The instructors act as if a three-second hug is the most reasonable thing in the world. There are a few giggles, a few smirks and eye rolls, but for the most part, the five of them obey. Lucretia and Linda begin the one, two, three quick squeeze. Beth rocks from side to side, giving her hugs a personal flair. Frida and Teen Mom are on their knees, arms outstretched, trying to capture their elusive doll children.
Teen Mom is too aggressive. The instructors scold her for grabbing her doll by the wrist and making false promises.
“You can’t offer treats,” Ms. Khoury says. “We don’t use a reward-based parenting strategy here.”
Frida struggles for control. Emmanuelle wanders into the learning space of other mothers.
“Rein in your doll, Frida,” Ms. Russo says.
Frida begs Emmanuelle to accept a hug. She thinks of the night before her very bad day, remembers how frustrated she felt when Harriet wouldn’t hold still for her diaper change.
She catches Emmanuelle and counts to three, then stops counting. She should have let Harriet sleep with her that night. Every night. Why had she ever wanted Harriet to sleep in a different room? If she were holding Harriet now, she would caress Harriet’s back, sniff her neck, squeeze her earlobes, kiss her knuckles.
Ms. Russo again calls Frida’s name. She’s been hugging Emmanuelle for three minutes.
“It’s one-two-three, release, Frida. Which part are you having trouble with?”
* * *
Goodbye time comes promptly at five thirty. At the instructors’ whistle, the dolls line up at the door to the equipment room. Frida hugs Emmanuelle goodbye. The doll holds her arms stiffly by her sides, acknowledges Frida with a curt nod.
Deprived of the naps their human counterparts enjoy, the dolls are tired, but they don’t become fussy or hyper, instead becoming subdued in a way that would never happen with real children.
The mothers smile and wave. After the dolls are out of sight, their faces go slack. Frida’s face hurts from smiling. She follows her classmates down the stairs. Lucretia is comforting a weeping Beth. Lucretia says maybe she’s wrong about the robot stories. Maybe these robots are not evil in any way.
“I don’t think you should ask for a different doll.”
“But she doesn’t like me,” Beth says. “I can tell. What if that’s her personality? What if they gave me a bad one? What if she’s a bad seed?” She starts telling Lucretia how her mother once called her a bad seed, how that fucked up her whole childhood.
“Beth, seriously, pull it together,” Lucretia tells her. “You’re going to get all of us in trouble.”
Frida feels her chest loosen once she gets outside. She longs for her narrow street and her tiny dark house.
* * *
Frida’s roommate, Helen, is quitting. The whispers begin the next morning at the bathroom sinks. Some say her doll son spat in her face. Some say her instructors were too harsh. Some say she went into shock when the dolls appeared and never recovered. How old is she? Fifty? Fifty-two? The older mothers are having trouble adjusting.
All eyes are on Frida as she enters the dining hall. Mothers sidle up to her table, plying her with smiles and compliments, offering to bring her a fresh cup of coffee. Frida refuses to talk. She’s desperate to gossip and would like to use her fleeting cachet to acquire some friends, but there are rules to consider and women in pink lab coats circling.
“We should respect her privacy,” Frida tells them. The answer is too pat. The other mothers call her cunt and bitch and pussy. A white mother makes ching-chong noises in her ear. Another knocks her silverware to the ground. April, the tattooed mother from the bus, now points in her direction and whispers to the trio of middle-aged white women. Someone at the next table refers to her as the uptight Chinese bitch. She hears her name being whispered. The one who left her baby at home. The one who says she had a bad day.
“Ignore them,” Lucretia says. “They’ll forget about you by lunchtime.”
Frida is too nervous to eat. She passes Lucretia the other half of her bagel.
Lucretia says only a white lady would quit on the second day. If a Black mother tried a stunt like this, they’d throw her ass in jail, maybe have her get shot on the way there and make it look like she killed herself. Several Black mothers at the next table overhear Lucretia and laugh knowingly.
Linda tells Frida, “Your roommate is weak as fuck.”
“I don’t think she actually loves her son,” Beth says. “Imagine when he finds out his mom is a coddler and a quitter. The state should be paying for that kid’s therapy.”