The School for Good Mothers(68)

Roxanne says she’ll die if that lady keeps him.

“You don’t mean that. She’s not going to get him, okay?” Frida warns her to stop. Mothers who voice negative thoughts are placed on a watch list and required to attend extra counseling. Any hints of suicidal ideation are added to their files.

But soon after home video day, the watch list grows. Mothers in love become careless. A couple is caught cuddling in a supply closet. Another is caught holding hands. Weeks earlier, Margaret and Alicia’s foiled escape attempt sent ripples through the other romances. Couples either grew closer or broke up. There are rumors that the school is developing an evening seminar on loneliness. How to manage it. How to avoid it. Why it has no place here, or anywhere, in the life of a mother.



* * *



Inside the warehouse, the drills are combined into obstacle courses. Frida and her classmates now carry their dolls from house to car to house to car. They must run and narrate, run and deliver affection.

Frida’s counselor thinks she doesn’t care anymore. Her best time is third place. The only reason she’s not in fourth is because Meryl started having panic attacks.

“I’m not going to leave my daughter to die in a hot car,” Frida says. “I’d never do that.” And why is the school allowed to torture them? With videos of their own kids?

“Torture is not a word to use lightly,” the counselor says. “We’re putting you in high-pressure scenarios so we can see what kind of mother you are. Most people can be good parents if they have absolutely no stress. We have to know that you can handle conflict. Every day is an obstacle course for a parent.”



* * *



Evaluation day for Unit 3 falls on the first Monday in May. In the warehouse parking lot, Frida, Meryl, Beth, and Linda unbutton their uniforms as low as decency allows and roll up the legs of their jumpsuits. They sit on the ground and lift their faces to the sun.

“I haven’t been this pale since I was a baby,” Linda says.

She begins telling them how she used to sunbathe on her parents’ back porch but pauses when she sees Beth’s legs. Her scars. Linda whistles. She asks when it started. She’s afraid of knives.

Beth says she didn’t use knives, she used razor blades. She now describes her cutting as an act of selfishness. “Had I known the pain I was causing my parents,” Beth begins.

Meryl punches her in the arm. “You don’t have to be fake with us.”

“I’m repenting,” Beth hisses.

Beth spots Frida’s nearly hairless legs and exclaims. Since Frida stopped shaving, her leg hair has become sparse, though she still requests razor and tweezer privileges to manage her underarm stubble and upper lip. She hasn’t cut her hair since November. Her ponytail hangs halfway down her back.

They take turns running their hands up Frida’s calves, cursing the unfair advantages of Asians. Beth and Linda both have thick leg hair. Only Meryl’s legs are shaved. Linda wants to know who she does it for—a man or a woman, a guard or another mom.

“None of your business,” Meryl says.

Beyond the parking lot is more forest. A subdivision. A mall. Big-box stores. The highway is a major truck route. Several FedEx trucks pass. Some for Fresh Direct, UPS. The life in which Frida earned money and purchased goods on the Internet feels as far away as childhood.

She hasn’t spoken to Harriet in nine weeks, doesn’t know how Harriet is behaving with the social worker and child psychologist. It frightens her to think of the counselor interviewing Emmanuelle. There are days when the doll answers no to every question. Harriet was like that too. “No” came before “yeah,” then “yes.” Fifteen other words arrived before Harriet said “Mommy.”

Linda is called into the warehouse. She hugs each of them before going inside, seems genuinely nervous. They wish her luck. “Run like someone is trying to kill you,” Meryl says.

She and Beth choose to pass the time by braiding each other’s hair.

“Frida, come sit with us,” Beth says.

Frida takes her place in front of Beth. Meryl has been nagging her to be nicer, to stop calling Beth a bad influence.

“I’m allowed to have two friends here,” Meryl told her.

As Beth begins braiding, Frida feels soothed. It’s been so long since another adult, a human, touched her head. That night at Will’s, he played with the ends of her hair, compared the texture to paintbrush bristles. Gust used to stroke her head when she had trouble sleeping. She imagines his hands in Susanna’s thick red mane, wonders if he always liked redheads, if she, the mother of his child, was the anomaly, the detour, when all along, he was looking for Susanna. They looked so happy at the birthday party.

They switch. Frida combs through Beth’s sleek hair with her fingers. Beth asks Frida to rub her neck. When she woke up this morning, she couldn’t turn her head. Soon, all three are braiding and massaging each other’s necks and shoulders, sitting one behind the other.

If they were schoolgirls, they’d make clover chains. Frida remembers sitting alone at recess and tying the end of one flowering weed to the head of the next. She’s never felt closer to them. A sisterhood based on shared incompetence. If this were another life, she’d take a picture now. Meryl resting her head on Beth’s shoulder. Beth crinkling her nose. In this light, no one would be able to tell that they’re losing hope. That they’re dangerous women. Women who can’t control themselves. Who don’t know the right way to love.