“Hope there’s mold,” Lucretia says.
“Maybe she’ll have to use her bare hands,” Beth adds. She and Lucretia tap forks.
Linda shows up to dinner after the food has been packed away. The dining hall staff gives her one apple and three packets of crackers.
“Did anyone save me food?” she asks.
Her classmates make excuses.
* * *
Another weekend passes. Sunday calls are disrupted by Internet problems. On Monday, the dolls emerge from the equipment room with the glazed, faraway look of crash survivors. Teen Mom’s doll has gone mute. Emmanuelle recoils from Frida’s touch. The cohorts’ motherese reaches an unbearably high pitch as they try to break through to the doll-children who now regard them as strangers.
Frida reads a picture book about two pigs who are best friends, but Emmanuelle pushes her away and crawls over to Lucretia and her doll. Frida and Lucretia watch dumbfounded as the dolls pat each other’s hands and faces, looking for dimples.
“Boo-boo,” Emmanuelle says.
“Hurt me is,” Lucretia’s doll replies, rubbing her belly.
“Help.” Emmanuelle looks up at Frida. “Mommy. Help.”
To cheer up the dolls, the instructors surprise the class with an hour of outdoor time. They distribute navy blue snowsuits and hats and mittens and boots. Much effort is expended in bundling the dolls.
Ms. Khoury leads them to a roped-off section of the quad. The first minutes of outdoor time are quiet as the dolls simply breathe, amazed to see their clouds of breath floating away. They stare into the sun. They slowly spin and fall. They see and touch snow for the first time, their faces filled with wonder. Frida remembers Harriet catching snowflakes, Harriet crying when they disappeared.
Emmanuelle points at the snow and asks, “Eat?”
“No, no.” Frida prevents her from bringing the snow to her lips. “It’s made of water. Frozen water. But you don’t eat water. I do, but you don’t. I’m pretty sure it would make your insides hurt.”
“Me eat!”
“Please. Just play with it. Don’t eat it. It’s not good for you.”
Linda and Beth and their dolls are making snowmen. Lucretia is teaching her doll how to make a snow angel. Her doll is being fussy, doesn’t want to wear a hat or mittens. Every time Lucretia puts them on, the doll takes them off again. Lucretia tries to reason with her.
“Little bug, you need to wear these to stay warm.”
“No! No want!”
“Sweetie, I’m telling you, you’ll get cold. Listen to Mommy. I need you to cooperate. I’ll be so proud of you if you can cooperate. I know you can do it.”
The doll stamps her feet. She begins to cry, cries and screams until Lucretia gives up and lets her remove her hat and mittens. The doll throws herself down, then flips onto her back and wriggles, trying to make another angel. Lucretia shows her how to move her arms and legs at the same time in smooth arcs. The doll gets snow in her locks, snow on her neck.
“I wish we could do this every day,” Teen Mom tells Frida.
Sunlight glints off the windows of the other classroom buildings. Teen Mom’s hair falls into her face. Frida tucks it behind her ear. Teen Mom won’t wear a hat either, no matter how often Frida reminds her. The other day, they were talking about their routines at home. Teen Mom admitted that she rarely took Ocean to the playground. Not even when the weather was nice. She couldn’t stand the way other moms looked at her.
“Those looks,” she said, grateful that Frida instantly knew what she meant.
With their bare hands, they show their dolls how to pack the snow tight to make a secure base for the snowman. Emmanuelle rubs snow on Frida’s cheeks. The snow stings, and some falls inside her collar, but Frida accepts it gratefully. They’re rekindling warmth and intimacy. She’s happy to be here, happy to see Emmanuelle returning to normal. They’re busy rolling the snowman’s head when they hear a scream.
* * *
Playtime is over. The others wait in the hallway while the instructors try to revive Lucretia’s doll. When they’re allowed to enter, they find Lucretia’s doll laid out on the instructors’ desk, her face covered by Ms. Russo’s pink lab coat. They hide their dolls’ eyes. No one is prepared to explain the concept of death.
Lucretia sits on the floor, her back against the desk. She doesn’t look up when her classmates enter. Ms. Khoury carries the dead doll away, the doll’s head lolling at an authentic angle.
The other dolls point at Lucretia and ask what’s wrong.