* * *
In the days that follow, the instructors add distractions: sirens, appliances, European dance music. The noise gives Frida headaches, headaches make her dizzy, dizziness makes her forgetful.
She can’t sleep for the ringing in her ears. The progress she’s made falls away. Emmanuelle likes hiding behind furniture. She’s crawled into kitchen cabinets. During some drills, Frida opens the door, then remembers to go back. Other times, she gets to the front porch before realizing what she’s missing.
During drills, the dolls respond to the commotion by trying to destroy things. They tear at sofa cushions and jump on coffee tables and bang remote controls on every available surface. After Beth’s doll begins leaking blue liquid from her ears, the dolls are given headphones. Still, they cry.
* * *
Ms. Knight warned them that birthdays would be painful. On March 11, the morning of Harriet’s second birthday, Frida wakes at dawn. Roxanne gets up with her. It was Roxanne’s idea to have a sunrise celebration. Roxanne’s mother used to wake her super early on her birthday, would decorate the whole house while she slept. Roxanne will do the same for Isaac next year.
Frida opens her neglected atonement journal to her most recent entry: a wobbly line drawing of Harriet. She’s drawn Harriet as she used to look, with cherub cheeks and a cap of dark curls. She props the journal on her desk. They whisper-sing “Happy Birthday” to the drawing.
Roxanne hugs her. “Eight months left.”
“God.” Frida rests her forehead on Roxanne’s shoulder.
Roxanne speaks to the drawing. “Harriet, your mama misses you. She’s a nice lady. A little bossy sometimes, but she’s okay. We’re taking care of each other.” She holds out her hands to Frida, pretending she’s shielding a piece of cake with a candle. “Make a wish.”
Frida pretends to blow out the candle. “Thank you for humoring me.” She tells Roxanne about Harriet’s birth, how the doctors said “What a pretty baby” when they pulled her out. How she started weeping when she heard Harriet’s first cry.
Frida tries to remember what Harriet looked like in the phone. She didn’t say happy birthday enough times when she had the chance. She didn’t deliver any wisdom. She should have told Harriet that they’ll speak again in April. She needs to know if Harriet forgives her for not calling back, if Gust has explained why she can’t.
Her body aches all day. She develops shooting pains in her left hip. She has trouble lifting Emmanuelle, running out the door with her. The fastest mother is the best mother, the instructors say.
At bedtime, Frida hides beneath the covers and chews off her cuticles. She has a doll that looks like Harriet, but Harriet should also have a doll that looks like her. Harriet should have a mother doll, sleep with it and tell it secrets, take it everywhere.
12.
MOTHERS ARE FALLING IN LOVE. Inevitable as the season. April, the sky an impossible blue. Giggling can be heard in the dining hall. New couples sit close, touching shoulders, elbows, hair, fingertips, blushing with pleasure.
Mothers in love live for the weekends. They stroll next to the fence or bring their atonement journals to the stone courtyard and write side by side on their bellies in the grass. They talk of pet peeves and hobbies. Parents. Past relationships. Money. Attitudes about monogamy. Whether they want more children. Whether they’ll be able to find a job or a place to live after they leave.
They’re supposed to be cultivating purity of mind and spirit, and if they’re caught fraternizing, it will be added to their files. They could be expelled. But it’s easy to hide burgeoning romances. The mothers can survive on so little. A hand on the cheek. A lingering glance. For most, nearness is enough. There are romances between classmates and roommates, mothers who’ve met via talk circle or cleaning crew, waiting in the Sunday phone line, or crying in the bathroom afterward.
There are perhaps only a dozen actual couples, but rumor and innuendo suggest more. Some crushes are unrequited. Some are ruined by gossip. There have been jealousies and love triangles. Roxanne says mothers in the showers have been using their hands. Frida asks how this is possible.
“Ladies move fast. There are some blind spots, you know. Someone pinched me last night. Tweaked my hip. While I was brushing my teeth. It was kind of funny.”
“And?”
“And I thought about it. But I wouldn’t. Not with her.” She motions for Frida to join her by the window. They speak while staring straight ahead at the floodlights, backs turned to the cameras, barely moving their lips. Roxanne asks what Frida thinks of Meryl. Meryl is cute, Roxanne says.