“I simply don’t trust you,” the judge said. “Someone like you should know better.”
The social worker’s phone begins beeping.
“No!” Frida shouts. “We need more time.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Liu. You’ve had your full half hour. Harriet, Harriet, honey, you need to say goodbye to Mommy Frida. Daddy will take you home now.”
“Please! You can’t do this.”
“Mommy!” Harriet shrieks. “I want to stay with you! I want to stay with you!”
The social worker leaves to get Gust. Frida is on her knees. She and Harriet cling and cry. Harriet holds tight to Frida’s collar. She continues screaming. Frida fled from these screams on her very bad day, but now she takes the screams into her body, feeling the vibration, the longing. She needs to remember this sound. She needs to remember Harriet’s voice, her smell, her touch, how much Harriet wants her now, how much Harriet loves her. She kisses Harriet’s wet cheeks, gazes at her again. They press foreheads as they used to. She says “I love you” in English and Mandarin, calls Harriet her treasure, her little beauty. When Gust and the social worker return, she refuses to let go.
* * *
From the living room window, Frida watches Will’s neighbors arrive home with their children. The neighbors on the other side of the wall are a white family with a son and a daughter, both in elementary school. The boy fights with his parents about getting dressed. The girl fights with them about toothbrushing. A white man across the street smokes on his front porch in his pajamas. A Black woman across the street plays guitar in the evenings. A Black family down the block has twin baby boys. She’s seen the mother carrying two car seats, one slung over each arm.
She never thought of herself as living in a city full of children, but maybe every city and every neighborhood is full of children when you’ve lost your own. West Philly is its own particular brand of torture, friendly and wholesome, a small town within the city, with wide, tree-lined streets and houses decorated for the holidays. She and Gust once looked at this neighborhood. They visited five-bedroom Victorians they couldn’t afford in the catchment for the city’s one good public school. Had they bought one of those houses, she likes to think. Had they lived in a different community.
If she could get herself to leave the house, she’d buy medicine. Benadryl from the pharmacy on Baltimore, Unisom from the CVS on Forty-Third. NyQuil from the Rite Aid on Fifty-First. Too much medicine from one store would invite questions. She doesn’t want to answer questions from strangers ever again.
When she imagines it, it’s always pills. Pills and bourbon. Never a razor blade and a bathtub. Her body feels like it’s filled with electricity. Her hands tingle. It’s Friday afternoon. In the three days since the final visit, she’s consumed all the liquor in Will’s apartment. She’s run out of Unisom. Will won’t buy her more.
Will had office hours today. Otherwise, he’s been staying home to grade papers. He’s been cooking for her. She’s overheard him talking to Gust. They’ve discussed whether they need to enlist other friends to watch her. He’s hidden the knives. He’s given her his bedroom. For the first few nights here, he slept on the couch, but at Frida’s request, he now sleeps beside her. He’s still keeping his apartment clean, easier now that his dog lives with his ex. The girl from Harriet’s birthday video wasn’t serious, he said.
Frida feels guilty for constantly comparing him to Tucker, but she likes having Will’s hand on her waist every night and listening to him sleep. She thanks him too often but doesn’t say much else. Will thinks she doesn’t trust him anymore. He wants her to feel free to cry with him. He’s given up asking about the school. They have the same conversations every day. Whether she’s taken a shower, what she’s eaten, whether she needs to eat, the dangers of mixing pills and alcohol.
The Polaroids from the final visit are still in her purse. She’s not ready to look at them. She hasn’t looked at the photo of Emmanuelle either, hidden in the same place. She hasn’t read the news. She spends most of her waking hours scrolling through Harriet photos and watching old videos. The first time Harriet clapped. Her first steps. The time Frida’s father recited the Gettysburg Address to Harriet when she was a newborn.
Will let her look at Susanna’s Instagram on his phone. She watched Harriet grow up across the squares, saw photos of Harriet’s friends and teachers, Susanna’s baby bump, Harriet’s first dentist appointment, potty training photos, family selfies. She’s not allowed to follow them on social media. She’s not allowed to stalk them online. If she sees Harriet on the street, she’s not allowed to approach. Legally, she’s a stranger.