“You mean, if…？ I guess not. You know, she’ll be twenty-one months in a few days.” Frida’s eyes water. On her phone, there are videos for every month’s milestone. The videos were partly for her, partly for her parents. She’d sit Harriet in her high chair, state the day and Harriet’s age, then ask her for an update. The last one: “You’re eighteen months today! How do you feel about it?”
Teen Mom notices Frida dabbing her eyes. She drops her shovel. She grabs Frida and delivers the hug to soothe the spirit, whispering, “There, there.”
* * *
Ms. Khoury and Ms. Russo begin timing them. The mothers soothe their dolls in two hours, then one hour, then forty-five minutes, then thirty minutes. Ten minutes to silence is the goal.
Evaluation day arrives. The first unit, since it covers so much material, will have an additional evaluation in January. The mothers sit cross-legged in a circle, squirming dolls in their laps. Each pair will take a turn in the center. The instructors will evaluate the combination of hugs, kisses, and affirmations. The quality of the hugs: too long, too short, just right. How many were required. The mother’s confidence and composure. How long it took to quiet the doll. Final scores and written assessments and video clips will be entered into their files. Anyone who goes over ten minutes will receive a zero.
Ms. Knight comes to observe, has so many more classes to visit before dinner. “If only I could clone myself,” she says. The instructors laugh appreciatively.
The mothers give them the side-eye. The other day, Lucretia asked them if they have children, and the answer was no. Ms. Russo said that she mothers her three dogs. Ms. Khoury told them that she mothers her nephews.
“Not everyone is lucky enough to have children,” Ms. Khoury said.
Lucretia’s questioning of authority was added to her file. Outside of class, Lucretia called them imposters. She told Frida that it was like taking swim lessons from people who’ve never been underwater. How can anyone compare pets to children? Being a mother is nothing like being an aunt. Only someone who doesn’t have kids would say that.
The mothers wave at Ms. Knight, who looks yet more disturbing during the day. Parts of her face look eighteen, other parts look fifty. She has the round pink cheeks of a baby. Frida stares at her freckled, veiny hands, her diamond ring. At orientation, she told them that she has four daughters. One is an equestrian. Another is in medical school. Another is doing humanitarian-aid work in Niger. Another is studying law. She has plenty of experience raising good women.
Ms. Russo takes Lucretia’s doll to the equipment room to be harmed. Frida, Beth, and Teen Mom wish Lucretia luck as she moves to the center of the circle.
Frida tells Emmanuelle that today is special. “Don’t be scared,” she says. Since their breakthrough last week, she’s been thinking of Emmanuelle as her little friend. An orphan. A foundling. Perhaps she’s not a pretend daughter but a temporary one. Emmanuelle came to be hers because of a war.
She wants to tell Emmanuelle that she’s thinking about health. Harriet was too sick to talk last Sunday. The whole household had been ill. The promised flu shots didn’t happen. Gust said this year’s flu shot is only 20 percent effective. Susanna thinks exposure to germs will strengthen Harriet’s immune system. She doesn’t like washing Harriet’s hands too often, doesn’t want Harriet to miss all the good microbiomes. The school has Frida on record raising her voice, calling Gust irresponsible and Susanna crazy, referring to Susanna’s reservations about the flu shot as “naturopath garbage.”
The instructors let Ms. Knight call time. Diagnosing the source of the upset uses precious minutes. The waiting mothers cheer from the sidelines: “You can do this!” “Pick her up!” “Keep going!”
Lucretia finishes in nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Beth and Teen Mom go over ten minutes.
Ms. Russo takes Emmanuelle. Frida moves to the center. She tries to summon all the love she has to give, the love she would give Harriet. She unfurrows her brow. She hears Emmanuelle crying. She crouches. When they review the footage, her face should be beatific, like the Madonnas in Italy, their arms angled around their babies, their foreheads bathed in light.
* * *
The cohorts divide into cliques: those who passed, those who didn’t. Frida squeaked by with a time of nine minutes and fifty-three seconds. Linda finished in first place. Six minutes and twenty-nine seconds, she tells anyone who asks. In exchange for extra food and toiletries, she dispenses tips during meals and talks strategy before bedtime. There’s sometimes a line of mothers outside her dorm room.