The School for Good Mothers(92)

They whispered, “I love you.”

Tucker told her his address and phone number, his email. She shared hers.

“Come find me,” he said. “We’ll celebrate when this is over.”

The school doesn’t know about that conversation. She is a bad mother for hanging on those words. She is a bad mother for missing him. She is a bad mother for desiring him. She should have known the darkness wouldn’t protect them. She should’ve known the hug wouldn’t look innocent. What will he cost her? Had she never met the man who let his son fall out of a tree, her prognosis might still be fair.



* * *



So far, Linda’s doll is the only one who holds her bird for more than a few seconds. Beth’s doll throws her bird alarming distances. Meryl’s doll stuffs her bird into her mouth. They’re supposed to teach their dolls about community, the necessity of helping others.

“Building good citizens begins at home,” Ms. Khoury says.

Every mention of citizenship fills Frida with rage. She would like to tell the family court judge that her father is the most patriotic American she knows. There were family trips to Lincoln’s birthplace, Lexington and Concord, Colonial Williamsburg. Her father visits the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall whenever he comes to Philadelphia.

“You’ve ruined America for him,” she’d like to say. For her mother too. Perhaps they regret coming here.

Her father used to tell her about circles of responsibilities. First, his wife and daughter and parents. Then, his brother and his brother’s children. Then, his neighbors. Then, his town. His city. Her parents never taught her about altruism, not explicitly. But she saw what they did for their family. For her. How hard they worked. How much they gave.

The school has turned back the clocks. It gets dark at four thirty now. The sky is azure, violet, periwinkle, a gem blue, bluest when it’s about to rain.

When Harriet turns thirty-two months old, Frida marks the day alone, would have marked it with Roxanne. They would have imagined how much Harriet has grown, how much she weighs, what she might be saying, how she feels. Shaping a worldview used to seem like one of the hardest parts of parenting. What will she have left to teach Harriet when she gets home? Why should Harriet trust her?

She used to think she valued loyalty above all else, but during her third trip to talk circle, she betrayed her own mother. Ms. Gibson made them talk about their childhoods. She wanted details. Frida’s behavior, Ms. Gibson said, was that of a damaged person. What made her latch on to Tucker? Only a very troubled woman would choose a man who harmed his child. Ms. Gibson pushed and pushed until Frida told the group about her mother’s miscarriage. The grief she never discussed. How her mother perhaps wasn’t done grieving. How sometimes her mother barely spoke to her or touched her. The times her mother said, “Get out of my sight.”

After a fraught pause, Ms. Gibson said, “Maybe you would have turned out differently if you’d had a sibling. Clearly, you wanted something your mother couldn’t give you.”

Ms. Gibson said her mother should have sought help—seen a therapist, found a support group. Had she been a better mother, she would have taken better care of herself, and thus, been more available to her child.

Frida resisted saying those were American solutions. She hated having her mother analyzed. One small fact of her life being used to explain her character. Now her counselor will know. The social worker will know. The family court judge will know. She’s never even told Gust.

When they finally talked about it, her mother said: “I put it out of my mind. Only you girls these days think and think and think. I didn’t have time to do that. That is a luxury. I couldn’t get emotional. I had to work.”

In class, they’ve made thirty attempts to pick up the bird. Frida tells Emmanuelle about duty. Emmanuelle has a duty to be kind. She has a duty to care.

“Red stuff means the bird is hurting, and what do we do when we see a creature hurting?”

“Help.”

“Good. Who helps? Does Mommy help? Does Emmanuelle help?”

Emmanuelle points to her chest. “Me help. My-self! My-self!” She jumps for emphasis.

“Yourself. Good job. Can you pick up that birdie and bring it to Mommy?”

Emmanuelle walks over to the bird and crouches. She waves, saying, “Hello, bird! Hello! Hello!” She grabs the bird and tosses it at Frida, the first doll to complete the exercise.



* * *



One week remains. Even the mothers who’ve scored only zeros, the ones who’ve spent months in talk circle, believe their judge will give them a second chance. Supposedly they’ll all have their final court dates within a week or two after they leave. They’ll receive their personal clothes on the last morning, their purses and phones. The school will give them each sixty dollars. Buses will drop them off at points around the county. Their social workers and children’s guardians will be contacted. Files and supporting materials will be sent.

Families have changed. Some husbands have filed for divorce. Boyfriends and girlfriends and baby daddies have started new relationships. There have been engagements and pregnancies. Sunday calls are bogged down by logistics. Who is staying with whom, who will pay the legal bills, whether there’s anything left in the bank account, what to tell the children. The mothers look forward to long showers and haircuts, sleeping in their own beds, wearing their own clothes, driving, earning money, having money. Browsing the Internet, going shopping, getting a manicure. Speaking without a script. Seeing their children.