* * *
Holidays that enhance the dolls’ quality of life continue to be celebrated. On Easter Sunday, mothers with dolls eight and under participate in an egg hunt.
Emmanuelle insists on being carried to the toddler hunting grounds outside Pierce. Frida follows the procession to the lawn, her arms soon growing tired. Though she’d rather be calling home today, Emmanuelle is better company than she used to be. Her sentences are becoming more complex, her concerns more philosophical. The other day, she patted Frida’s back, looking for a knob, became anxious when she couldn’t find one. Frida explained that there are different kinds of families. Some children are born from your body, some are adopted, some come by marriage, some are grown in labs. Some, like Emmanuelle, were invented by scientists. The children invented by scientists are the most precious.
“It is a privilege to be your mother,” Frida said.
At the top of the hill, they line up behind Beth and Meryl and their dolls. Frida says hello. The younger women barely look up. They’re talking about a restaurant Frida has never been to in South Philly. Easter services. How they dressed up their babies last year. Meryl confesses that she stuck one of those tacky satin headbands on Ocean and let her eat an entire marshmallow chick.
Frida carries Emmanuelle to the back of the line, refusing to feel jealous. These are not forever friendships. There’s no point to these friendships besides survival. Meryl won’t shut up about Beth during cleaning crew. Beth has been telling her to make the green-eyed guard break up with his girlfriend. She’s been telling Meryl to get pregnant as a way of getting out early.
The beginning of the hunt is anticlimactic. The eggs are easy to spot in the short grass. Toddler dolls investigate the rope barriers and dart around their mothers’ legs. Some take off running with their arms outstretched, feeling the wind in their hair. For a few beautiful minutes, no one is crying. Frida leads Emmanuelle down the hill. She directs Emmanuelle to a green egg, a white one.
There’s shouting in the distance. Dolls fighting. Mothers arguing. Women in pink lab coats blowing whistles. Emmanuelle plunks herself in the grass. The morning is bright and cloudless. Frida plays with the part in Emmanuelle’s hair. She wonders what the weather is like in the city, if Harriet is wearing pastels today, if Gust and Susanna will take Harriet to the zoo like they did last year, if Harriet is now old enough for face painting.
She would have dressed Harriet in yellow. She is a bad mother for never making Harriet a basket like the one the dolls were given. She is a bad mother for never taking Harriet to an egg hunt. Easter was one of the holidays when her parents tried hard to be American. There was a trip to St. Louis when she was in elementary school, a frilly pink dress. Her mother had her wear a white straw hat, even though white is the Chinese color of mourning.
One of the four-year-old boy dolls whizzes past them. He’s not supposed to be in the toddler zone. He knocks over several younger dolls. Their mothers pull them to safety. The boy’s mother follows close behind.
Frida leaps to her feet. She yells, “Stop!”
The boy is going for Emmanuelle’s basket. Though she’s expressed no interest in it until now, once Emmanuelle sees what the boy wants, she grabs hold of the basket and won’t let go. They both pull as hard as they can. The boy wins. Emmanuelle scrambles to her feet and chases after him.
The boy turns around. He raises his arm. With Frida two steps away, he strikes Emmanuelle with the flat of his hand, hitting the top of her cheekbone.
Frida grabs Emmanuelle. She checks Emmanuelle’s face, kisses her forehead. Within seconds, a bruise begins to form. Again, there’s a delay before Emmanuelle realizes that she’s hurt. Frida feels Emmanuelle’s bruise in her stomach. She feels it between her eyes. She delivers the hug to soothe physical upset, the hug of encouragement, five more kisses.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie. I love you. I love you so much. It’s going to be okay. There, there. There, there.”
The other mother asks her son to apologize. “I think we need to check in with our friend,” she says.
Her tone is timid. Deferential. Frida doesn’t understand why the woman isn’t shouting. Children like him need to be reprimanded. She carries Emmanuelle over to the boy and grabs his wrist.
“Look what you did! Look at her face. Do you see this bruise? You say sorry to my daughter right now!”
* * *
At talk circle that night, Frida counts fifty-three other women. Eighteen are here because of the egg hunt, including Tamara, the sour-faced white mother of the boy who hit Emmanuelle.