Harriet tries to climb back onto Frida’s lap, and when Frida gives her only a quick hug and insists that she choose a toy, she begins wailing. Her sorrow spirals with alarming speed into a full-fledged meltdown. She flings herself facedown on the rug, drumming her hands and feet, emitting the cry of a loon, a cry that spans oceans.
Frida rolls her onto her back and kisses her, begging her to calm down.
Harriet is shaking, enraged. She points at the social worker. “Go way!” she shouts.
“That’s not nice.” Frida pulls her to standing and holds her by the shoulders. “You apologize to Ms. Torres right now. We do not talk that way.”
Harriet hits Frida and scratches her face. Frida grabs Harriet’s wrists. “Look at me. I don’t like that. You do not hit Mommy. We do not hit. You need to apologize.”
Harriet stomps her feet and screams. The social worker inches closer.
“Ms. Torres, could you please sit at the table? You’re making her nervous. You can just zoom in, can’t you?”
The social worker ignores the request. Harriet won’t apologize. She wants more hugging. “C’mon, bub, we need to play. Ms. Torres needs to see us play. Mommy doesn’t have much time left.”
The social worker lowers her camera and sweetens her voice. “Harriet, can we see some playing? Play with your mother, okay?”
Harriet arches her back. She wriggles free from Frida’s grasp. She charges. There’s no time to catch her. Frida watches in horror as Harriet sinks her teeth into the social worker’s forearm.
The social worker yelps. “Ms. Liu, control your child!”
Frida pulls Harriet away. “Apologize to Ms. Torres right now. You never bite. We do not bite anyone.”
Harriet unleashes a stream of gibberish and vitriol. “No no no no no!”
Gust comes to check on them. The social worker informs him of Harriet’s vicious attack.
“Gust, she was nervous,” Frida says.
Gust asks to see the social worker’s arm. He asks if she’s in pain. Harriet has left teeth marks. He apologizes profusely. Harriet never behaves this way. “She’s not a biter,” he says.
He takes Harriet to the couch to have a talk. Frida escapes to the kitchen to get a glass of water for the social worker. She packs a Ziploc bag with ice and wraps it in a towel. She feels mortified but proud. This is her demon child. Her ally. Her protector.
The social worker holds the ice to her injury. No apology is forthcoming from Harriet, despite her parents’ best efforts.
“Ms. Liu, you have five more minutes. Let’s try to finish.”
Frida begs Harriet for one game, but Harriet only wants her father now. She won’t let go of Gust. Every other word is Daddy.
Frida plants herself beside them and looks on helplessly as they play with Harriet’s wooden pony set. Weren’t they allies a moment ago? Is every child as fickle as hers? There are still two more visits. Gust will coach her next time. He’ll explain how much these visits matter. The judge will understand that Harriet is not yet two. He’ll see that Harriet loves her. That Harriet wants to be with her. He’ll see her daughter’s wild heart.
4.
IT’S A HUMID FRIDAY AFTERNOON in late September, six days since she last saw Harriet, nearly three weeks since her very bad day, and Frida is hiding in the ladies’ room at work, listening to the social worker’s maddeningly casual voice mail. Tomorrow morning’s visitation has been postponed. The social worker has double-booked herself.
“It happens,” Ms. Torres says. She’ll call back with a new date and time when something opens up.
Frida plays the message again, thinking she missed an apology that never comes. She smacks her palm on the stall door. All week she’s been using the visit to measure time. The days since Harriet, the days until Harriet. Another hour to win back her baby.
She should have known she’d be punished. When they said goodbye last Saturday, she stole extra time, gave Harriet extra hugs and kisses. She can still feel the social worker gripping her elbow, can still hear the woman saying, “That’s enough, Ms. Liu.”
Once outside, the social worker lectured her about boundaries. The child was clearly ready to say goodbye. The child didn’t want any more hugs.
“You have to recognize the difference between what you want and what she wants,” the social worker said.
Frida’s fists were clenched. Her toes curled inside her shoes. She kept her head bowed, stared at the rosary tattooed on the social worker’s ankle. Had she looked the social worker in the eye, she might have delivered the first punch of her life.