* * *
Will’s shoes are lined up in neat rows. The carpet has been vacuumed, the mail and loose change tidied away, the whole apartment dusted. His dog has been exiled to the backyard. Frida shouldn’t have come here, eager for trouble on a Friday night, but what’s one more wrong turn after so many?
Will has shaved off his beard, looks younger. Handsome. Frida has never seen him clean-shaven. The cleft is a surprise. With time, she could adore this face. Falling in love might help her. The social worker would see the tenderness in her eyes. Harriet would see it too.
Tomorrow morning is the first supervised visit. Sitting with Will, Frida confesses that she might be losing her mind. She keeps second-guessing her responses. She should have prepared better, deflected questions about Susanna, focused on Harriet, her love for Harriet.
“I only get an hour with her.”
“You’re going to do great,” Will says. “You just have to play with her, right? And they observe you? Imagine the other moms they deal with.”
“What if that doesn’t help me?”
She met with the social worker yesterday. The social worker’s office was decorated with children’s drawings. Crayon and Magic Marker and pastels. Stick figures and trees. Some cats and dogs. The place felt haunted, like she’d entered the lair of a pedophile.
There was a camera embedded into the wall behind the social worker’s desk. Someone had painted yellow petals around the lens, placing it into a mural of sunflowers, as if a child wouldn’t notice.
They went over the same questions. Frida’s motives. Her mental health. Whether she understands a parent’s fundamental responsibilities. Her concept of safety. Her standards of cleanliness. The social worker asked about Harriet’s diet. Frida’s refrigerator contained take-out boxes, some sweet potatoes, one package of celery, two apples, some peanut butter, some string cheese, some condiments, only a day’s worth of milk. The cupboards were nearly empty. Why wasn’t she paying attention to Harriet’s nutrition?
How restrictive is she? How does she enforce rules? What kind of limits does she consider appropriate? Has she ever threatened Harriet with corporal punishment?
Was Harriet being raised bilingual? What did Frida mean when she said her Mandarin is only proficient? That she speaks Chinglish with her parents? Wasn’t that denying Harriet a crucial part of her heritage?
What about their favorite games? Playdates? How often does she hire babysitters and how closely does she vet them? How restrictive is she about nudity and exposure to adult sexuality? What is her attitude about interruption, manners, neatness, cleanliness, bedtime, noise, screen time, obedience, aggression?
The questions were more detailed than Renee anticipated. Again, Frida tried to emulate the playground mothers, but there was too much hesitation, too many inconsistencies. She didn’t sound attentive enough, patient enough, committed enough, Chinese enough, American enough.
No one would call her a natural. In the social worker’s office, her black skirt suit looked too severe. She shouldn’t have carried her best handbag or worn her ruby earrings. She was the only mother in the waiting room who wasn’t poor, who wasn’t casually dressed.
The social worker needs to speak to her parents. Frida finally called them last night. She rushed her confession, asked them not to say too much, explained that the call was being recorded. They, like everyone else, wanted to know why. If she was tired, why didn’t she take a nap? If she felt overwhelmed, why didn’t she ask Gust for help? Or Susanna? Even if she hates Susanna. Why didn’t she hire a babysitter?
“This didn’t have to happen,” her father said.
When will she see Harriet again? When can they see Harriet? They can’t call Harriet? Why not? Who’s deciding these things? Is this legal?
“What kind of trouble are you in?” her mother shouted. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Will asks Frida if she’s hungry. They could order Thai food. Or Ethiopian. Watch a movie.
“You don’t have to feed me.”
Tomorrow her best mothering will be on display. She’ll be trustworthy. She’s still capable of such things. If she were truly reckless, she would’ve found a stranger. If she were truly reckless, Will wouldn’t have cleaned. He wouldn’t have shaved. If she were truly reckless, he’d fuck her on the floor instead of leading her to his now tidy bedroom. He wouldn’t ask permission before undressing her.
He refuses to turn off the lights. “I want to see you,” he says. She rakes her fingers through the dark hair on his stomach. His penis is huge and worrying. She’s never seen a penis of this size in person. Only the tip fits in her mouth.