In class, it’s Goodbye Day, one last day of playing and bonding before the dolls are switched off. Frida and Beth get in trouble for crying and upsetting their dolls. Meryl’s doll remains in the equipment room. She looked forlorn as the others exited without her.
“Why she there?” Emmanuelle asks. “Where Mommy Meryl?”
Frida tells Emmanuelle about time and maturity and impulses. Mommy Meryl was very young. She was still learning how to make good decisions. She wasn’t thinking about how sad she’d make everyone. Sometimes people do things because that thing will make them feel good in the moment. Because they just want to feel better.
At breakfast, they learned that Meryl jumped from the bell tower. Emmanuelle presses on Frida’s brow and says, “No sad, Mommy. You happy.”
They talk about why Mommy’s voice sounds scratchy. Frida explains that she felt big feelings yesterday. Sometimes when mommies feel big feelings, they get very loud.
They lie side by side on their stomachs, inching a rainbow snake along a pretend road. As they play, Frida asks, “Do you love me?”
Emmanuelle nods.
“Have I been a good mommy to you?”
Emmanuelle pokes Frida’s cheek. “You okay.”
Frida should thank Emmanuelle for her suffering, for becoming real enough. She tucks the doll’s hair behind her ears, memorizing the curve of her eyebrows, her freckles. The next mother needs to keep her safe. She needs to protect Emmanuelle from the instructors and other dolls. She can’t let Emmanuelle get hit. She should know that Emmanuelle prefers carrots to peas. She should find Jeremy and allow the dolls to spend time together.
They play all morning, stop for lunch, then continue. In the late afternoon, the mothers are photographed with their dolls. They pose at the dry-erase board, at the window, in front of the equipment room door.
Ms. Khoury hands Frida the stack of Polaroids. “Show them to her. She’ll enjoy them.”
They spread the photos on the rug and watch their faces emerge. Frida hasn’t seen a photograph of herself in a year. Emmanuelle perhaps never. There are six Polaroids. Frida is blinking in five of them. Her face is tiny. Her hair is more gray than black. Her features are washed-out. Emmanuelle’s features are vivid, her expression delighted. The love between them is obvious.
“Let me see,” Emmanuelle says. “Again! Again!” She leaves fingerprints all over the pictures.
At the end of the day, the dolls know something is amiss. It’s time to return the photos. Time to say goodbye. Linda’s doll throws herself on the floor. Beth’s doll has an accident.
Frida sees Linda slip a photo into her sleeve as Ms. Khoury finds Beth some wipes.
Ms. Russo is busy typing on her tablet. Ms. Khoury takes the photos back from Linda without counting them. When Ms. Khoury approaches her, Frida returns five photos. The one with her eyes open, she pockets.
Ms. Russo tells the mothers to deliver their final hugs.
Frida holds Emmanuelle around the shoulders, resting her chin on the doll’s head. She’ll commit Emmanuelle’s scent to memory. She’ll remember her clicks.
Emmanuelle digs in her pocket. She still has the coin from evaluation day.
“Mommy basket,” she says. “Tiny basket.” She drops the coin into Frida’s hand and says, “Be well.”
Frida begins to cry. She holds Emmanuelle again and thanks her. She tells Emmanuelle that the equipment room isn’t an equipment room. It’s a forest with a castle. She’s going to sleep a special sleep. Like that story about the princess under glass.
Emmanuelle pouts. “Mommy, don’t want sleep. Not tired.”
Linda’s and Beth’s dolls are already inside, with Meryl’s.
Frida doesn’t say, “Goodbye.” She gives Emmanuelle a final kiss and says, “I love you, baby. I’ll miss you.”
Ms. Russo leads her away. At the equipment room door, Emmanuelle looks back at Frida. She waves and shouts, “Love you, Mommy! Take care! Take care!”
18.
THE SOCIAL WORKER’S OFFICE HAS been painted blue, a shade of robin’s egg that was once Frida’s favorite color. There are new drawings on the walls, trees made of hands, monsters and stick figures, a framed poster-size photo of a little blond girl shedding a single tear.
The tear offends Frida, as does the daisy in the girl’s hand, as does the fact that it’s a black-and-white stock image. Whoever took the photo didn’t intend for it to be used this way. Frida’s temperature is rising. Her blinking is rapid. Her heartbeat is a hard, fast tap. She’s never been here in the morning. While she waits, she answers questions about her transition, admits that she’s living out of suitcases. She’s retrieved some clothes from storage, reopened her bank accounts, has her car back, has been getting used to driving again, is lucky to be staying with her friend Will. She hasn’t started looking for work yet, hasn’t looked for an apartment, hasn’t had time, was busy preparing for court. She has to get through today. She doesn’t know what happens after today.