Meryl is twitchier than usual. Her counselor is threatening to suspend phone privileges for another month. Meryl wants to run. The school recently changed the rules about leaving voluntarily. Quitting is no longer an option.
Meryl turns nineteen in April, can’t spend her birthday in this place. And Ocean turns two in May.
Frida reminds her that Lucretia would trade places with any of them. If Lucretia were here, she’d still have a chance to get Brynn back. She wouldn’t be on the registry forever. If Lucretia were here, Linda would have actual competition.
“We’re going to pass. They’ll let us call home next weekend.”
“You don’t really believe that,” Meryl says. “What, you think they’re going to grade us on a curve? I don’t think so. We are so totally fucked.”
“No, we’re not. You can’t think that way.”
Meryl says she and Ocean’s father were going to find jobs on the Jersey Shore this summer. She was going to be a cocktail waitress, earn money for college. After she gets out of this place, she’ll go to college to study computer shit. Maybe they’ll move to Silicon Valley with Ocean and develop apps.
When she looks to Frida for affirmation, Frida says it’s a great idea. Practical. She resists mentioning the cost of living in San Francisco. Or anywhere in the Bay Area. The cost of childcare. The many barriers to entry. Young people should be allowed to dream.
During a break, Meryl shows Frida a locket. A belated Valentine’s gift from the green-eyed guard.
Frida tells her to get rid of it. The locket looks as if it cost $10.99 and came from CVS.
“No way, it’s mine. He did something nice for me. What? Don’t make that face. Why can’t you let me enjoy this?”
“What if you get caught?”
“This is nothing. He’s been taking pictures of me too. And videos.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Duh, my face isn’t in them. I already thought of that. I’m not stupid.”
“Tell him to delete them. And delete them from the cloud.”
“You’re paranoid. And jealous. Also, seriously middle-aged. Beth thinks it’s cool that he got me something.”
“And you’re going to listen to her? Beth thinks it’s cool to schedule her own overdose. How do you know he hasn’t shown anyone?” She wants to tell Meryl that years ago, she’d drawn the line at photos, how she’s grateful that there’s no record. Someday, somehow, she’ll raise Harriet so that she will not allow her naked body to be photographed, not her vagina, not her asshole. Harriet will never take naked selfies and send them to boys.
“He wouldn’t do that,” Meryl says.
“Everyone does that.”
Meryl looks wounded. “Fine, Mom. I’ll talk to him.”
* * *
The mothers receive talking points for their Sunday calls, a change in procedure that’s been rumored for weeks. They’re supposed to ask open-ended questions about their child’s education, home life, and friendships. They’re not allowed to mention the subject of time or how long they’ve been here or when they’ll go home. Drawing attention to parental absence may be triggering. Not everyone will pass. Not all families will be reunited. It’s important not to make false promises. False promises will damage a child’s ability to trust. They’re not allowed to ask about their child’s meetings with their social worker or experience in court-mandated therapy. They must praise their child’s resilience. They must thank the child’s guardian. They can say “I love you” once, and “I miss you” once.
“Make it count, ladies,” Ms. Gibson says.
At the end of February, Linda’s son Gabriel is still missing. He’s been gone for a full month. The women in pink lab coats tell Linda to use the available resources: her counselor, the twenty-four-hour hotline, the other mothers. They urge her to sign up for extra counseling. They offer her meditative coloring books.
The night before the medicine evaluation, Linda gets sent to talk circle for shaking her doll. The class was working on seizure protocol. Linda claimed she was trying to bring her doll back to life. The instructors said she was being too aggressive. They thought she was on the verge of something worse, that she might hit her doll if they didn’t intervene.
Linda breaks down at dinner. “I am not a hitter,” she sobs.
Beth and Meryl pass her their napkins. Linda’s cries are loud and shameful. Everyone is staring at their table. Frida pours Linda a glass of water. She says a secret prayer. For Gabriel. For his siblings. For their current and future parents. For their current and future homes.