The Swap

by Robyn Harding

  “I have contracts!” Freya growled. “I have sponsors! If we have a paternity scandal, I’ll be ruined again.”

  “Jesus Christ. That’s what you’re worried about?”

  She hit me then, her hand connecting with my jaw. It smarted; Freya was small, but her rage made her strong. The pain made my eyes water and my face throb. And then I felt that familiar release. It was like scratching at a rash you weren’t supposed to touch. It was damaging, could cause infection. But it was such sweet relief, like it always was, if only for a moment. Freya had come up with a cover story for her battery, had told Jamie I’d been fighting in bars. But the only person who abused me was my wife. And I let her because I deserved it, even craved it in a fucked-up way. I wanted more, wanted her to claw and scratch and punish me. But not now.

  My wife was about to give birth to another man’s baby.

  53 jamie

  What could we do but follow them to the hospital? We could hardly go home and twiddle our thumbs while Freya was in preterm labor. If, in fact, it was preterm. If the baby was fine, big and healthy, that meant the child could be Brian’s. But if it was tiny, in need of medical intervention, we would know the timing was off, that the baby couldn’t have been conceived that night in July when Brian slept with Freya. And we would know that we were responsible for the infant’s premature delivery.

  The thought was too horrible to contemplate. I would never forgive myself if the baby was born unhealthy because of our confrontation. Even if it wasn’t Brian’s child, even if its mother loathed me now, I still cared about that baby, loved it even. But if he or she was born robust and strong… Did that mean the child was my husband’s? How could we prove it? And if we did, what happened then? Freya would not be interested in peacefully co-parenting; she’d made that abundantly clear. We were the enemy.

  The whole mess seemed unfathomable. How had one night of fun and debauchery upended our lives? Threatened our marriages and destroyed our friendships? People did stuff like this all the time with no repercussions. It was common practice on the island, practically de rigueur in the seventies! But we had experimented one goddamn time and it had blown up in our faces. And now, a tiny life hung in the balance, its future precarious.

  Brian’s voice broke through my reverie. “There they are.”

  We had reached the hospital and could see Max’s black SUV parked near the front doors. He was helping his wife out of the vehicle, his big hands gentle and caring on his delicate passenger. Freya clutched her belly, her face contorted with pain, and something else. Fear. Freya was terrified. She had not prepared herself for what was to come. She needed me.

  “Park here,” I instructed, as Brian pulled into an adjacent lot.

  We would not be allowed to leave our car in the emergency spaces close to the door. We weren’t patients or family. Before the vehicle had even stopped, I was out of it and jogging toward her. Despite everything that had happened, the lies and subterfuge, I would help my friend through this. I would hold her hand and coach her through the delivery. I would be there when my husband’s child slid out into the world, having been carried for so many months by my best friend.

  “Freya,” I called as I approached. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here for you. We can get through this together.”

  She looked up then, and I saw the hatred on her lovely face. “No. You don’t get to be a part of this.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “I just want to help you through labor. You’re not prepared.”

  “You’re not a mother,” she snarled. “You know nothing.”

  My heart twisted in my chest. “I-I’ve read all the books,” I stammered. “I know all the steps. I can coach you.”

  She laughed at me then, a cruel, mocking bark. “If you come near me, I’ll call the police.”

  Max had her small suitcase in one hand, his other arm wrapped around his wife, supportive and protective. “Go away, Jamie. She doesn’t want you here.”

  As they moved toward the hospital, Freya continued her verbal assault. “You’re delusional, Jamie! You’re dangerous! Stay away from me and my baby.”

  People were staring now—nurses, patients, visitors. I didn’t look, but I could feel the weight of their eyes on me. They thought Freya was afraid of me. They thought I was a monster harassing a poor pregnant mother.

  Brian joined me then and slipped his hand into mine. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “It’s going to be okay.”

  We stood and watched as Freya and Max disappeared inside.

  54 low

  My mom and Vik were in the kitchen talking in soft voices. I could barely hear them over the bubbling vat of white beans on the stove, but I pressed my body flat to the wall and strained to listen.

  “I was visiting Bill Pickering,” Vik was saying, “he’s in the hospital with a broken femur. I was leaving, when it all kicked off.”

  “Freya and Jamie were yelling at each other?” my mom asked. Her voice was hushed, though she didn’t know I’d returned to the house. Since the intervention about my “inappropriate relationship,” I’d taken to spending most of my days at the beach or in the forest, taking photos, or sometimes going for pizza with Thompson. Anything to get me away from all the parental judgment and concern.

  “Is Freya the blond one?” Vik asked. My mom must have nodded, because he said, “She was really angry at the brunette. Jamie wanted to come into the delivery room, but Freya said she’d call the police. She said Jamie was dangerous.”

  “Oh my god,” my mom said, at the precise moment I gasped. They wouldn’t hear me over the boiling beans and their own conversation, but I clapped my hand over my mouth anyway.

  “Freya was definitely in labor,” said Vik. “A contraction hit her, and she screamed bloody murder.”

  I didn’t need to hear anymore. I scooped up my truck keys and ran for the door.

  * * *

  I drove the dark and winding route to the hospital with my mouth curled into a permanent grin. The anonymous e-mail I’d sent to Jamie had worked. She had confronted Freya about the baby’s paternity, and now, Freya hated her. Considered her a mortal enemy. Gratitude and relief filled my chest, made it feel warm and light.

  Vik had said Freya was protective of her baby, had accused Jamie of being a danger to it. That was slightly concerning, but it had to be the hormones. Eventually, Freya would see that motherhood was a giant drag, and she’d be better off handing the whining, drooling, pooping creature over to its father. Jamie would be a better mother to it. She had no life except for the store, which, let’s face it, was hardly taxing. Without the baby, Freya could soar to greater heights, even greater fame.

  Her fans would want to see the baby, of course. It couldn’t disappear from her life completely—as much as we might want it to. But weekend visitation would allow us to take enough photos of the child to make Freya look like a loving mother, while preserving her brand as a sexy, independent woman. She’d get cool sponsors like makeup companies, fashion designers, and vodka distilleries, not just boring baby food and diaper brands. She’d get invited to resorts and on cruises, and I’d go with her. We would travel the world together, our relationship deepening through our shared experiences.

  I had been right to wait a couple of weeks to send the e-mail. It would have implicated me if I’d been dismissed with tears in my eyes and, moments later, Jamie and Brian had turned up demanding answers. I hadn’t expected the confrontation to put Freya into labor, but the baby would be fine. It was only a couple of weeks early, if it had been conceived the night of the swap. Which it had been. Because Max was sterile. And Freya was lying.

  The tiniest niggle of concern tickled the base of my brain as I pulled into the hospital parking lot. If the baby had somehow been conceived later, as Freya and Max claimed, it might not survive. I wanted to get rid of the thing, but not that way. I wasn’t a monster. I may have fantasized about Freya miscarrying, but this would be too gruesome. But I pushed my concerns aside as I turned off th
e ignition and hurried across the darkened parking lot toward the building. Freya needed me, now. Whatever happened.

  Jamie and Brian were loitering outside the main doors, looking fretful. As soon as she spotted me, Jamie rushed up to me. “Low. Freya’s in labor.”

  “I know.”

  “Did she call you?”

  “Yes,” I lied. Freya was no longer speaking to Jamie, so she’d never find out that it wasn’t true.

  “Thank God. It’s been hours. She needs someone in the room with her, someone who knows about labor. Can you be there for her?”

  “Of course.” I didn’t relish seeing the object of my devotion screaming, puking, and pooping (yeah, I knew about labor), but I enjoyed usurping Jamie’s position.

  Brian had joined us now. “Low, we need some information.”

  “Like what?”

  “The baby’s weight and length would help. Or if the doctor says anything about it being premature.”

  “We just need to know that the baby’s okay,” Jamie said.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” I replied, noticing the concern, even fear, on her face. “It’s only a little early.”

  I was moving toward the automatic doors when I heard Jamie say, “Wait!” My shoulders tensed. “It was you.”

  I almost didn’t stop, considered pretending I hadn’t heard her. But I turned toward her. “What was me?”

  “Did you send me the link about Max’s paternity case?”

  “No.”

  “Freya told you about that night, didn’t she? You know Brian is the baby’s father, not Max.”

  Her eyes were full of tears of gratitude. She thought I had done this for her. She thought I was on their side. God, she was naive. But I couldn’t admit that I’d sent the e-mail. If Freya found out, she’d banish me.

  “I’ll let you know how the baby is,” I said. And I hurried inside.

  55

  Somewhat thankfully, the nurses would not let me into the Freya’s room. “It’s been a difficult labor,” the heavyset warden of the maternity unit explained. “She’s been trying for hours. They’re performing an unscheduled C-section.”

  “Why?” I asked. My mom had given birth in the living room without incident. “Has something gone wrong?”

  “Tiny mother, big baby,” she said dismissively, returning to her paperwork.

  Big baby. That probably meant it was not premature. That probably meant it was Brian’s child.

  I lingered in the hallway, waiting for some news. A couple of hours passed before a handful of people emerged from the operating room, men and women in scrubs chatting casually among themselves. A man with dark eyes and a shiny bald head looked approachable. I hurried up to him. “Can you tell me how she is?”

  “Mother and baby are fine,” he said, in an unfamiliar accent.

  “Thank God. Was it born early? The baby? Is everything okay?”

  His smooth brow furrowed. “Are you family?”

  “Yes.” I lied. “I’m Freya’s niece. Can I see her?”

  He didn’t question the fact that this gangly, unattractive girl was related to the gorgeous couple in the delivery room. “You can visit her when she’s moved to the maternity ward. But I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  “My name is Low,” I said quickly, afraid she wouldn’t figure out that the hovering niece was me.

  The man popped into the room and out again. “Have a seat in the waiting area.” It was a command.

  So I sat on an orange Naugahyde sofa and waited. Even as the minutes ticked into hours, I had no doubts that Freya would want to see me. I was her best friend, even more than that. And she had no one else. No family. No Jamie. Just me. And Max, who was standing by her though he knew her baby couldn’t be his. The pair seemed locked in some kind of sick, codependent partnership full of lies and abuse and emotional distance, and yet… they had each other’s backs.

  As if summoned by my thoughts, Max appeared in the entryway. He looked pale and worn; the toll of witnessing his wife give birth to another man’s child was etched on his face.

  “Hey,” he said softly.

  I stood. “Is Freya okay? Can I see her?”

  “She’s fine. She had a baby girl.”

  She had a baby girl. Not we.

  “Come with me.”

  I followed his hulking form down the buffed hallway feeling petite and girlish next to him. Max still elicited a little thrill in me. Once the baby was out of the picture, he would fade into the background, or disappear completely. But for now, I didn’t mind having him around.

  The number on the door was eighteen. Max pushed it open and held it for me to enter. Freya was propped up in a narrow hospital bed, her face fully made-up, her white-blond hair brushed to a sheen. She wore a pale pink robe… the robe I’d seen on her the night she’d attempted to stab Max with a fork. Other than some puffiness around the eyes, you would not have known she’d just been in labor, had just had a child cut out of her stomach.

  She greeted me with a weary smile, and my heart filled up.

  “I’m so glad you came.”

  Freya wanted me here at this seminal moment. I was the most important person in her life.

  I noticed the tiny bundle sleeping in a clear plastic bassinet next to Freya’s bed. The baby was tightly swaddled in a white blanket, a few blond curls peeping out of the pink cap on her head. I moved closer, taking in the full pink cheeks, the long lashes, the rosebud lips. She was beautiful, not shriveled and purple like Eckhart had been. I’d wished the child away so many times, but she was perfection. Just like Freya. I felt something like awe as I stared at her… awe and fear. Because Freya might fall in love with this pretty baby.

  “Her name is Maggie. After Max’s mom.”

  I looked over at Max and met his dark eyes. We both understood the significance of this moniker. It was a bold move; a fighting stance. It meant that Freya was determined to pretend her baby was Max’s. That she would never admit that Brian was the real father. And she was not going to hand her child over to Jamie’s loving maternal arms. Freya was going to fight for her child.

  Damn it.

  “Pass her here,” Freya instructed me. I reached into the bassinet and scooped up the little bundle. Maggie didn’t stir as I settled her in her mother’s arms. Freya gazed down at her daughter, her face alight with maternal adoration. She looked radiant, beatific, almost saintly. Love emanated from the pair like a visible halo. Then Freya looked up at me.

  “Do you have your camera?”

  “Uh… no.”

  “Why not?”

  “I heard you were in labor. I raced over here.”

  “Take a photo with your phone then.”

  “It’s in the truck.”

  “Well, go get it,” she snapped, handing the baby to Max, who returned her to the bassinet. “Before Maggie wakes up and starts screaming her head off.”

  Dismissed, I scurried down the polished hallway—past doctors, nurses, and patients, absorbed in their own dramas. Freya’s curt tone had hurt me, but in a way, I was relieved. Her bonding moment with Maggie had been nothing but an act, a stunt for the cameras. She wanted to keep Maggie for appearances only, was going to fight Brian and Jamie on principle alone. But she didn’t know that they had a secret weapon in their struggle for custody.

  Me.

  When I burst through the sliding doors, I expected to see my boss and her husband waiting patiently in the cold, crisp night, but Jamie and Brian were gone. Maybe a security guard had shooed them away. Or Max may have called the cops. Or perhaps the hours without word had worn them down. But they should have stayed. They should have been more devoted to their baby. As I stalked across the darkened lot, I felt a prickle of concern.

  I slid into my truck and reached for my phone in the glove box. With trembling fingers, I texted Jamie.

  The baby is healthy. Seven pounds two ounces. Not a preemie.

  And then, for good measure.…

  She looks like her dad
>
  spring 2020

  56 jamie

  On the fifth day after my husband’s daughter was born, we saw a lawyer. Her name was Nancy Willfollow—her office a renovated heritage home on the edge of town. She had been a customer at my store on occasion, breezing into the shop in her shapeless black Eileen Fisher togs. Despite the slow pace of island life, she exuded an air of frazzled efficiency. She had three sons away at boarding school and a retired landscape architect husband who devoted himself to the care of their home and garden. Perhaps the townspeople of Hawking had more pressing legal issues than I thought?

  My cheeks burned as Brian told the fiftyish woman about the night he bedded Freya upstairs while I was in the basement guest room with Max. It was entirely possible that Nancy and her landscaping husband were swingers. They might have moved to the island specifically for its open-minded, sexually adventurous culture. The attorney’s features remained blank, unreadable, but I was mortified, nonetheless. It could have been worse, I told myself. It’s not like we were using whips or chains or animal costumes. But still… the conception of Brian’s child sounded tawdry and sleazy.

  My husband slid a print-out of the news story about Max’s paternity case across the polished walnut desk. “Maxime Beausoleil said, in court, that he’s sterile.”

  We waited as the lawyer’s eyes roamed over the article. She read slowly, thoroughly, taking in every word, as Brian and I fidgeted in our seats, glancing at each other and back at her.

  Finally, Brian said, “The baby has to be mine. The dates line up. And Max is infertile.”

  “But we need to prove it,” I added. “Can we make them do a paternity test?”

  Nancy finally looked up from the page. “You could take this to court. If there’s enough evidence, the judge might compel them to test the baby. But there’s still no guarantee you’d get custody rights or even visitation.”