The instructors would be proud. She moves faster tonight than she ever did at the school. She harnesses her fear for strength and speed. She resists the urge to kiss Harriet as she lifts her up. She stuffs Baby Betty into her purse and covers Harriet with her winter coat. She slings the duffel bag over her shoulder.
She still has forty minutes to undo this, to respect the rules of the state, to save herself from the basement, save her parents from losing their daughter, too. But as she descends the stairs, trying not to disturb Harriet, she feels happy and whole. They’re together, as they should be.
No one sees them leave the building. No one sees her strap Harriet into the new car seat or layer blankets up to Harriet’s chin. She turns up the heat, then pulls away from the curb carefully. She’s on the highway heading north when Harriet wakes up.
“Mommy.”
Harriet’s voice startles her. Harriet didn’t used to wake up speaking words. For a second, Frida feels proud, then realizes that Harriet is calling for Susanna.
She pulls over onto the shoulder of the highway, puts on her hazards, and joins Harriet in the back seat. “It’s me,” she says. She gives Harriet her doll. She kisses Harriet’s forehead and speaks in perfect motherese. “Don’t be scared, bub. I’m here. Mommy is here.”
Harriet’s eyes are still half-closed. “Why? Why you here?”
“I came back for you. We’re going on a trip. A vacation.”
It takes several minutes to calm her, to tell her not to worry about Daddy and Mommy Sue-Sue and Uncle Will and Baby Henry, to explain that she’ll spend a little time with Mommy, that this time will never be enough.
“I couldn’t let you go like that. Not with that mean lady. Not in that office. I’m not going to let you go.”
Harriet rubs her eyes. She looks out the window. “It’s dark, Mommy. I’m scared. I’m scared. Mommy, where we going?”
Frida holds Harriet’s hands, then kisses her knuckles and fingertips. “I don’t know yet.”
“Can we see the moon?”
Frida laughs. “We can look at the moon later, sure. Maybe we’ll even see some stars tonight. You’re never up this late, are you? We’re going to have a nice time, bub. For as long as we can. Go back to sleep, okay? Don’t be scared. I’ll take care of you. I love you so much. I came back, see? I’m going to stay with you.”
She begins to hum. She strokes Harriet’s cheek. Harriet grabs Frida’s hand and holds it to her face, leaning into it like it’s a pillow.
“Mommy, stay with me. You going to put me to bed?”
“I will. We’re going to find a nice comfy place to sleep. You can sleep next to me, okay? Remember, you used to like that. We can do that every night. I’ll hold you.” Frida thinks of Emmanuelle in the grass. The doll staring at the sun. Her other daughter, vessel for her hope. For her love.
“We can have a family cuddle.”
She waits until Harriet’s eyes close. If she’d been able to comfort Harriet like this last fall. If she’d been a better mother.
She returns to the driver’s seat, remembering the lessons at the warehouse, watching Harriet’s birthday video while Emmanuelle screamed. As she pulls back onto the highway, she checks the rearview mirror. Harriet is perfectly still. Soon, in hours, or days if she’s lucky, there will be sirens. There will be more guards, more women, a different kind of uniform.
Frida has the photos in her purse. When they get to the first rest stop, she’ll slip the Polaroid of herself and Emmanuelle into Harriet’s inside coat pocket, where only Gust and Susanna will ever look. When they find it, they’ll ask questions. They’ll bring the photo to Renee. Renee will ask questions. When she’s older, Harriet will ask questions. Frida will give her a photo from their final visit, too.
Harriet will learn a different story. One day, Frida will tell Harriet the story herself. About Emmanuelle and the blue liquid. How Harriet once had a sister, how her mother wanted to save that sister. How her mother loved both girls so much. She’ll tell Harriet about Roxanne and Meryl. She’ll tell Harriet about the mother she was, the mistakes she made. She’ll tell Harriet about making a new person in her body, how the making of this person defies language and logic. That bond, she’ll tell Harriet, can’t be measured. That love can’t be measured. She’d like to know if Harriet will ever make a new person, if she’ll be back in Harriet’s life by that time. She’d like to tell Harriet that she can help raise that person. She can be careful. She’ll convince her daughter to trust her. I am a bad mother, she’ll say. But I have learned to be good.