Visions of headless Susanna return. In early January, the school has Frida on record saying, “How dare you! She doesn’t need to detox! She’s just a toddler!” Had they consulted the pediatrician? How could Gust let this happen? But Gust was no help. He said Harriet was having tummy aches. Her digestion had improved. They all feel better now that they’re eating clean.
The counselor thought Frida overreacted. Her tone was disrespectful. Her anger was unjustified. “Your daughter is changing,” the counselor said. “It’s a bittersweet experience for all parents. You need to accept it.”
All children lose their chubby cheeks eventually. Harriet may be having a growth spurt. She may be more active. How can Frida use terms like starvation? Gust and Susanna would never harm Harriet. Frida only talks to Harriet for a few minutes every week.
“How much do you really know about her life right now?” the counselor asked.
Frida knows she’s not imagining things. Harriet can digest wheat just fine, and the adorable-belly-and-jowls period is not supposed to be over yet. She wanted to tell the counselor that Harriet has had those cheeks since birth, that her round face defined her, made her look more Chinese. Like Frida. Like Frida’s mother.
During intermediate naptime, her imagination goes wild. She pictures Harriet asking for bread and being denied. Harriet reduced to bones. Susanna will stunt Harriet’s growth, will hinder Harriet’s brain development, will give Harriet an eating disorder, will teach Harriet to hate herself before she can even speak a complete sentence. Self-loathing may lead preteen Harriet to suicidal ideation. Suicidal ideation may lead to cutting. Why was there no way for her to report Susanna? She is the one doing lasting damage.
Nap wars have all the mothers on edge. Frida is chewing her cuticles again and sleeping three hours a night. She’s irritated by everything Emmanuelle does. She’s dared to complain about Emmanuelle to Roxanne. She’s risked these complaints being overheard in the shower line or on the walk to the dining hall.
After an especially trying day, she says, “Mommy doesn’t want to play, not now. Now is naptime. Close your eyes, please.”
When Emmanuelle talks back, saying, “No no no no no,” Frida snaps. She reaches down into the crib and pinches Emmanuelle’s arm, denting her silicone flesh.
“Oh my God.” Frida steps back.
The instructors haven’t noticed yet. Her classmates are occupied. Emmanuelle doesn’t cry immediately. She looks from her arm to Frida’s hands, from Frida’s hands to Frida’s face. Her mouth falls open in a stunned, heartbroken O.
* * *
Talk circle is for mothers whose classroom behavior falls on a continuum of aggression, from smaller outbursts—like Frida’s—to mothers who threaten their dolls with the discipline they once meted out to their children. The group meets in the gymnasium after dinner. The numbers change every night depending on the day’s infractions, usually going up around the holidays and children’s birthdays, before evaluations, and when the mothers have PMS. There are seventeen women tonight, including Frida. In one lit corner, they sit on cold metal folding chairs, arranged in a circle. The effect of the overhead light amid all the darkness is garish. They could be stars of a slasher film or the world’s saddest hip-hop video.
Ms. Gibson moderates. The mothers must state their names and offenses and discuss their troubled pasts and reflect on the harm they’ve done to their children and their dolls. Past behavior is the best indicator of future behavior. Presumably their transgressions are rooted in a troubled history. They may be succumbing to old patterns, which the school will help them break. After their confessions, the mothers must repeat the mantra of talk circle: “I am a narcissist. I am a danger to my child.”
Some mothers confess to prostitution. Poverty. Drug addiction. Marijuana mostly, some opioids. Drug dealing. Homelessness. Several are alcoholics, including one of the middle-aged white women, Maura, a well-preserved brunette with a breathy voice, who started drinking at eleven. Stole money and booze. Would hang out with teenagers, wake up covered in dirt and blood. She has five children. She chuckles, says she does everything alcoholically. She’s here for problems with her youngest: her thirteen-year-old daughter, Kylie.
“She called me a wasted old bitch. So I slapped her. She always threatened to report me, and one day, while I was at work, she called the hotline. CPS found cuts on her thighs. I didn’t know she was cutting. She told them I drove her to it.