The first time Frida saw a CURB YOUR DOG sign, it made her weak with glee: black dachshund, green leash, the letters in that same bubbly cursive, but this time fire-engine red instead of navy. It had been their first week as newly minted citizens of Pines, and they’d been walking through the park nearby, holding hands. They were taking it all in: the cameras, the signs, the park’s plastic castle with its slide and shaky rope bridge, the kids squealing as they crossed to safety on the other side.
Frida was in her final trimester now. Another reason why she couldn’t sleep. She had to lie on her side all night long when she used to sleep on her back, and sometimes it felt like the baby was doing acrobatics off her ribs. The doctor had offered to tell them if it was a boy or a girl, but Frida had refused. Every time the baby’s image filled the sonogram monitor, she looked away. It didn’t matter what the machine showed, or even that Cal hoped they were having a boy. Frida knew it was a girl.
“As long as it’s healthy,” she said, which was what every pregnant woman was supposed to say. The doctor had nodded, said of course the baby was healthy, and reminded her to continue taking her vitamins, her daily Protein Shakes, her weekly SuperFoods Package. “Don’t skimp now,” he said kindly.
Cal complained openly about the food here. A lot of people did. Cal didn’t seem worried if someone recorded his displeasure with the Vegetable and Fruit Pills, and the Shakes that tasted like chalk even if their containers read CHICKEN PROTEIN or BEEF WELLINGTON PROTEIN. He worked in the Education Department, after all, and one of their ongoing concerns was school lunches and the nutritional needs of children. Cal seemed comfortable taking issue with the supermarkets here, which had aisles upon aisles of powdered foodstuffs and the smallest, most pathetic produce sections. Greens were expensive, and there wasn’t much else to choose from beyond carrots and the occasional tomato. On an early visit to the market, Frida had run a piece of lettuce between her fingers, imagining that it had been grown on the Land. But she’d only done it once. She had better restraint than that now.
Cal was going to start a garden soon, as others had done. There was very little room in Pines for a massive agricultural movement, but Cal said there was talk of redoing one of the shopping plazas to include a small farm. Apparently, when Pines was first being built, its developers had overlooked the value of fresh produce to its clientele, and now they were rethinking the matter.
There was no real meat anymore, either. “Mad cow, E. coli,” Mrs. Doyle had said with a frown when Frida had asked her why not. “Plus, the amount of water required to raise a head of cattle? Forget about it!” Cal said he’d gladly be a vegetarian if he could eat some vegetables. Frida was just relieved the baking section at their nearest market was so stellar. Pines wanted every wife to be a cake baker, wearing an apron and a smile.
“Maybe I can become a pastry chef,” Frida had said to Cal once.
“I don’t know about that,” he’d replied. “This place is specifically designed for a certain kind of family. You know, the father at the office for long hours, the mother busy with the kids.”
“What do those fathers do in those offices all day anyway?” Frida had asked. It was still a mystery to her, how Pines worked. Meanwhile, all the mothers stayed home to bake cakes and whatever else mothers at Pines did. Women were expected to devote everything to raising a family.
“You know, taking the older kids to art class and soccer practice,” Cal said. He was just reciting the brochures from memory, but his message was clear: We’re going to be parents soon. Let’s blend in.
Their baby would be born in Pines Hospital, and then she’d bring her here, to this beautiful house, and place her in this clean bassinet. She’d tell her stories about her family in Los Angeles, a city that was too dangerous to visit. She’d tell her how Mommy and Daddy had received permits to come to Pines. Daddy got a job because he’s so smart, she would say. And they wanted a baby like you to live here. It was an easy myth, and she practiced it in her head every day.
The bassinet was already here, next to the bed. She had painted the nursery a pale yellow, but it remained empty. She hoped the furniture store in the Central Shopping Plaza might send a messenger today, to tell her they had finished building the crib.
From the bed, Frida heard the water stop, and then Cal pull his towel off the rack. Their closet was attached to the bathroom, as big as a room, and she imagined him facing his row of clothing, sliding the hangers across the rod. They had both imagined well-cut suits for him, handmade by the local tailor, the fabric at once sumptuous and crisp. But no. The suits he received were cheap: synthetic fabric that wrinkled easily and didn’t breathe well. Frida’s dresses were just as bad, and after the first washing they began to pill and fade.
What they got had been pricey, Toni informed them later.