The Swap(53)

“Deal,” I said.

“Thank God.” She leaned back in her chair and rested her hands on her belly. “The baby and I need you.”

My throat clogged, and my eyes got moist. “I need you, too.” The show of emotion was embarrassing but real. Before I could fall apart entirely, the doorbell rang, allowing me to compose myself. Freya returned shortly.

“It was just Low,” she explained with a roll of her eyes. “She’s a very enthusiastic photographer.”

I’d been jealous of Low and Freya, but not anymore. Low was just a kid with a crush; I could see that now. Freya and I were grown women.

“Poor girl,” I said, feeling for my awkward assistant. “I hope she can find some friends her own age.”

“I know,” Freya agreed, tucking into her salad. “I’ve been pushing her in that direction. It’s for her own good.”

“It is,” I said. But I knew it would be hard for Low to make new friends when her world seemed to revolve around photographing Freya.

Our level of intimacy had not been damaged by our recent estrangement. In fact, we were even closer after we reunited. No subjects were taboo anymore, nothing needed to be hidden or avoided. Our husbands may have felt differently (I know mine did), but I no longer cared if we were “couple friends.” Our female friendship was all that mattered.

We texted constantly. Freya was open and funny. She felt like an elephant. She had terrible gas. She was horny but couldn’t stand to be touched. When the store was closed, we met for leisurely strolls or lunch at the Blue Heron. It was easier to meet on neutral territory. But one Saturday, Freya summoned me to her house on my lunch break.

“Can you come over? I’m so bored, but I’m too fat to get dressed.”

When Low skulked into the store at eleven, I took my leave. I didn’t tell her where I was going, but she knew. I could see it in her narrowed eyes, her tense posture. And like Low, I had no one else but Freya.

I’d picked up Buddha bowls for us, and Freya opened a bottle of rosé. “The baby’s basically cooked,” she said, as she poured herself a small glass. “A bit of wine won’t hurt it.” A May due date meant she was early into her third trimester. I’d read so many books on gestation that I would have abstained completely if I were expecting. But I wasn’t about to object. As close as I felt to her, I was still afraid of setting her off.

I tucked into my bowl of grains and greens. “Have you had a chance to talk to your doctor about a birthing plan?”

“Not yet.”

“There’s still time,” I said, keeping my tone light and breezy to hide my concern.

“There’s been a lot going on,” she said, sipping her wine. “With Max.”

Now that everything was out in the open, I didn’t have to feel awkward and sweaty at the mention of his name, but for some reason, I still did. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, in as casual a tone as I could muster.

“He’s been fighting.”

“With whom?”

“Anyone who wants to take him on,” Freya said. “When he’s away with the boys, they go out to bars. He’s always been a target. The tough guy. The guy who killed Ryan Klassen. But now, he instigates things. And then he doesn’t fight back. He lets himself be beaten. He wants to be physically punished for what he did.”

The black eye I’d seen that day in the restaurant made sense now. And, perhaps, the puckered scar on his chest. . . . “Has he talked to someone? A therapist?”

“He’s not that kind of guy,” Freya said as she chewed. “Even if he were, this backwater is sorely lacking in mental-health services.”

I knew that to be true. But Max traveled frequently; he could find help on the mainland. This sounded serious. I was about to offer this suggestion when Freya spoke.

“How can he be a good father when he hates himself so much?”

I looked at my friend and saw tears in her eyes, dimples of emotion in her chin. It was rare to see this display of feeling from Freya. She delivered intense, heartfelt words with a breezy casualness. She shared tales of her childhood pain as if she’d read about them in a book. But she was hurting now. She was worried.

“The baby will change him,” I said quickly. “It will become the most important thing in the entire world, and he’ll realize he has to get help. He’ll have to forgive himself in order to be a good dad.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so,” I said with an adamance I could not back up. But I believed that this baby was going to be transformative. Freya and Max would become the people their child needed: warm, doting, adoring. It was biology: nature’s way of ensuring the propagation of the species. And everything felt good and right and possible at that time.

Freya smiled at me. “You always know what to say to make me feel better.”

I returned her fond gaze, feeling pleased and warmed. Everything was going to be all right. I would make sure of it.





48


The e-mail came in about a week later, via Hawking Mercantile’s website. I had set up a contact address for customers and potential suppliers. The sender’s name was unfamiliar, the address a generic Gmail account. I thought it must be spam; I almost deleted it. The only words were: Please read this.