“I’m sorry, sweetie. We have to stay here. We have to practice.”
“With Jeremy?”
“Remember, we said bye-bye to Jeremy last night.” They talk about how the fathers won’t be coming back, how Emmanuelle won’t see Jeremy again, not until next year. Frida wants to tell Emmanuelle that he’ll be different then. So will she. They’ll have different names. Different parents. How long until they’re loved?
Emmanuelle doesn’t seem to remember Jeremy’s outburst. The parking lot was full by that point. Every parent was injured. The dolls had been playing peacefully when Jeremy tried to throw a rock. Tucker snatched the rock from Jeremy’s hand just in time. Frida delivered the hug to soothe emotional upset. Tucker delivered the hug to soothe aggression. They talked about kindness and modeled reconciliation. When they hugged, they held each other for too long.
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.”