“Please,” Frida says, taking Harriet from Susanna.
Harriet clutches Frida’s neck. Now that they’re together again, Frida’s body relaxes.
“Are you hungry? Did they feed you?”
Harriet sniffles. Her eyes are red and swollen. The borrowed clothes smell sour. Frida pictures state workers taking off Harriet’s clothes and diaper, inspecting her body. Did anyone touch her inappropriately? How will she ever make this up to her baby? Will it be the work of months or years or a lifetime?
“Mommy.” Harriet’s voice is hoarse.
Frida leans her temple against Harriet’s. “Mommy is so sorry. You have to stay with Daddy and Sue-Sue for a while, okay? Bub, I’m so sorry. I really messed up.” She kisses Harriet’s ear. “Does it still hurt?”
Harriet nods.
“Daddy will give you the medicine. Promise you’ll be good?” Frida starts to say they’ll see each other soon but holds her tongue. She hooks Harriet’s pinkie.
“Galaxies,” she whispers. It’s their favorite game, a promise they say at bedtime. I promise you the moon and stars. I love you more than galaxies. She says it when she tucks Harriet in, this girl with her same moon face, same double eyelids, same pensive mouth.
Harriet begins falling asleep on her shoulder.
Gust tugs on Frida’s arm. “We need to get her home for dinner.”
“Not yet.” She holds Harriet and rocks her, kissing her salty cheek. They need to change her out of these disgusting clothes. They need to give her a bath. “I’m going to miss you like crazy. Love you, bub. Love you, love you, love you.”
Harriet stirs but doesn’t answer. Frida takes a last look at Harriet, then closes her eyes as Gust takes her baby.
* * *
The social worker is stuck in rush-hour traffic. Frida waits in the mint-green room. Half an hour passes. She calls Gust.
“I forgot to tell you. I know you guys are cutting back on dairy, but please let her have dessert tonight. I was going to let her have some ice cream.”
Gust says they’ve already eaten. Harriet was too tired to eat much. Susanna is giving her a bath now. Frida apologizes again, knows this might be the beginning of years of apologizing, that she’s dug herself a hole from which she may never emerge.
“Stay calm when you talk to them,” Gust says. “Don’t freak out. I’m sure this will be over soon.”
She resists saying I love you. Resists thanking him. She says good night and begins pacing. She should have asked the officers which neighbors called. If it was the elderly couple who have faded postcards of Pope John Paul II taped to their screen door. The woman who lives on the other side of the back fence, whose cats defecate in Frida’s yard. The couple on the other side of her bedroom wall, whose luxurious moans make her lonelier than she is already.
She doesn’t know any of their names. She’s tried saying hello, but when she does, they ignore her or cross the street. Since last year, she’s rented a three-bedroom row house near Passyunk Square. She’s the only nonwhite resident on her block, the only one who hasn’t lived there for decades, the only renter, the only yuppie, the only one with a baby. It was the largest space she could find on short notice. She had to have her parents cosign the lease; she hadn’t found the job at Penn yet. West Philly was close to work but too expensive. Fishtown and Bella Vista and Queen Village and Graduate Hospital were too expensive. They’d moved here from Brooklyn when Gust, a landscape architect, was recruited by a prestigious green-roofing firm in Philly. His company’s projects focus on sustainability: wetlands restoration, stormwater systems. Gust said that in Philly, they’d be able to save up and buy a house. They’d still be close enough to visit New York whenever they wanted. It would be a better place to raise children. She’s stuck in the smallest city she’s ever lived in, a toy city where she has no support network and only a few acquaintances, no real friends of her own. And now, because of joint custody, she has to stay until Harriet turns eighteen.
One of the overhead lights is buzzing. Frida wants to rest her head but can’t shake the feeling of being watched. Susanna will tell her friends. Gust will tell his parents. She’ll need to tell her parents. She’s torn off most of the cuticle on her left thumb. She becomes aware of her headache, her dry mouth, her desire to leave this room immediately.
She opens the door and asks permission to use the bathroom and get a snack. From the vending machine, she buys peanut butter cookies and a candy bar. She hasn’t eaten since breakfast. Only coffee. All day, her hands have been trembling.