The Swap

by Robyn Harding

  The women entered the room and, while their expressions were grim, it was clear they had not found the photos or the marijuana. Britney strode purposefully into the living area, the last unexplored space. Maggie was dozing now, exhausted from her previous outburst, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The CPS worker scoured the room, but I knew we were in the clear.

  “What is this?” Britney asked. She was holding a handful of tiny pellets.

  “I—I don’t know,” Freya stammered.

  “A rattle broke,” I said quickly, hoping they wouldn’t ask me to explain how. “I was going to vacuum.”

  “This should have been cleaned up immediately,” Ms. Chin remarked. “They’re a choking hazard.”

  “The baby can’t even crawl,” Freya said, with a roll of her eyes. “How would she get one into her mouth?”

  Britney seemed mildly flustered. “You haven’t done any baby proofing.”

  “We will,” I said quickly. “In the next couple of weeks.”

  The tiny woman consulted her clipboard. “I’ll check back in fourteen business days to see that you have.” Then she looked up at us. “I’ll have to file a report when I get back to the office, but I don’t see anything here of grave concern.” She almost sounded disappointed.

  Freya escorted her to the door, closing it behind her with a resounding slam. When she returned to the living room, her eyes were dark with anger.

  “Who the fuck called CPS?”

  “I don’t know.” It was the truth, but I felt caught out. “Maybe some online troll?”

  “Child Protection wouldn’t send someone out because I went on a fucking vacation,” she growled. “It was Jamie. It has to be.”

  It made sense. She was the only one with motive.

  “Did you tell her I was a bad mother?” Freya asked.

  “Of course not!” I cried, my voice trembling with fear. “I would never say anything bad about you, Freya. You’re a great mom. Maggie loves you. You’re just settling into it, getting used to it.”

  But she was no longer listening to me. She collected her car keys off the side table and stalked out of the house.

  62 jamie

  Hawking Mercantile had returned to summer opening hours. It was only spring, but I felt hopeful that business would pick up with the warmer weather. And I wanted to work six days a week, wanted to stay at the store until five thirty on weekdays, seven on Fridays and Saturdays. Staying busy distracted me from waiting for the DNA results, worrying about Maggie’s well-being, and the dull ache of guilt I felt for lying to my husband. Again.

  Brian still insisted on going through the proper channels in our fight for access to Maggie. He still maintained that we would find the money to pay the lawyer, to travel to the city as often as necessary, to go to court when and if we needed to. We’d had a telephone consultation with a lawyer in the city named Julian Walsh. Speaking at the speed of an auctioneer (Mr. Walsh charged in fifteen-minute increments), Brian explained that Freya was keeping his child from him. The attorney had affirmed for us that the first step was proof of paternity. We were to provide an affidavit—basically a numbered statement of facts pertaining to the case that we would take to Nancy Willfollow for witnessing. We would then submit it to Julian Walsh, who would file it with the court.

  “You might not even need to attend,” he told us, and my husband and I had shared a hopeful smile. If our evidence was sufficient, the court would compel Freya to provide Maggie’s DNA for testing.

  But that could take months. And then, once we’d proven that Maggie was Brian’s daughter, there would be another court hearing to determine visitation. By the time we had access to our child (yes, I thought of her as ours now), she could be two years old.

  I was going to circumvent the whole process. One night last week, as my husband snored after half a bottle of red wine, I had swabbed his cheek. Low had provided Maggie’s sample, and I had mailed them off immediately. The kit said four to six weeks—an eternity—but when the results came back, I would take them to Freya. And we would work everything out.

  I couldn’t forget how Freya had admired Low’s family’s dynamics, their honesty and openness. It might have been scandalous in more conservative communities, but two couples co-parenting would not be a big deal in Hawking. Once Freya was presented with irrefutable proof of Maggie’s paternity, she would let us into the child’s life. Maggie could have two homes, two moms who dropped her at school, two dads who alternated soccer and dance practice.

  I won’t pretend that I didn’t envision a premier role in our daughter’s life. Brian and I had always wanted to be parents, we were born to raise children. Freya and Max simply weren’t cut out for it. They wouldn’t remember Maggie’s pediatrician and dentist appointments, wouldn’t limit her screen time, or ensure she got enough vitamin D. When she got older, they’d forget to pack her school lunch, ignore her homework assignments, skip parent-teacher interviews. Maggie needed us, too.

  It was quiet that afternoon, a Tuesday. I was preparing an ad for the Hawking Exchange—the island’s version of Craigslist—to replace Low. Without help, I would struggle with the tourist-season rush. It would be months before the store got busy, but I knew from experience that it would not be easy to find another shop assistant. There were not a lot of teens like Low Morrison, content with a slower-paced job that was really 80 percent dusting. My thoughts drifted to the odd, taciturn teen who had spent nine months in my employ. I missed her, in a way. Maybe I didn’t miss her. Maybe I was just grateful that she had swabbed Maggie’s cheek for me, had slipped away to deliver the sample, had fed me information about Freya’s lackluster parenting. Low was on my side in this battle. I didn’t know why, but I thanked her for it.

  And she was caring for Maggie. While the tall, angular girl wasn’t warm or nurturing, she was competent. She had three younger siblings, so she knew the baby drill. She knew when to feed Maggie, when to change her and put her down for a nap. Freya was clueless. And selfish. The child would be in jeopardy if not for Low’s capable presence.

  The bell above the door jingled then, and I closed my laptop anticipating a customer. But it wasn’t a patron. It was a seething ball of fury with pale-blond hair and a pristine white outfit. It was Freya, and something had enraged her.

  “You fucking cunt.”

  I was rendered speechless by the venom and vulgarity. Had Low told her that I’d submitted Maggie’s DNA sample? But Low couldn’t have outed me without revealing her own complicity. Could Freya have discovered it some other way?

  “Your plan backfired,” she sneered at me. “They found nothing of concern.”

  A moment of relief was chased away by confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Freya.”

  “You called Child Protection Services on me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You’re delusional, Jamie. You know, that right? The fact that you’re barren has fucked with your head.”

  Anger heated my belly. “I didn’t call them,” I snapped. “I guess someone else knows you’re a terrible mother.”

  She came at me then, and I thought she was going to attack me, but she stopped just short of where I stood. “You and Brian will never get near my daughter,” she spat. “You will never be her mother.”

  “Maggie is Brian’s child! He has a right to be in her life!”

  Freya stepped back and I thought I sensed the slightest softening, a receptivity in her posture.

  “We were friends once,” I tried, my voice gentler. “I—I loved you like a sister. We can work this out. For Maggie’s sake.”

  She cocked her head slightly to the side. “Why would I want someone like you in my daughter’s life? You’re so basic. And boring. You’ve wallowed in self-pity for so long that you’ve lost any semblance of a personality. You’re pitiful.”

  “At least I’m not a narcissist,” I shot back. “At least I’m not so shallow that I crave the constant validation of a bunch of online strangers.”
>
  She smiled then, a mirthless grin, and narrowed her eyes at me. I hadn’t thought my rebuttal through, and I felt a sudden flicker of panic. And fear.

  Freya’s tone, unlike her words, was calm and casual. “Even if you prove that Maggie is Brian’s, even if the courts take your side, I’ll run. I’ll take Maggie and I’ll disappear. I’ll take her and I’ll drive off a cliff. You will never, ever be a part of her life.”

  It was an admission. She knew the truth. But Freya would fight us till the end. She was unhinged, suffering from postpartum depression, even psychosis. I had to get the baby away from her. She wasn’t safe.

  The bell jingled as Freya stormed out of my store.

  63 low

  Max returned to the house about an hour after the woman from CPS had left. He’d been windsurfing. Or kayaking… some water sport that had wet his dark hair with salt spray. He wore a tank top and board shorts. He looked like he’d just walked off some Hunks of Summer calendar, but I barely noticed.

  “Hey,” he mumbled, his eyes scanning the rooms for his wife and her daughter, and finding only me, seated at the dining table. “Where is everyone?”

  “A woman came,” I said, swallowing the dread that was clogging my throat, “from Child Protection. Freya thinks Jamie called her. I think she went to the store to confront her.”

  Max’s face darkened. “Where’s the baby?”

  “Asleep in her crib.”

  He ran his hands through his damp hair, making his biceps bulge. “Should I go after her?”

  “Yes!” I cried. “What if Freya does something to Jamie? Beats her up or something? She was so angry.…”

  “She’d never attack Jamie.”

  How could he be so confident when he knew, better than anyone, Freya’s violent side?

  “She might smash up the store,” I said. “She could get arrested! CPS could take Maggie!”

  A few weeks ago, this option might have suited me fine, but I’d grown to care for the little creature. I didn’t want to look after her 24-7, but I didn’t want her in the system. Hawking probably didn’t even have a system. They’d send Maggie to the city, where she’d get swallowed up by the foster care behemoth. She belonged with her father and Jamie.

  “Shit…,” Max muttered and moved toward the side table and his car keys.

  But the sound of an SUV pulling up out front stopped him in his tracks. A car door slammed, and small feet crunched across the gravel toward the door. My heart thudded in my chest. Freya was back.

  A gust of angry energy preceded her into the home. The confrontation had not diffused her rage. Had Jamie admitted to calling CPS? Or denied it? Which would add more fuel to Freya’s fire?

  She spoke to Max first. “Child Protection Services was here.”

  “Low told me.”

  “Jamie swears she didn’t call them,” she said, tossing her keys on the table. “I believe her. She’s too bland to lie convincingly.”

  “Then who called?” Max asked.

  “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter because we’re leaving. It was a mistake to move here in the first place, and now everything is totally fucked-up.”

  “Where are we going?” Max said to her departing back as she moved to the kitchen.

  We both trailed after her.

  “We’ll go back to LA,” she said, flicking on the coffee machine. “You know I’ve been thinking about it for months. This thing with CPS was the last fucking straw.”

  “It’s not that simple,” he said, as she rummaged in the fridge. “We’d have to sell the house. In this market, that could take months. Even years. And we won’t get much bang for our buck in LA.”

  Freya emerged with a carton of oat milk. “I don’t care if we live in a dumpster in LA. I’m not raising my daughter in this hillbilly backwater.”

  I had stood by, listening in mute horror, but I stepped forward then. “You can’t leave.”

  It was clear from the look on Freya’s face that she had forgotten I was there. “This doesn’t concern you, Low. Go home.”

  “I live here.”

  “Not anymore.” She poured the nondairy beverage into a mug and slammed it into the microwave. “We won’t be needing your services.”

  “You can’t just… let me go.”

  “We’ll pay you two weeks’ severance,” Max mumbled.

  But this wasn’t about money. “I’ll go with you,” I suggested. “I hate it here, too. I can look after Maggie in LA.”

  “You wouldn’t fit in there. You’re too…” Freya’s eyes roved over me and I steeled myself for an unkind assessment. But she said, “You’re an island girl. This is where you belong.”

  The microwave dinged, and she turned away from me. If she had thrown scalding oat milk in my face it would have hurt less.

  “Maggie needs me,” I countered. “We’ve bonded.” I swallowed my fear and added, “She barely knows you.”

  Freya set down her coffee mug and turned to face me. “You called CPS.”

  “What?” My face blanched, which I feared would read as guilt. “No.”

  An incredulous laugh erupted from her. “Are you jealous of my baby daughter, Low? Are you trying to get rid of her so you can have me all to yourself?”

  Now my face was burning, and I knew my cheeks were fuchsia. Freya was onto me. She had read my thoughts and emotions. But I had not made that call.

  Max addressed his wife. “Stop.”

  But she didn’t stop. She kept coming at me. “You’re obsessed with me, aren’t you, Low? And Max, too. You’ve got some deluded fantasy that we’re soul mates. That we’re in love.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Do you watch us fucking? Do you take pictures of us and then masturbate to them?”

  “Jesus Christ, Freya,” Max said.

  But she knew. She knew about the photographs hidden in my bedroom. Had she seen them? Or could she simply sense my lust, my fascination?

  Freya almost smiled as she watched me grapple with her accusations. And then she narrowed her eyes at me. “Pack your shit and go home to your sex cult.”

  Obediently, I hurried from the room.

  64

  It didn’t take me long to gather my belongings. I’d been living there less than a month and had been too busy with the baby to really make myself at home. I shoved my clothes, my bag of weed, and a few trinkets into the backpack. And then I reached under the mattress for the photographs. I’d intended to use them in an instance exactly like this.

  Take me to LA with you or I’ll post these online!

  But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she was right about me: I was a voyeur and a pervert. I grabbed the photos and stuffed them into my bag.

  Lugging my backpack up the stairs, I moved to the living room to collect my camera from the low teak coffee table. Had the breastfeeding photo shoot really been this morning? It felt like an eternity ago. I could hear Freya and Max arguing.

  “You’re upset. You’re not thinking this through.”

  “You didn’t think it through when you moved us to this island full of freaks and losers!”

  I drove home in a fog. I was losing her. Them. Forever. It couldn’t be real. Maybe I was in shock because the next thing I knew, I was parked in my driveway. My dad and my brothers were chopping kindling. My mom was pushing Eckhart on a rickety swing. I slowly got out of the truck with my backpack.

  “Low!” Wayne ran over to me and wrapped his arms around my waist. “You came home.”

  His words were a punch in the gut. I didn’t want this to be my home.

  My mom approached, “Are you okay?”

  I didn’t want to tell her; she wouldn’t understand. But the words fell from my lips. “Someone called Child Protection Services about Maggie. Freya thinks it was me.”

  “I’m sorry,” my mom said, reaching out to stroke my arm. “But it’s for the best.”

  “How is it for the best?” I snapped.

  “
What matters is that the baby is safe and well cared for.”

  “She is safe. I was caring for her.”

  My dad had joined us by then, the hatchet still in his hand. “I didn’t like what I saw when I brought you the dal. You were in over your head.”

  “You called CPS?” I shrieked. “I was fine! I was happy! How could you do this to me?”

  My mom sounded stern. “We did this for you, Swallow. A teenaged girl is not equipped to look after an infant on her own for days on end. It’s too much.”

  “We were looking out for the child,” my dad added. “She’s what really matters in this situation.”

  “I’m what matters. Me!” I shrieked. “You’ve never cared about me! You’ve never put me first!”

  “Stop being so melodramatic,” my dad said, but I was already storming toward my truck.

  “Come back here and talk about this,” my mom called after me. But I slammed the vehicle door and backed out of the driveway, narrowly missing the goat.

  65

  My first instinct was to drive back to the Light-Beausoleil household and profess my innocence. But in a way, it was still my fault that CPS had been called to check on Maggie. I had complained about being hungry and alone; I had asked my parents for help. If I’d just eaten those fucking chia seeds, everything would be fine right now.

  I drove around for almost an hour, despondency seeping into the marrow of my bones. There seemed no way forward for me, and no way back. Freya was leaving. She blamed me for all her problems. I couldn’t follow her to LA, but I couldn’t imagine staying here without her. And I was not going back to my family, who had betrayed me.

  My aimless route took me to the interior of the island, and I found myself approaching Hyak Canyon. A drastic, devastating plan began to take shape in my mind. I pulled into the canyon’s empty parking lot and up to the guardrail. My truck idling, I envisioned crashing through the barrier and hurtling over the edge. It was a deep gully and more than one careless or drunk driver had plunged to their death. If I did it now, before Freya left for LA, she’d hear about my tragic demise and regret her treatment of me. She’d weep at my memorial service, might even make a speech. After the cremation, she’d take some of my ashes to LA with her and throw them off the Santa Monica Pier. Better yet, she’d wear them in a locket around her neck. Forever.