11.
LINDA ISN’T EATING. SHE WANTS her trip to talk circle struck from her file. Same with her zero for Unit 2: Fundamentals of Food and Medicine. She wants to call her lawyer, her social worker, Gabriel’s foster parents, the detectives. It’s not her fault they lost her son.
It’s Sunday dinner, the beginning of March, and Linda’s list of demands is growing. The trio of middle-aged white women have joined her hunger strike in solidarity. The sight of them fawning over Linda offends most everyone. They sit with their empty trays in the center of the dining hall, sipping water and discussing objectives. Yesterday, Maura, the alcoholic mother of five who burned her daughter gently, spent all of breakfast stroking Linda’s arm and saying things like, “You are not invisible.”
Linda’s martyrdom has earned her new haters. The mothers feel for Linda, they really do, but they haven’t forgotten how she fucked with Lucretia, and they’re sick of listening to her cry. Some say the only reason she hasn’t been punished is because of those white ladies. Some say Linda just wants attention. Some say all four strikers are secretly snacking at bedtime. Some say Gabriel is better off on the street than he ever was with her.
Frida should worry more about Gabriel, but she’s too busy missing Harriet and imagining a fiery death for her counselor. It’s been six months since Harriet was taken away, over four months since Frida last held her, a full season in uniform.
Frida has been shunning Beth all weekend, encouraged Meryl to do the same. Meryl accused her of being petty. Their fragile alliance fell apart after Beth finished first on evaluation day, Meryl placed a surprising second, and Frida finished third.
Beth hasn’t been gracious about her success. She adopts some of the school’s language even when they’re alone. The arc of learning. Selfishness as a form of soul corruption. She said, “I can help you, Frida. I don’t think this needs to be a competition.”
Though the mothers were indeed graded on a curve and while Frida’s maternal instincts have improved, both quantitative and qualitative measures kept Frida out of the top two. Anxiety remains a problem. “A lack of confidence,” the counselor said. Moments of hesitation that, in aggregate, will impede a child’s sense of security. Frida’s motherese during the feeding test, though joyful, was insufficiently empowering. Other mistakes were more significant. She pressed too hard on Emmanuelle’s breastbone as she delivered CPR, at first missing the spot where a real heart would have been.
“Harriet is doing fine,” the counselor said. “I spoke to Ms. Torres a few days ago. She thinks having a break from calling you has been good for Harriet, and I agree. Have you ever considered that speaking to you, and seeing you like this, may be retraumatizing her? You’re not looking well, Frida. You need to start taking better care of yourself.”
* * *
The mothers are changing with the weather. Dozens more have lost phone privileges, and this weekend, amid the first signs of spring, there’s been much gazing out of windows and talk of escape.
Frida listens to Meryl’s escape talk during the day, and Roxanne’s in the evening. Since Roxanne lost phone privileges, she’s considered cozying up to a guard. She’s considered the fence. It can’t possibly go all the way around. Her latest ideas are about water. The river that separates them from the bad fathers, who are supposedly being trained in an old hospital ten miles away, won’t lead anywhere useful. She’s a strong swimmer, but after the woods, then what? Miles of red-state bullshit. Who’s going to help a Black woman standing on the side of the road?
Frida worries that Roxanne might get shot. They’ve talked about this. And about whether Black fathers are dying at the other school. “Parenting while Black,” Roxanne said. Like walking while Black. Waiting while Black. Driving while Black.
Tonight, Frida doesn’t let Roxanne go there. “You can’t say it, and you can’t think it. Isaac is the light, remember? Go to sleep.”
“I thought you were my friend.”
“I am. I’m saying, you missed one call. I haven’t talked to Harriet since January.”
“Sometimes I really hate you.” Roxanne flips onto her stomach, buries her face in her pillow, and begins crying herself to sleep.
Frida folds her pillow around her head to block out Roxanne’s shudders. They had to change the blue liquid again last Friday. Instead of dissociating, Emmanuelle screamed the whole time. No, no, no, no, no. Ms. Russo held her arms. Ms. Khoury held her legs. They now perform the procedure in front of the whole class. The observing mothers had to narrate and comfort. Looking, the instructors said, will help the dolls understand their role here.