The Swap(13)

“I feel like we’re trying to sell our apartment or our car. But we’re selling ourselves,” he said.

“There are a lot more people who want to be parents than there are babies,” I countered. “We need a pregnant mom to choose us over everyone else.” So we smiled for the camera; we poured our hearts out on video; we showed off our tidy home, our outdoorsy lifestyle, our devotion to each other. (I wanted to adopt a rescue dog, but Brian’s allergies precluded it.)

And it worked! We were chosen! A seventeen-year-old girl named Mia selected us. She had wide-set eyes, a bow of a mouth, and long dark hair. She lived in a suburb of Chicago, was five months along when we were introduced via Skype. Her bump was clearly visible, we were meeting our baby, too.

I liked her. Mia was cute and bubbly and bright. We messaged often, Skyped once a week. She sent us her twenty-two-week ultrasound photo on time, our baby the size of a small banana.

“It’s a girl,” Mia told us, and Brian and I burst into happy tears.

My chats with Mia went beyond the pregnancy. She told me about the baby’s father, a cute, sporty boy whom she had thought she loved, until she realized he was selfish and immature. There was drama in her friend group, some related to her condition, some typical mean-girl stuff. Her parents were supportive, she said, but they didn’t want to engage with Brian and me. It was hard for them to give away their grandchild, but they knew it was for the best.

“It might make them feel better if they spoke to us,” I suggested.

“One day,” she assured me.

Mia said the things I needed to hear. “My baby is so lucky to have parents like you.” And “One day, I’ll be a great mom, too. I’m just not ready yet.” I felt altruistic. We were giving a baby a loving home; we were giving her mother a chance to grow up.

The agency insisted that all financial help be funneled through lawyers. Mia’s family had not arranged counsel yet, so we would have to reimburse her for the doctor’s bills, the prenatal vitamins, and the maternity wear. But I sent her gifts: a rich buttery lotion that would prevent stretch marks; a diffuser and several calming essential-oil blends; tickets to a concert she wanted to see. She was moved and grateful. Our bond developed.

But I needed more. I needed to meet her in person, to share a meal with her, to hug her. “We should go to Chicago,” I said to Brian. “I don’t want our first meeting with Mia to be when we take her baby away.”

He agreed, so I shared the news with Mia on a video call.

Her brow furrowed. “I’ve got a big exam coming up,” she explained.

“We’ll work around your schedule,” I offered. “We’ll come whenever it works for you.” She smiled then and relaxed. So we set a date and flew to O’Hare. Mia wanted to meet us at her favorite restaurant in Wilmette. Her parents would have us over for dinner the following evening, but we would meet alone first. It made sense to me. This would be an overwhelming encounter. As I settled myself into the booth of the Italian joint, I was jittery, emotional, on the verge of tears. I had brought Mia a gift—a necklace with two heart pendants. It had been expensive, but I wanted her to have it. I loved her and what she was doing for us.

We waited for an hour. And then for two. I sent her an e-mail, but it bounced back. My Skype insisted there was no such address. We went back to the hotel, where I fell on the bed and wept. Brian paced the room, muttering incredulities to himself. In the morning, I called the agency.

“What’s going on? Did she change her mind?”

“She may have,” the woman said. “Or . . . it’s possible there’s no baby.”

“What?”

“Some girls like the attention. The gifts and the messages.”

“But we saw her bump! She sent us the ultrasound photo!”

I heard the woman sigh. “There are websites devoted to faking a pregnancy.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“These sites offer fake test results, sonogram images, latex bumps and breasts. We try to do our due diligence, but sometimes they slip through the cracks. I’m sorry.”

Our baby had never existed, but to me, she had died. I took a leave from work to grieve in private. In addition to our loss, I was humiliated by our gullibility. We had wanted a baby so badly that we’d ignored the red flags. Friends, relatives, and colleagues would be talking about us. How could we not have seen that Mia was a liar? That her bump was fake? That her parents would have been involved if she was legitimately pregnant? And then, Brian suggested the move.

I needed counseling; I can see that now. But starting a new life seemed more important. I could seek help when we were settled . . . except that Hawking was sorely lacking in mental-health services. Even if there had been a psychologist, residents would have been too embarrassed to visit. Everyone knows everything in a town this size. So I had suffered in silence. And then, one day, Freya walked into my shop. She charmed me, lifted me out of my funk, convinced me that I could be happy again.

Freya’s friendship was my lifeline.





11


Most people were wowed by Freya’s beauty, style, and charisma, but there was more to her than that. She was creative, visionary, a truly talented artist. She had come into my store carrying a large cardboard box. She’d set it on the countertop and extracted several pottery pieces. The bowls, vases, and platters were somehow rugged and delicate at the same time, the glazes evoking the sea and the sky and the beach. They fit perfectly into my aesthetic, and I knew I had to stock them.