She was paired with Deirdre, a white mother from Pennsport whose five-year-old son, Jeffrey, is living with her sister. When Frida asked if it was only the state of the house that got her in trouble, Deirdre admitted that her son had some bruises. She might have hit him.
“In the face?” Frida asked, rushing to judgment.
“I am a bad mother,” Deirdre said, “but I am learning to be good.”
Cleaning crew, they soon realized, is ceremonial. Impossible for fourteen women to clean all the buildings currently in use and tend to the two hundred acres that aren’t woodland. Frida and Deirdre were assigned to mop three of the classroom buildings. It took twenty minutes to walk there. A guard supervised them to make sure they didn’t touch the dolls. They discovered that not all the dolls are kept in equipment rooms. A few classrooms are used for storage, with plexiglass partitions separating dolls of different ages. The dolls watched them work.
Now, Ms. Gibson directs Frida to a free computer. Frida wishes she’d written notes. She needs to remind Gust about flu shots. He should attend some preschool open houses, submit some applications. He needs to check in with her parents.
The connection is established. After a few seconds, Susanna’s face comes into focus. She’s wearing one of Gust’s scratchy, ivory-colored fisherman sweaters, holding a steaming mug of tea, her mass of red hair piled on top of her head and secured with a pencil. Having seen women in uniform all week, her beauty is overwhelming.
Frida is embarrassed to have Susanna see her like this. “Where’s Harriet?”
“I’m sorry, Frida. They’re sleeping. She caught a tummy bug. She was puking all night. Gust went down too.”
“Are they okay now? Could you wake them up? Please. I only get ten minutes.”
Susanna apologizes again. She understands how important this call is for everyone, but Harriet just fell asleep. “She’s really sick. I’ve been taking care of both of them. I’m pretty wrecked. Can you guys talk next week?”
“Please,” Frida repeats. They go back and forth about the importance of Harriet’s sleep versus the importance of this call, how many months it will be before Frida sees Harriet in person. Susanna finally agrees to get them.
Frida worries that she’ll burst into tears before Harriet even comes on-screen. At seven minutes, she begins to pick at her cuticles. At six minutes, she holds her head in her hands. At five minutes, she tugs at her eyebrows. At four minutes, she hears Harriet’s voice. Gust sits down at his computer, cradling Harriet in his lap. Harriet’s cheeks are rosy. She’s always at her most beautiful when she’s just woken up.
Frida apologizes for disturbing them. She asks how they’re feeling.
Gust says the whole place needs to be disinfected. Harriet vomited all over her crib.
“Did you call the doctor?”
“Frida, we know what we’re doing. I can take care of my daughter.”
“I’m not saying you can’t. But you should call the doctor.” She notices Harriet sniffling, the dark circles under her eyes. Harriet looks thinner. “I’m sorry I’m not there, bub. You can go right back to sleep. I just needed to see you.” She wants to deliver streams of perfect motherese, but as she watches Harriet take in her new reality, mother in the computer, mother in uniform, mother she can’t touch, as she watches Harriet’s face crumple, it’s her turn to cry.
Harriet tries to escape. She screams and windmills her arms. Ms. Gibson comes over and lowers the volume.
“Do you have to do that?”
“Frida, please be considerate of the others. You have a minute left.”
Gust whispers in Harriet’s ear.
Frida says, “I love you. I miss you.”
She says, “Galaxies. Remember? Mommy loves you galaxies.”
Ms. Gibson gives the mothers a five-second warning. “Say goodbye now, ladies.”
Everyone leans toward their screens. Everyone’s voice rises.
“It’s going to be better next time,” Gust says.
“I’m so sorry, bub. Mommy has to go. Feel better. Drink more water, please. Get healthy. I want you to be healthy. I want that so much.” Frida leans close to the monitor and puckers.
Harriet stops crying. She opens her hand. She says, “Ma—”
The screen goes blank.
8.
SINCE SPEAKING TO HARRIET, EMMANUELLE has been harder to appreciate. Frida notices all the false parts: the new-car smell, the faint click when Emmanuelle turns her head, the chips in her eyes, the uniformity of her freckles, the lack of fuzz on her cheeks, her stubby eyelashes, her fingernails that never grow. Frida is a bad mother because her hugs convey anger. She is a bad mother because her affection is perfunctory. It is now December, and she has yet to complete a successful hug sequence.