The Swap(27)

“Of course.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

There was no joy in her voice, so I didn’t have to fake any. Because I was not joyful, not joyful at all. I didn’t want to share Freya with some needy, clingy, sniveling infant. I’d just been run out of my home by one baby; now another was threatening my territory.

“Oh no,” I said softly.

Freya sighed. “I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t think I could conceive.”

Silence hung heavy between us. I was at a loss for words, stunned by her news. Maybe I shouldn’t have been; Freya was a married woman of childbearing age, but she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. When I’d told her that Eckhart had been born, she’d wrinkled her nose in distaste before muttering, “Congrats, I guess.” On more than one occasion, she had commented on my mother’s mental health for having four children. And for having another baby at forty-two. She said things like:

“Is your mom trying to fill some emotional void by having all those kids?”

And:

“Is your mom on crack?”

She’d told me about her crazy mother and their fraught, on-again, off-again (mostly off-again) relationship. I simply couldn’t imagine Freya as a parent.

She moved to the small paned window and stared out into her driveway. “My periods have always been sporadic,” she explained. “I just thought I was getting fat.” She turned back toward me. “I don’t even know if I’m going to keep it. But I’m already in my second trimester.”

I should have said something to make her feel better about this terrible mistake; that was my role as her friend and confidante. But all I wanted to say was: Get rid of it. Make it go away before it ruins your life and mine! I couldn’t be so callous, of course, but the words of support would not come.

Then she said, “Promise me you won’t tell Jamie.”

“Jamie?”

“She wants a baby so badly, and she can’t have one. This will devastate her.”

My employer had never mentioned her desire to be a mother, but I guess it made sense. Whenever an infant or toddler came into the store, she was all over it. After, she’d seem wistful, lost in thought, even tearful. During our hours together, Jamie often tried to engage me in conversation. When I remained uncommunicative, she’d babble on about her former marketing career, her husband’s fantasy trilogy, her college experiences at the University of British Columbia. But my boss had never admitted she wanted a family.

“I won’t tell her.”

“Thanks,” Freya muttered, heading for the door. “I’m going to lie down. Clean up the mess in the kiln.”

When she left, I looked down at the intricate butterfly wings I’d been working on. Somehow, I had snapped them in two.





22


I didn’t sleep well that night. Normally, I went out like a light, even on the hard attic floor. But that night, I stared at the rafters for hours. Freya was pregnant. If she had the baby, it would usurp my space in her life. She wouldn’t come to the studio anymore, wouldn’t have time to do pottery with me. I knew firsthand how demanding babies were, how noisy, smelly, and needy. Freya might allow me to continue my work, but did I want to without her? Was my pinch-pot plan as fulfilling without her involvement?

And I didn’t want to go back to my parents’ house. Even if my mom’s assurances that Eckhart would grow out of his monster phase were true, I didn’t want to be there. My youngest brother had tipped the scales. We had gone from being a large, noisy, loving family to a chaotic shit show. The last few months had shown me that I needed space and calm and quiet.

If it had been a normal night, if I had been asleep, I wouldn’t have heard them. The screams were too far away, weren’t loud enough to wake me from a typically deep teenage slumber. Later, I would wonder if the cacophony was a regular occurrence. When I’d slept in Freya’s spare bedroom, I had thought I’d heard similar shrieks, but I’d been too drunk and high to know for sure. But this time, I was stone-cold sober. And I could hear Freya screeching.

Panic sent me scrambling out of bed, down the ladder, and out into the night. Luckily, I’d been sleeping in a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, so I wasn’t streaking across their lawn in pajamas or less. As I hurtled toward the house, I didn’t consider how my appearance at their door in the middle of the night would look. My sole focus was Freya’s anguish. I had to save her from what was clearly an awful fate.

The front door was locked, so I ran up onto the deck where double doors connected it to the kitchen and dining room. Residents of the island were lax about security, but Freya and Max were from the city. They would be in the habit of locking their doors to bar intruders. Had they fallen into complacency? Had a burglar gained access through an open door? A murderer or rapist? As I reached for the handle, I saw them through the glass.

Freya and Max were facing each other in the kitchen. She wore a silky pink robe; he was in a pair of boxer shorts. I watched as Freya smacked her husband across the head. Hard.

“You stupid piece of shit!” she growled. “I fucking hate you!”

She smacked him again. And then again. Max just stood there, accepting her blows, flinching only slightly under the assault. Blood trickled from an angry scratch on his left cheek.