Between sobs, she tells them that she’s fine. She has to go soon. “I’m sorry,” she says, “for everything.”
Who is the baby crying in the background? “It’s a recording,” she says, giving Emmanuelle her free hand.
* * *
Frida is too excited to sleep. Everything will be different after she speaks to Harriet. If she ever tells Harriet about this year, she won’t tell her how often she thought about death. Harriet doesn’t need to know that her mother is lonely and scared. Harriet doesn’t need to know that her mother thinks of rooftops and bell towers. Harriet doesn’t need to know that her mother often wonders if this might be the best use of her life, the only real way to protest the system.
When she was a child, she thought she’d live only until thirty. She planned to wait until her grandmothers passed but didn’t care about hurting her parents, wanted to punish them. She thought constantly about death when she was eleven, talked about it so often that her parents didn’t take her seriously.
“Go ahead and kill yourself,” her mother said, exasperated.
Gust cried when she told him about the year she wanted to die, but she didn’t admit that those thoughts returned when she was pregnant. She worried endlessly about the what-ifs of the genetic testing. The possibility that something might go wrong during labor, that anything that went wrong would be her fault.
But the tests were fine. Her baby was healthy. Her healthy baby will grow up to have a healthy mind. Better and purer than her mother’s. She has Harriet’s future to consider now. The girl she can become if her mother is living, the girl she’ll never be if her mother takes her own life.
* * *
The air is still damp from last night’s rain. Mist rises along Chapin Walk. Frida finds an empty bench beneath one of the magnolia trees in the stone courtyard. She and Emmanuelle talk about the flowers, identify the colors—pink and white. She asks Emmanuelle to notice how the colors blend.
Frida breaks off a leaf and hands it to her. “Don’t eat it. Listen, sweetie, you’re going to hear me talking to another little girl this morning. I’m going to talk to her a few times, and I need you to let me. It’s confusing, I know. But don’t worry. I am still your mother.”
Emmanuelle flings the leaf away. She pulls at her stroller straps, then reaches for Frida, calling, “Up up!”
Gust answers on the third ring. He apologizes for not calling back yesterday. He couldn’t leave work. Susanna misplaced her phone. By the time they tried Frida’s number, it was evening, and there was no way to leave a message. He stayed home today so she’d be sure to reach them. Frida tells him it’s fine. She thanks him and asks for Harriet.
They switch to FaceTime. As Harriet comes into view, Frida trembles, glancing from the screen to Emmanuelle. All these months, she thought they looked nothing alike, that there was something cruel in the set of Emmanuelle’s mouth, that of course Harriet is more beautiful and Emmanuelle isn’t real, but now that Harriet has lost weight, the resemblance between the girls is uncanny.
“Say hello, Hare-bear,” Gust says. “You remember Mommy?”
“No.” Harriet’s voice is calm and definitive. Frida digs her fist into her lap. She is a bad mother because she’s letting Harriet see her cry. She is a bad mother because Emmanuelle’s face is the one that feels more familiar. She is a bad mother because the girl on-screen, with her bangs cut too short, with her sharp chin and darker, curlier hair, feels less and less like hers.
Harriet and Gust hear Emmanuelle calling, “Mommy Mommy!”
“Who dat?” Harriet asks.
“It’s a recording.” Frida turns away from Emmanuelle, trying to focus solely on Harriet. “Bub, it’s me. It’s Mommy. I’m so glad I get to talk to you before your birthday. Happy, happy birthday! Eight more days. You’re my big girl! So big! I’m so sorry I haven’t called. I wanted to. You know that, right? I’d call you every day if I could. I love you so much. I miss you. I miss you all the way to the moon. To Jupiter.” She holds up a pinkie. “Remember?”
Harriet stares back at her, indifferent. Frida lets her tears run. “Remember, we say, I promise you the moon and stars. I love you more than galaxies. Then we hook pinkies.”
“Gala-seas.” Harriet sounds out the word.
“That’s right, bub. And who am I?”
They test possibilities for several minutes. Frida is not a bubble. She’s not an apple. She’s not a spoon. She’s not Daddy or Sue-Sue.