Will says yes, and Frida begins to dream. After he gets off the phone, she asks if he could take some pictures of Harriet. Will thinks pictures will make her feel worse.
“I need to see her.”
“I understand that, but I thought you weren’t supposed to—”
“Just a picture or two. Maybe a video. Please. Don’t tell her it’s for me.”
* * *
For most of the morning, she keeps busy. Will leaves to run errands, has to get to Gust’s place by noon. Frida calls Renee to say goodbye, apologizes for bothering her on the weekend. Renee commends her decision to go home.
“Maybe when Harriet is older…，” Renee says. Her voice trails off, allowing Frida to fill that silence with hopes and fantasies.
She asks if Frida would like the video of the final visit. The social worker sent it the other day. Frida isn’t ready. They agree to connect in January, wish each other happy holidays in advance. Renee suggests she take up some soothing hobbies like knitting or baking.
“I can’t think about hobbies right now.”
“You’re going to be okay, Frida. You’re tougher than you think.”
Frida mutters a small thank-you. She can’t believe she’s deceived anyone into thinking that she’s good. There may be no part of her that remains pure and unselfish and motherly. If they scanned her brain now, they’d find only dangerous thoughts. The first, that Harriet is a deep sleeper. The second, that Will can let her in.
* * *
Before Will leaves, Frida asks for another favor. Tonight, after Harriet falls asleep, she wants to come over. “I won’t wake her up. I won’t touch her. I won’t talk to her. I just want to see her.”
“Frida, please.” He wants to help her, doesn’t think what happened is fair, doesn’t think the program, whatever it was, was fair, not to her, or anyone, but she could get arrested. She could get Gust in trouble.
“They have enough going on right now.”
“I’ll text you, and you can buzz me in. Their building is full of old people. No one will be awake. I’ll never have this chance again. No one else would do this for me. I need to see her. I didn’t get to say goodbye to her properly. You realize they only gave us half an hour.”
“Frida, you shouldn’t put me in this position. You know I’m not good at saying no to you.” He hugs her, whispers in her ear, “Are you going to be okay by yourself? I need to go.”
She asks him to think about it. If he agrees, he can just text her yes.
That afternoon, as she waits for Will’s answer, she tries to clean her mind. She thinks of the day they found Meryl, what she was like afterward. Meryl said she never slept in the basement. She thought if she fell asleep, someone would come in and attack her. She felt like an animal, jumped at the smallest noise. She was so fucking scared. It was worse than the brain scans, worse than any of the evaluations. The panic never went away. She said nothing was worth that week in the basement, not food, not sex, not freedom, but Frida’s grasp on what things are worth anymore is tenuous.
Her bank is still open. She drives to the branch on Thirty-Sixth Street and withdraws $8,000, has to answer questions from the bank manager about why she needs such a large sum. He tells her that she should have called ahead. She nods. She knows that any transactions over $10,000 will be reported, researched this before coming in, then deleted her search history.
She apologizes, says she’s going to a family wedding tonight, that it’s Chinese custom to give red envelopes with cash. Her cousin is getting married. Her parents asked her to take care of the hong baos.
She receives the cash in hundreds and buries the envelope at the bottom of her purse. She drives to Target and uses the cash to buy a car seat, remembers to choose a front-facing one for a taller, heavier Harriet. She shops for groceries, snacks Harriet might like, nonperishables, juice boxes, fruit and veggie pouches, bottled water. Will might make the decision for her. He might refuse. Even if he says yes, she might lose her nerve. But the other night, he said he loved her. That he’s always loved her. That he’d do anything for her. He said when Frida is ready, maybe, if she feels the same, they can start over.
At Will’s apartment, she packs her clothes and papers. She loads her suitcases into her car. She calls her parents, hoping that hearing their voices will stop her. She prints a list of hotels in New Jersey, then packs her computer. There will be an Amber Alert. They’ll announce her name on the news. They’ll show her picture. Harriet’s. They’ll retrace her movements. She doesn’t know how to steal a car or change a license plate or assume a new identity. She doesn’t have a gun. She won’t be able to fly. She can’t put Harriet in danger. There’s nowhere in this country where a mother and daughter who look like them can be invisible. She’s not sure if she’s willing to spend years in the basement, but what will the punishment matter if the alternative is nothing?