Catching sight of the camera, she asks how today’s footage will be used. Why is this being filmed if he’s going to submit a report?
“Are you going to analyze my feelings?”
“There’s no need to be paranoid, Ms. Liu.”
“I’m not being paranoid. I’m just trying to understand… the rubrics by which I’m being judged.”
“Rubrics?” The psychologist chuckles. “Aren’t you a smart cookie.”
Frida’s shoulders creep upward as he continues to laugh.
“Let’s talk about why you’re here.”
Renee told her to be contrite. She’s a single working mother, normal and frazzled. Harmless.
She lists the combination of destabilizing forces: her insomnia, Harriet’s ear infection, five sleepless nights, her frayed nerves. “I’m not trying to make excuses. I know what I did is completely unacceptable. Believe me, I couldn’t be more ashamed. I know I put my daughter in danger. But what happened last week, what I did, doesn’t represent who I am. What kind of mother I am.”
The psychologist chews his pen.
“The last time I had to function on so little sleep was when she was a newborn. You know how delirious new parents are. And I wasn’t working then. Taking care of her was my only job. And my husband, my ex-husband, was still with us. I was supposed to stay home with her for the first two years. That was our plan. I’m still figuring out how to juggle everything. I promise, this will never, ever happen again. It was a terrible lapse in judgment.”
“What were you doing on the day of the incident, before you left the house?”
“Working. I write and edit a faculty publication. At Wharton.”
“So you telecommute?”
“Only on the days I have Harriet. I took a lower-paying position so I could do this. So I could have more flex time. I wanted to be able to work from home more. How else am I going to see her? A lot of my job is stupid busywork. Emails. Nagging professors to approve drafts. Most of them treat me like a secretary. It’s not ideal, but Harriet and I have a system. I work for a while, then take a break to feed her and play, work some more, put her down for a nap, get some stuff done during her nap. I work late after she goes to bed. She’s good at playing by herself. She’s not as needy as other toddlers.”
“But aren’t all children inherently needy? They are, after all, entirely dependent on caregivers for their survival. I take it you’re letting her watch television?”
Frida finds a tear in her stocking behind the right knee. “There’s some screen time, yes. I let her watch Sesame Street and Mister Rogers. Or Daniel Tiger. I’d rather spend the whole day playing with her, but I have to work. It’s better than sending her to day care. I don’t want strangers taking care of her. I see her so little as it is. If she went to day care, I’d only see her for maybe twelve waking hours a week. That’s not enough.”
“Do you often allow her to play alone?”
“Not often,” she says, straining to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Sometimes she plays on her side of the living room, sometimes she plays next to me. At least we’re together. Isn’t that the most important thing?”
The psychologist scribbles in silence. Before the divorce, she argued with her mother about when she’d return to work, whether she’d work part-time or full-time, whether she’d freelance. They hadn’t sent her to good schools so she could be a stay-at-home mom. The idea of living off Gust’s salary was a fantasy, her mother said.
The psychologist asks whether Frida finds child-rearing overwhelming or stressful. He asks about her drug and alcohol consumption, whether she has a history of substance abuse.
“Ms. Torres’s notes mention depression.”
Frida pulls at the hole in her stocking. How did she forget that they have this strike against her? “I was diagnosed with depression in college.” She grabs her knee to stop her leg from twitching. “But my symptoms were mild. I used to take Zoloft, but I went off it a long time ago. Before we started trying to conceive. I’d never expose my baby to those chemicals.”
Did she relapse? Did she experience postpartum depression or anxiety? Postpartum psychosis? Has she ever considered harming herself or her baby?
“No. Never. My baby healed me.”
“Was she difficult?”
“She was perfect.” This man doesn’t need to know about the first month, those miserable weight checks at the pediatrician’s office, when Harriet was taking too long to get back to her birth weight, when Frida wasn’t producing enough milk. The pediatrician was having her pump after every feeding. How savagely she envied the mothers in the waiting room with their clean hair and well-rested faces. Their breasts were surely overflowing. Their babies’ latches were perfect. Their babies purred with happiness. Harriet never purred with Frida, not even when she was first born. To Frida, Harriet seemed forlorn and not of this earth.