that was even messier. Harriet once draped individual noodles on her head like a headband. She loved wiping food in her hair. She ate so much challah bread that Frida called her “the bread monster.”

They haven’t spoken in four weeks. Chinese New Year’s Eve passes, then New Year’s Day. There are no oranges or incense, no Harriet in a padded silk vest. Frida marks the occasion privately, saying prayers for her parents and grandparents, for Harriet. For their health. Their well-being. She adds a prayer for Emmanuelle. The prayer translates as Preserve them.



* * *



The counselor checks Frida for signs of hopelessness and despair. How long has it been since the last call? Five weeks? Ms. Gibson has noticed her, Beth, and Meryl hanging around the computer lab on Sundays.