The Swap(57)

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 islands, 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.