The School for Good Mothers(6)

She sits up and rolls her aching shoulders, remembering the social worker and the mint-green room, being treated like a criminal. She pictures the officers entering this narrow dark house, finding frightened Harriet in the middle of the clutter. Perhaps they saw the mostly empty cupboards and refrigerator. Perhaps they saw crumbs on the countertop, balled-up paper towels, tea bags in the sink.

Frida and Gust each kept the furniture they’d brought into the marriage. Most of the nicer pieces were his. Most of the decor and artwork. They were in the process of redecorating their old place when he moved out. Her current house was painted in pastels by the owner, the living room pale yellow, the kitchen tangerine, the upstairs lavender and pale blue. Frida’s furniture and decorations clash with the walls: her black photo frames, her plum-and-navy-blue Persian rug, her olive-green slipper chair.

She hasn’t been able to keep any plants alive. The living room and kitchen walls are bare. In the upstairs hallway, she’s only hung a few photos of her parents and grandmothers, an attempt to remind Harriet of her ancestry, though Frida doesn’t know enough Mandarin to properly teach her the language. In Harriet’s room, in addition to a string of brightly colored fabric flags, she’s hung a photo of Gust from eight years ago. She’s wanted Harriet to see her father here, if only his picture, though she knows Gust doesn’t do the same. That is one of the terrible things about joint custody. A child should see her mother every day.

She checks her phone. She’s missed a call from her boss, who wants to know why she hasn’t responded to his emails. She calls back and apologizes, claims to have food poisoning. She requests another extension.

After showering, she calls her divorce lawyer, Renee. “I need you to squeeze me in today. Please. It’s an emergency.”



* * *



Frida’s narrow street is empty this afternoon, though on sunny days, the elderly neighbors like to gather on lawn chairs on the block’s tiny strip of sidewalk. She wishes they could see her now. She’s wearing tailored trousers, a silk blouse, wedge heels. She’s applied makeup, hidden her puffy eyelids behind thick tortoiseshell frames. The police officers and social worker should have seen her like this, competent and refined and trustworthy.

Renee’s office is on the fifth floor of a building on Chestnut Street, two blocks north of Rittenhouse Square. For a time last year, this office felt like Frida’s second home. Renee, like a big sister.

“Frida, come in. What happened? You look pale.”

Frida thanks Renee for meeting on such short notice. She looks around, remembering the time when Harriet drooled on the leather couch and picked every piece of lint off the rug. Renee is a heavyset brunette in her late forties who favors cowl-neck sweaters and dramatic turquoise jewelry. Another New York transplant. They initially bonded over being outsiders in a city where it feels as if everyone has known each other since kindergarten.

Renee remains standing as Frida explains what happened, leaning against her desk with crossed arms. She’s angrier than Gust and Susanna were, more shocked and disappointed. Frida feels as if she’s talking to her parents.

“Why didn’t you call me last night?”

“I didn’t understand how much trouble I was in. I fucked up. I know that. But it was a mistake.”

“You can’t call it that,” Renee says. “These people don’t care about your intentions. CPS has been getting more aggressive.” Two children died under their watch last year. The governor said there’s no margin of error. New rules are being implemented. There was a referendum in the last local election.

“What are you talking about? This wasn’t abuse. I’m not like those people. Harriet is a baby. She won’t remember.”

“Frida, leaving your baby home alone is no small thing. You understand that, don’t you? I know moms get stressed out and walk out the door sometimes, but you got caught.”

Frida looks down at her hands. She foolishly expected Renee to comfort her and offer encouragement, like she did during the divorce.

“We’re going to call this a lapse in judgment,” Renee says. “You can’t call it a mistake anymore. You have to take responsibility.”

Renee thinks getting custody back may take weeks. At worst, a few months. She’s heard CPS is moving much faster now. There’s some new focus on transparency and accountability, something about data collection, giving parents more opportunities to prove themselves. They’re trying to streamline the process nationally, so there’s less variation from state to state. The difference between states was always problematic. Still, so much depends on the judge.

“Why haven’t I heard about this?” Frida asks.

“You probably didn’t pay attention, because it didn’t apply to you. Why would you? You were just living your life.” Frida should focus on the long game: being reunited with Harriet, case file closed. Even when she regains custody, there will probably be a probation period with further monitoring, maybe a year. The judge may require Frida to complete a whole program—home inspection, parenting classes, therapy. Phone calls and supervised visits are better than nothing. Some parents get nothing. Even if she completes every step, there are unfortunately no guarantees. If, God forbid, worst-case scenario, the state finds her unfit and decides against reunification, they could terminate her parental rights.