The Swap(61)

I swallowed hard. A plan was formulating in my mind, a sneaky plan that could blow up in my face. I could share it with Brian and risk him talking me out of it. Or I could add it to the secrets and subterfuge that had nearly destroyed us. Brian made the decision for me.

“How would we get the baby’s DNA? If we try to get near her, they’ll use it against us.” He sighed then, his eyes staring out at the quaint main street, deserted, as usual. “She’s a horrible human being.” He was talking about Freya; I didn’t need clarification. “I wish we’d never met her.” Then he stalked off toward his truck.

Part of me agreed with him. Part of me wished Freya hadn’t walked into my shop that day, that I hadn’t suggested coffee, that I hadn’t fallen under her spell. I wished we’d never gone to their waterfront home that night, that we hadn’t drank the mushroom tea, that we had never swapped partners. But part of me was grateful that we had. Because now we had a chance—no matter how tenuous, no matter how slim—to become parents.

And I still believed in Freya then. I still thought that we could make her see sense, that we would be able to work this out with mutual respect and understanding. Freya may have been selfish and shallow, but deep down, she had a good heart. And she would do what was best for her child. That’s what I thought then.

I was so naive.





57


low


Freya and the baby came home from the hospital after six days. The baby was healthy—happy and thriving—but the same could not be said for her mother. Freya had been kept in for a few extra days due to a minor infection. When she returned home, she was exhausted and glum. She was struggling to breastfeed and resented the enthusiastic lecture about its benefits that the nurses had given her prior to release.

“Fucking nosy do-gooders,” she snarled, as I bounced the hungry baby and Max prepared a bottle of formula.

“My mom breastfed all her kids for way too long,” I quipped. “She used to meet Leonard at recess for a quick top up.”

“I bet her tits are down to her knees,” Freya muttered.

Max or I did most of the feedings. Even though she wouldn’t breastfeed, the nurses had wanted Freya to bottle-feed her child, said it was important for bonding. But she wasn’t interested. Besides, she was usually asleep. She had been through physical turmoil, was recovering from surgery. But when her napping continued into the second week, it seemed a sign of avoidance and apathy. Freya had once mentioned her own mother’s postpartum depression, and I wondered if she was following in her maternal footsteps.

“Can you move in?” Max asked me, the weariness of caregiving showing on his face, “As soon as possible.”

He needed me. Desperately. I won’t pretend I didn’t like it. “I’m already here all day, I said, enjoying my power.

“I need you here at night. I’m exhausted.”

“My parents won’t like it.”

“I’ll pay you,” he said quickly. “How does thirty bucks an hour sound?”

It sounded like more than double the money I made at Jamie’s shop. And while being Maggie’s nanny was far more onerous than selling knickknacks to tourists, I could handle it short-term. And it would let me live here, with Freya and Max. To entrench myself into their lives and their home. And when Maggie was gone . . . ? Well, by then Freya and I would have reached a new level of intimacy. She would realize she couldn’t live without me, and she wouldn’t let me leave.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

Lucky for me, my parents were embroiled in a new drama that had shifted their focus from my role in the Light-Beausoleil household. Vik had met a woman at a silent meditation retreat and invited her to move into his trailer.

“He’s disrespecting the basic tenets of our relationship,” my mom said. She was sitting in the living room with my dad and a cross-legged Gwen. “Honesty and openness.”

“How well can he even know her?” Gwen sniped. “They were silent for most of their relationship.”

I heard my dad’s voice. “It’s new-relationship energy. He’s experiencing a desire for monogamy, but he’ll soon see that it’s not worth sacrificing what we have.”

My mom sounded petulant. “He always said he liked living alone, said he wanted his own space. What’s so special about this Angela?”

I had just come downstairs with a backpack full of my belongings. I walked into the living room. “It’s good to know you’re human after all.”

My mom glared at me. “What are you talking about, Swallow?”

“You’re all jealous,” I said. “You feel possessive of Vik and threatened by this Angela person. It’s normal. It’s human nature.”

“No, it isn’t!” my dad cried. “Pure love isn’t about ownership and control!”

“Monogamy is a societal construct!” Gwen shouted. “It treats women like chattel!”

But my eyes were on my mom, and she was surprisingly quiet. Then she pointed at the backpack looped around my forearm. “Where are you going?”

“I’m moving in with Freya and Max. They need help with the baby.”

“You can’t stand babies.”

She was right. And while I pitied baby Maggie, that hadn’t changed my feelings toward infants in general. But Freya’s daughter would soon be gone, living with her father and Jamie. At least most of the time. And I would be entrenched in Freya’s life: her live-in photographer, her social media manager, and her best friend. Maybe even more. . . .