The Swap(64)

Jamie walked us to the door. “Thank you for coming. I know you took a big risk.”

“Not that big. Freya and Max are out of town.”

Her pretty face darkened. “Where are they?”

“Freya’s gone to Sonoma for a bachelorette party.”

“Are you all right alone with Maggie? Can I help?”

“I’m fine. Max will be back tonight.”

I allowed Jamie one last stroke of her husband’s baby’s soft cheek, and then I left.

Mission accomplished. Now all we had to do was wait.





59


My cell phone rang at 4:45 p.m., as I was picking up burp cloths and rattles and black-and-white infant toys in preparation for Max’s return. But his name appeared on my phone screen, sending an ominous wave through me. My intuition told me this was not good news.

“I missed the last ferry,” he said. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

It could have been worse: a car/boat/plane crash . . . but I was irritated. I’d been anticipating spending the evening alone with Max. Not in a romantic way—I’d long since realized a sexual preference for Freya—but I could have subtly mentioned the benefits of sharing custody with Jamie and Brian, if not handing Maggie over to them altogether. And I needed a respite from the baby. Other than the trip to Jamie’s store, it had been another long, dull day of feeding, burping, and changing diapers.

“I’ll crash at a hotel tonight,” he continued. “And since I’m here . . .”

Shit.

“. . . I thought I’d spend the day tomorrow. Catch up with some friends. But I’ll be on the evening ferry. For sure.”

“Great,” I snapped. “Sounds fun. Have a nice time.” I hung up the phone and threw a bamboo baby rattle across the room in frustration. It hit the plaster with a clatter and shake, the bulb splitting, spreading tiny beans all over the hardwood floor. Maggie let out a startled squeak from her crib on the other side of the wall. Shit.

Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.

Thankfully, after a few hiccupping coughs, Maggie returned to her slumber, oblivious of my tantrum.

I realized that hunger might be contributing to my sour mood. My last meal had been snatched around eleven as I’d prepared for my trip to Hawking Mercantile. I went into the kitchen, ignoring the dirty dishes littering the counters and filling the sink. A look in the fridge revealed two prepared baby bottles, a jar of pickles, a carton of oat milk, a bag of chia seeds, and a box of greens. The cost of a restaurant delivery this far out of town would be astronomical. My stomach growled angrily, and I felt a surge of desperation. I could make a spinach, pickle, and chia-seed salad, or I could call my mother.

“They left you alone with a two-week-old baby?”

“She’s three weeks.”

“How can they leave their daughter when she’s so tiny? It’s not natural.”

This was coming from a woman who breastfed a first grader, so I took it with a grain of salt. “Can you bring me some food? I don’t want to drag Maggie to the grocery store.”

“They left you with nothing to eat? When are they coming back?”

“Can you bring me something or not?” I grumbled.

“I’ll send your dad over.”

Within the hour, he was there, carrying a ceramic bowl covered in beeswax-coated fabric and warm naan bread wrapped in a tea towel. I could smell curry and cumin and turmeric.

“Brought your favorite.”

It was dal, of course, but I wasn’t about to complain. “Thanks, Dad.” I took the warm container from his hands and hurried into the kitchen for a bowl and spoon. My father trailed after me, taking in the piles of dirty dishes, the mounds of filthy burp cloths, the empty formula containers littering the counter.

“What’s that smell?”

My aromatic dinner masked all other odors, but I knew the source. “I haven’t had a chance to take the garbage out.”

He plugged his nose. “Are there diapers in it?”

I nodded and shrugged.

“Where is it?” he muttered.

“Under the sink.”

When he returned from depositing the bag in the outside garbage cans, he said, “Mind if I look around a bit?”

“Sure.” I understood his curiosity. This home, despite its chaotic state, was still awe-inspiring.

I ate a third of the lentils and two pieces of naan and put the rest in the fridge. Max had promised to return tomorrow, but I couldn’t rely on him. And I didn’t want to bother my parents for another food delivery, didn’t want to hear them disparage Freya and Max as selfish, irresponsible parents and employers. If I had pickles for breakfast and half the leftover dal for lunch, Max could pick up dinner for us. If he didn’t return, I’d finish the dahl and naan.

My dad returned to the kitchen. He was holding fragments of the rattle I’d thrown across the room. He didn’t ask any questions, just moved to the cupboard under the sink and threw the pieces into the now empty bin.

“It’s a stunning house,” he said.

“I know.”

“Call us if you need any more food.”

“I will.”

“Or if you just need a break. Or some company.”