The School for Good Mothers(98)

Will won’t be home until five. He asks if she can wait for Will somewhere in public. What’s her plan for today? Did she get any sleep last night?

“I need to know that you’ll be safe,” he says.

“We can’t talk about this now.” They’ve used up three minutes. She remembers to ask about Henry. Gust tells her that Henry’s bilirubin level is getting better.

She wants to tell Gust that she loves him, give him directions for the next sixteen years, tell him how Harriet should be raised. Today she’s saying goodbye to Gust, too.

She rubs Harriet’s back, out of habit touching the spot where Emmanuelle had her blue knob. Harriet pushes Frida’s hand away.

“My body,” Harriet says, moving from the doorframe to Gust’s leg.

Frida pushes the door closed and tries again. “I hear you saying that’s your body. That’s true. Can you look at me? It’s Mommy. Mommy Frida. I can’t believe how tall you are. Can I give you a hug? I’m so happy to see you, bub. I’ve been waiting to see you. Can I see you?”

Harriet looks up. She remains the most beautiful child Frida has ever seen. Her daughter’s beauty stuns and silences her. They hold hands and stare. Frida feels the social worker’s eyes on them, the weight of the camera and the clock, a year of expectations.

Harriet is tall and lean, about eight inches taller than Emmanuelle. Her face is now heart-shaped. Her eyes look more Chinese. They’ve kept her hair short. It curls around her ears. She’s carrying a Black plastic baby doll with its own bottle. Gust has dressed her in earth tones: a charcoal cardigan with white flowers, a brown jumper, loden-green tights, tiny brown boots.

“Hello, Mommy.” Harriet points to Frida’s bangs. “What happened to your hair?”

Gust and the social worker laugh. Frida can’t believe how clearly Harriet speaks now. If they had more time, if they were alone, they could have real conversations.

“Do you like it?” Frida asks. Harriet nods. She steps toward Frida, holding her arms out. As they hug, Frida feels unsteady. Dazed. She kisses Harriet’s hands, cups her face, looks into her real eyes, strokes her real skin.

Gust tries to leave, but Harriet begs him to stay. Their negotiations use up another five minutes. Gust reminds Harriet what’s going to happen. She’s not going to see Mommy for a long time. Mommy is staying on time-out. They have to say goodbye today.

“No time-out! No! I don’t want to do that!”

Gust kisses Frida on the head, kisses Harriet on the cheek, says he’ll be in the waiting room. The social worker asks Frida and Harriet to move away from the door. She directs them to sit on the couch. Frida holds Harriet on her lap, shifting beneath Harriet’s weight. She’s considerably heavier than Emmanuelle. Between sobs, Harriet asks why today is goodbye.

“Why Mommy on time-out? Why time-out a long time?”

Frida tells Harriet about their life a year ago, how Mommy had a very bad day, how because of her very bad day, she went to a school, where there were lots of mommies and lots of lessons. There were tests that Mommy was supposed to pass.

She kneads Harriet’s hands. “I tried so hard. I want you to know that I tried my best. This wasn’t my decision. I am still your mother. I’ll always be your mother. Those lawyers were calling me your biological mother, but I’m not your biological mother, I’m your mother. Period. It’s not fair—”

“Ms. Liu, please refrain from criticizing the program.”

“My criticism doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” Frida snaps.

“Ms. Liu—”

“Mommy, I feel bad. My tummy hurts. I want a pack-pack.”

The social worker explains that Harriet’s school gives the children ice packs when they get boo-boos. Frida begins sobbing. This is her last chance to make requests, to share secrets, but what secret, what story, would explain her whole life to her daughter?

The instructors would tell her to speak at a higher pitch. They’d tell her she’s hugging for too long and giving too many kisses. She says, “I love you,” over and over.

Harriet says, “I love you too, Mommy.” The sentence Frida has been waiting for. “I love you so much.”

Harriet’s face is nestled against Frida’s neck. They talk about what saying goodbye today means, that goodbye today isn’t goodbye forever, that Harriet will grow tall and strong and smart and brave, and even if Mommy can’t visit, she’ll be thinking of Harriet all the time. Every day. Every second.

Harriet scoots off Frida’s lap and pats the space beside her on the couch. “Mommy, sit right here. Sit right here and let me talk with you.” She shows Frida her doll. “Mommy, say bye-bye to Baby Betty too.”

Frida smiles and says, “Bye-bye, Baby Betty. I love you galaxies, Baby Betty. I love you to the moon and stars.”

“To Jupiter. Love Baby Betty to Jupiter.”

“You remember. Thank you for remembering. I love you to Jupiter. I love Baby Betty to Jupiter.” She holds up her fist and reminds Harriet about aching hearts. They practice the gesture and teach it to Baby Betty. Whenever Harriet is missing Mommy, she can give her heart a squeeze.

“Ten more minutes,” the social worker says.

Frida sets Harriet down and grabs the box of heirlooms. She shows Harriet photos of her grandparents and great-grandparents. They look at a sheet of calligraphy written by Frida’s father when Harriet was a newborn, the individual strokes numbered so that Harriet can learn to write her Chinese name. Liu Tong Yun. Red clouds before snowfall. Vermillion. Her grandmother named her. Frida teaches her how to say it.