All of a sudden, we’re both on the floor, Freddie pulling at her hair, me trying to stop her before she does more damage. Wisps of blond are in her fingers, floating onto the carpet. I know it’s bad when she stops as abruptly as she started, when she begins rocking slowly back and forth like one of those animals on a spring they put in playgrounds. Her eyes are just as sightless and unfocused.
I can’t touch her when she’s like this, no matter how much I want to.
There should be a word for what Freddie is, I suppose, but I don’t know what that word would look or sound like. In my mind, she’s just Freddie. Frederica Fairchild, nine years old, sweet as sugar, no problems or hang-ups aside from the problems and hang-ups of any girl her age. She spikes a mean volleyball, gives Malcolm a run for his money at chess, loves everything except Brussels sprouts. But here she is, terrified because it’s testing day.
Again.
“Freddie,” I say softly, checking the line of students standing by the green bus. Only two of them are left, waiting to scan their cards and board. “Time to go.”
Sanger Green School students, this is your final call. Sanger Green School bus is ready to depart. Final call for Sanger Green School.
I could kill the fucking fembot.
While Freddie collects herself, I gather up the kicked backpack, snatch a handful of Kleenex tissues from the box in the kitchen, and put the green ID card into Freddie’s hand. “You’ll do fine. I know it.”
All I get is a silent nod. And not much of one. Christ, I hate the first Friday of the month.
She’s out the door by the time the next-to-last kid boards the bus. Again, I tell her not to worry, but I don’t think she hears me. My coffee’s gone cold, and Malcolm’s stupid peace lily looks like a meteor hit it. I turn the planter so the really ugly part faces the wall and decide what lie I’ll tell my husband tonight. Not that it matters. Most of what I’ve told Malcolm for the past few years has been a lie, starting with the daily “I love yous,” and ending with whispered words on the rare occasions we have sex, always with a condom from the stash he keeps in his bedside table, always with a slathering of spermicidal jelly to ensure we won’t be making any more little ones.
I haven’t lied to Freddie, though. I know she’ll do fine. After all, it’s supposed to be in her genes. The prenatal Q report I showed Malcolm confirmed that nine years ago.
But that was another lie.
I never went in for the test.
FOUR
I go into the kitchen to microwave my stale coffee. I can’t think about genetics anymore without remembering a conversation with my grandmother, not long after finding out I was pregnant with Freddie.
It’s not a happy memory.
“I don’t like this Q.” Oma poured herself a petite glass of schnapps, examined the level, and poured out another half inch. I unscrewed the cap on a water from the fridge before sitting down in the den with a belly that felt like a small tuna had decided to start growing in it. “I don’t like to say ‘hate,’ because a little bit of hate someday turns into a great amount of hate, but I hate this Q.”
A month before, even a whiff of alcohol had sent me on a bathroom run. Now, it looked tempting.
“Sure you don’t want a drop?” she asked. “It won’t kill you. Or the baby.” One hand reached out and gave me three quick taps on my sweater, which had already begun to stretch—a constant reminder that time was running out. “She’ll be fine. Like your father was, and like you were.”
I hated when she patted my stomach like that. Besides, Oma was drowning out Petra Peller’s voice on the television.
What’s your Q? Petra asked. She seemed to be looking straight at me.
The bottle beckoned. Malcolm wouldn’t know—I could always use Oma as the scapegoat when he asked about the level of