Frida stirs her coffee. She wants to tell them about the tone Helen took with Ms. Gibson, how Helen called the dolls monsters. The school gave her a six-foot-tall doll son, built like a linebacker, far taller and stronger than her real boy. How could she be expected to control him? He refused to hug. He wouldn’t answer to his new given name—Norman. He called Helen old and fat and ugly, demanded a different mother. Helen said the program was a mind-fuck. Psychological torture.
Ms. Gibson told Helen to modulate her aggression. Be more open-minded. Stop projecting. Helen, you are a bad mother, but you are learning—
Helen waved her finger in Ms. Gibson’s face. What did changing the blue liquid have to do with parenting? What about the cameras inside the dolls, the sensors, the biometric nonsense, the insane curriculum? What were they being taught? Was it even possible to pass?
Ms. Gibson reminded Helen about the consequences of leaving. Did she really want to end up on the registry?
“I don’t think the registry is real,” Helen said. “My son is seventeen. We’ll be apart for a year at most. Then he’ll come find me. I should have thought harder about that before coming here. The judge made it seem like I had a choice, but choice and this place do not belong in the same sentence.”
After lights-out, Helen tried to convince Frida to leave with her. Her niece is coming to pick her up. Frida could stay with her, join her in a lawsuit, take a stand. “We can stop them,” Helen said.
Frida delivered the required platitudes about Helen’s son as a beacon of hope, tried to convince Helen to give the program another chance, hated herself for feeling tempted. She imagined showing up at Gust and Susanna’s door, making them promise not to tell Ms. Torres. But that was no solution. And Helen will never sue. She’ll never go to the media. Helen said she wasn’t afraid of the registry, if it even exists. That her lawyer can fight it. But Frida knows she’s all talk.
After breakfast, the mothers gather on the steps of Pierce. They watch as Helen’s niece pulls into the rose garden circle. Helen is escorted out by Ms. Gibson and one of the guards. Today, she takes the crown from Linda as the worst mother, the baddest bitch.
The mothers whisper, “Fuck her.” “Fuck this.”
Helen looks back at them and raises a fist. Some mothers wave. Others flick her off. The mother next to Frida sniffles. Helen and her niece hug and laugh. Frida is chastened, surprised that after only two days here, the sound of a car pulling away can break her heart.
* * *
Building upon the one, two, three release model, the mothers practice varieties of affection. The hug that conveys apology. The hug that conveys encouragement. The hug that soothes physical injury. The hug that soothes the spirit. Different cries require different hugs. The mothers must become discerning. Ms. Khoury and Ms. Russo demonstrate.
Lucretia raises her hand. “I swear I’ve been paying attention, but all those hugs look exactly the same.” The others agree. How are they supposed to tell which cry goes with which problem goes with which hug? What difference does it make? Why can’t they ask their doll what’s wrong?
Direct questioning puts too much pressure on young children, the instructors say. A mother shouldn’t have to ask questions. She should intuit. She should know. In regards to differentiating between hug types, the mothers must consider intent. The invisible emotional work that parents must do all the time.
“You’re speaking to your child through touch,” Ms. Russo says. “Communicating heart to heart. What would you like to tell her? What does she need to hear from you?”
From the classroom next door, there’s a crack, followed by screams and shouting. Ms. Russo says they don’t want to remind the mothers of past abuse or encourage violent tendencies, but affection drills must be authentic. To practice the hug to soothe physical injury, they’ll have to inflict some pain.
The instructors slap the dolls’ hands. When a doll doesn’t cry loud enough, they slap her face. Teen Mom shields her doll with her body. Lucretia begs them to stop.
The instructors work methodically, ignoring the mothers’ protests, Ms. Russo restraining the doll while Ms. Khoury slaps. The hitting is real. The pain is real. Frida covers Emmanuelle’s eyes. The instructors must be evil spinsters. Secret cat killers. If anyone ever did this to Harriet. Frida’s never seen a toddler struck in the face before. Her father only ever spanked her over her clothes. Her mother only ever slapped her hand.
“Let go of her, Frida,” Ms. Russo warns.