What is the ratio of mothers to guards, mothers to women in pink lab coats? There are too many people working here. There’s too much land. How many mothers are expected in the next round? How many more children will be taken?
She heads toward a stand of pine trees. Gust and Susanna and Harriet leave for Santa Cruz in the morning. Susanna’s followers will see Harriet on the plane, Harriet on Gust’s shoulders walking in the California redwoods, Harriet at Thanksgiving dinner, Harriet with her grandparents on the beach. Frida doesn’t want to know what Gust’s parents are saying about her, what they might say in front of Harriet, what they’ll tell the rest of the family. The state could have chosen a less delicate time of year, though she supposes that every day is a delicate one for women who’ve lost their children.
She tears off a handful of pine needles and rubs them between her fingers. She told Will to ask Gust to take extra pictures of Harriet, film extra videos. She needs a record of every single day. So do her parents.
Renee tried to get her parents some phone privileges, but the judge thought that would be too confusing. Seeing the Lius would remind Harriet of Frida, and those reminders would interfere with her recovery.
Frida flops down on one of the Adirondack chairs. Her father loves visiting campuses. Even during trips to Paris and Bologna, they made time to tour at least one university in each city. When they visited this campus, her parents mused about teaching at this kind of college, living in a faculty house. It was a dream world, they said.
She needs to have Gust give them some updates. They’ll be worried sick otherwise. Someone needs to make sure they’re keeping up with their doctor’s appointments and eating enough protein. He needs to remind her mother to take her blood pressure medicine and drink enough water. He needs to remind her father to wear sunscreen.
“Did you feel loved as a child?” the psychologist asked. She feels guilty for telling that man anything about them. She shouldn’t have fought with them when they visited in July, shouldn’t have scolded her father for not fastening Harriet’s diaper tightly enough, shouldn’t have yelled at her mother for breaking the cup holder on Harriet’s stroller.
Frida’s hands are frozen. She has a sore throat. It’s already dark. From far away, the dinner bell rings. Mothers emerge from the stone courtyard, the lacrosse field, the chapel. Some have ventured too far. They migrate toward the dining hall.
By the time Frida reaches the front of the dinner line, there isn’t enough food left. She receives a tiny medallion of pork and three carrots.
Helen waves to her. She’s found the trio of middle-aged white women. “This is my roommate, Frida,” Helen says. “She’s here for neglect and abandonment.”
“Hi, Frida, Hi, Frida,” the mothers say in unison.
* * *
The mothers shower furtively. As they wait their turn, they pass information in whispers. The numbers. Approximately two hundred women. Supposedly, if they get in trouble, they’ll be sent to “talk circle.” Every trip to talk circle will be added to their files.
On Frida’s floor, there are twenty-six women and four shower stalls. Frida tries to feel grateful for her flip-flops, for her toiletries and clean towel and flannel pajamas. There are no flip-flops or pajamas in prison.
The hot water runs out during her turn. She quickly rinses off, dries herself, and dresses, runs her hair under the hand dryers. The next mother screams. Frida leaves before anyone can blame her.
Helen returns to the room in just her towel. She begins applying lotion to every inch of her body, using up half the small bottle. Her breasts resemble deflated tube socks. Her thighs and belly have deep pockets of cellulite.
She catches Frida looking at her breasts and smiles. “Don’t be embarrassed. We’re all the same animal underneath.”
“Sorry,” Frida says. Helen seems like someone who’s spent a lifetime feeling pleased with herself. Her body is soft and ruined and gleaming. She’s still topless when Ms. Gibson knocks on the door.
“Ladies, thirty minutes until lights-out.”
Frida climbs under the covers. At least the blankets are thick, at least she can make herself small and pull the blankets around her so that only her face is showing. She’s hungry, and she thinks that if she makes herself warm and small, perhaps the hunger will dissipate. What little she knows about the lives of saints comes back to her now and she thinks, this year, she might become holy.
Helen beats on her pillows. “You still awake?”
“I’m trying to sleep.”