The School for Good Mothers(8)
The man with the potbelly says, “We’ll be getting to know you.”
She asks if they’ll be installing anything in her car, in her cubicle at work. They assure her that they’re only focusing on her home life, as if knowing that they’ll only watch her eat and sleep and breathe should make her feel better. When they have enough material, they say, they’ll use the footage to analyze her feelings.
What does that mean? How is that possible? In the articles she found online, the CPS representative said the new program would eliminate human error. Decisions would be made more efficiently. They’d be able to correct for subjectivity or bias, implement a set of universal standards.
The men photograph each room, pausing occasionally to point and whisper. Frida calls in late to work. They check her cupboards and refrigerator, every drawer, every closet, the tiny backyard, the bathroom, the basement. They shine flashlights inside the washer and dryer.
They riffle through her clothes, lift the lid of her jewelry box. They touch her pillows and bedding. They shake the bars of Harriet’s crib and run their hands over the mattress and flip it over. They paw through Harriet’s blankets and toys. Frida lingers in the doorway as they inspect each room, fighting the urge to protest the intrusion. It feels as if, at any moment, they’ll ask to inspect her body. They might ask her to open her mouth, note the condition of her teeth. The state might need to know if she has any cavities.
The men carry in a stepladder. They clear cobwebs from the ceiling. After they finish installing the last camera, they call their home office and switch on the live feed.
2.
FRIDA IS TEMPTED NOT TO go home tonight, considers getting a room at the campus inn, finding a last-minute rental on Airbnb, taking an impromptu trip to visit long-neglected friends in Brooklyn. Sleeping in her cubicle is a possibility, though this afternoon, her boss noticed that the Harriet photos on her desk were turned facedown and started asking questions.
“I was trying to concentrate,” she lied.
With her boss out of sight, she righted the photos and stroked them and apologized: Harriet as a tightly swaddled newborn; Harriet grabbing at her first-birthday cake; Harriet in heart-shaped sunglasses and a plaid romper at the beach. That face. The only thing she ever did right.
She stays until eleven, long after the building empties, until her fear of getting mugged on campus outweighs her fear of what awaits her at home. She called Renee throughout the day. Renee was alarmed to hear about the cameras but said, with a heavy sigh, that the rules are always changing. Avoiding the house isn’t an option. Nor is arming herself with information. Not that Frida found much online. Only the usual think pieces about experiments using big data, social media addiction, the unholy relationship between the government and tech companies. The live-streaming of childbirth and violent crime. Controversies about infant influencers on YouTube. Whether secret nanny cams were a civil rights violation. Smart socks and blankets that measure a baby’s heart rate and oxygen levels and the quality of their sleep. A smart bassinet that sleep trains your baby for you.
Everyone has been observed through their devices for years. CCTV cameras have been installed in most American cities, the government inspired by lowered crime rates in London and Beijing. Who isn’t using facial recognition software? At least, Renee said, these are cameras you can see. Frida should assume that they’re listening. Anything a normal person might do could be interpreted as defiance. Don’t leave too many footprints, Renee said. Stop it with the Google searches. They can tap into Frida’s work computer too. She shouldn’t be discussing her case on the phone.
Renee has heard rumors about CPS revamping its educational arm. They’ve been updating their parenting classes. Silicon Valley is supposedly contributing money and resources. CPS has been on a hiring spree. They’re offering much higher salaries than before. Unfortunately, Frida lives in the test state, the test county.
“I wish I had more details,” Renee went on. “If this had happened a year ago or even a few months ago, I’d be in a much better position to guide you.” She paused. “Let’s talk in person. Please, Frida, try to stay calm.”
* * *
The house, which has never felt like hers, feels even less so tonight. After eating a microwave dinner, after straightening each room, mopping the dirt tracked in by CPS, closing drawers, folding Harriet’s bedding, and rearranging the toys, Frida retreats to her cramped bathroom, wishing she could collapse her life into this room, sleep and eat here. She showers and scrubs her face, applies toners and moisturizers and antiaging serums. She combs her wet hair, clips and files her nails, bandages her torn cuticles. She tweezes her eyebrows. Sitting on the edge of the tub, she pokes through the bucket of bath toys: the wind-up walrus, the duckie, the orange octopus that’s lost its eyeballs. She plays with Harriet’s robe. She rubs Harriet’s lotion on her hands so she can wear the coconut scent to sleep.
Though it’s a warm evening, she layers a hooded sweatshirt over her nightgown. Cringing at the thought of the men touching her pillows, she decides to change her sheets.
She gets into bed and pulls up her hood and ties it under her chin, wishing she had a shroud. Soon, the state will discover that she rarely has visitors. She lost touch with her New York friends after the divorce, hasn’t made new ones, hasn’t been trying, spends most of her solo evenings in the company of her phone. She sometimes eats cereal for dinner. When she can’t sleep, she does stomach crunches and leg lifts for hours. If the insomnia gets bad, she takes Unisom and drinks. If Harriet is here, just one shot of bourbon. If she’s alone, three or four in quick succession. Thank God those men didn’t find any empties. Each morning, before breakfast, she measures her waist. She pinches her flabby triceps and inner thighs. She smiles at herself in the mirror to remind herself that she used to be pretty. She needs to quit every bad habit, can’t appear vain or selfish or unstable, as if she can’t take care of herself, was perhaps unprepared, even at this age, to take care of a child.