Each mothering station has a white plastic high chair on top of a circular splat mat. The dolls are wearing bibs. The mothers are wearing gloves and goggles. The dolls don’t have functional digestive systems, but they have taste buds. They’ve been set to a high level of hunger and food curiosity.
One week has been allocated for feeding mastery. Demonstrating with Meryl’s doll, Ms. Khoury places a single pea on the high-chair tray and asks the doll to notice it. “Can you try it? Can you taste it for me?” She tickles the doll’s chin. “Auntie is so proud of you! Children who try new foods are curious and brave. They lead richer, more dynamic lives. Don’t you want to lead a rich, dynamic life?”
Ms. Khoury describes the nutrients contained in peas, the effect of those nutrients on the doll’s growth and development, the work that went into growing the peas and harvesting them and transporting them to this classroom.
“You’re picking it up! You’re opening your mouth. You’re tasting it! Good, good! Taste is one of the five senses! Swallow for Auntie now, yes, swallow, yes yes yes! I’m so proud of you! What a good girl you are! What a fulfilling life you’ll lead!”
She cheers as the doll swallows a single blue pea, then repeats the process. As far as Frida can tell, the ratio is ten minutes of motherese to one pea. It takes the mothers even longer, with a lower success rate.
* * *
Winter is getting to everyone. There’s been a second doll casualty. During outdoor activity time, one of the eleven-year-old-boy dolls ran for the tree line and threw himself against the electrified fence. His silicone skin melted, the burned patches making it look as if he was dipped in acid. His mother was blamed for the suicide. She was charged for the damaged equipment and received a new doll, who, her classmates say, won’t even speak to her. Reunification with her real child seems doubtful.
Frida would like to tell the family court judge that last summer, Harriet’s favorite food was strawberries. She remembers slicing strawberries and handing them to Harriet one piece at a time, Harriet casually dropping the strawberries on the floor, Harriet examining and prodding and mashing every piece of fruit until the juice ran down her arms.
Sometimes she let Harriet sit in her lap while she ate, though that was even messier. Harriet once draped individual noodles on her head like a headband. She loved wiping food in her hair. She ate so much challah bread that Frida called her “the bread monster.”
They haven’t spoken in four weeks. Chinese New Year’s Eve passes, then New Year’s Day. There are no oranges or incense, no Harriet in a padded silk vest. Frida marks the occasion privately, saying prayers for her parents and grandparents, for Harriet. For their health. Their well-being. She adds a prayer for Emmanuelle. The prayer translates as Preserve them.
* * *
The counselor checks Frida for signs of hopelessness and despair. How long has it been since the last call? Five weeks? Ms. Gibson has noticed her, Beth, and Meryl hanging around the computer lab on Sundays.
“We were just trying to support the others. We weren’t bothering anyone.”
“I know you miss Harriet very much. But why torture yourself?”
The mothers have been in uniform for almost three months. Frida tells the counselor that February has been different. The day Harriet turned twenty-three months old, there was zero pinching. She persuaded Emmanuelle to chew and swallow six pretend green beans. She doesn’t mention that she’s been gazing longingly at the bell tower, that she’s wondered about using a bedsheet. If she tried to hang herself, she might only turn into a vegetable, kept alive at grave cost to her family.
What does she need to do to regain phone privileges? How high does she have to score on the next evaluation? Food and medicine skill sets are being tested separately. For cooking skills, she scored third out of four. Her counselor tells her to be more ambitious. Not last is not good enough. Try for the top two.
“And what if I can’t do that?”
“I find your negativity very troubling, Frida. There is no can’t. Do you ever hear us talking about can’t? You have to tell yourself, I can! I can! Take can’t out of your vocabulary. A good mother can do anything.”
* * *
Despite everyone’s abysmal performance during feeding mastery, lessons proceed on schedule. High chairs and splat mats have been moved to storage. Rocking chairs and cribs have been moved back into the classroom. The mothers are learning to nurse a sick child back to health.
“A mother’s love can cure most common illnesses,” Ms. Khoury says.