The work will be arduous, but the mothers must resist any thoughts of quitting. The state is investing in them. The fence, Ms. Knight notes, is electrified.
* * *
The size of the campus requires the mothers to be herded between buildings. Shepherded, Frida thinks. On the walk to the dining hall, she overhears someone talking about New Zealand. So much open space makes them think of New Zealand. Isn’t that where all the rich people are buying land for the end of the world?
“My kid would love this place,” the woman says wistfully.
The dining hall could hold a thousand. As it is, the mothers are able to spread out across the vast room. Some sit alone. Others cluster four or five to a table. The women in pink lab coats pass through the aisles, observing and taking notes on their devices.
The room has high ceilings and stained glass windows and outlines on the walls where portraits of college presidents once hung. The tables, scored with names and numbers and crosshatches, are sticky. Frida is careful not to let her elbows touch the wood. Her mind is filled with frivolous thoughts. She feels stupid for dwelling on dirt or communal showers, for craving her own face cream.
The mothers speak softly. Conversation proceeds in fits and starts, as if they’re trying to speak a foreign language. There are long pauses, hesitations, retractions. They grow quiet and gaze off into the distance. Their eyes turn moist, the longing of these women enough to power a small town.
The mothers at Frida’s table take turns introducing themselves. Some are from North Philly, some from West Philly, some from Brewerytown and Northern Liberties and Grays Ferry. Alice is originally from Trinidad. Her five-year-old daughter, Clarissa, began kindergarten without the required vaccinations. Another woman tested positive for marijuana. Another let her two-year-old son play in their backyard alone. A mom with purple streaks in her hair had three children removed because of inadequate childproofing in her apartment. She lost custody of her one-year-old twin boys and five-year-old daughter. A woman named Melissa says her six-year-old son, Ramon, wandered out of their apartment while she was asleep, made it out of the building and walked fifteen minutes, was found at a bus stop. They all look so young. A mother named Carolyn, who looks closer to Frida’s age, says her three-year-old daughter was removed after she posted a video of one of her tantrums on Facebook.
“I’m a stay-at-home mom,” Carolyn says. “Of course I post stuff about my kid. That’s my only adult contact. One of the other moms at her preschool saw my post and reported me. They went through everything I ever posted about her. They said I complained about her too much on Twitter.”
Frida pushes clumps of macaroni around her plate. If parents are being policed on social media, this campus will be at full capacity by next year. She pokes at a soggy piece of broccoli. She’s not ready for institutional food or group sharing.
When it’s her turn, she says, “Frida. Philly by way of Brooklyn by way of Chicago. Neglect and abandonment. I left her. Briefly. My daughter, Harriet. She’s twenty months now. I left her for two and a half hours. I had a bad day.”
The only white woman at the table touches Frida’s arm. “No need to get defensive. We’re not judging you.”
Frida pulls her arm away.
“Helen,” the white woman says. “Chestnut Hill by way of Idaho. Emotional abuse. Of my seventeen-year-old. Alexander. His therapist reported me for coddling. Apparently, coddling is a subset of emotional abuse.”
Carolyn asks how one coddles a teenage boy. “Isn’t he bigger than you?”
“I cut up his food for him,” Helen admits.
Disapproving glances ricochet around the table.
“I zipped up his jackets. I liked tying his shoes for him. It was our special thing. I made him go over all his homework with me. Sometimes, I combed his hair. I helped him shave.”
“Your husband was okay with that?” Carolyn asks.
“There’s no husband. I thought Alexander liked our routines. But he told his therapist that I made him feel like a weirdo. He thought if he brought friends over, I’d try to spoon-feed him in front of them. He told his therapist that I was obsessed with him. He said he wanted to run away. I was planning to relocate to wherever he went to college. I still might.”
Carolyn and the mother next to her snicker viciously. Frida averts her eyes.
After lunch, they receive their room assignments. Frida is paired with Helen, the coddler. Kemp House is on the other side of campus. Ms. Knight said they’re being housed in a single building to make things easier for the cleaning staff. The other dorms are being prepared for future use.