The Swap(69)

“Then who called?” Max asked.

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter because we’re leaving. It was a mistake to move here in the first place, and now everything is totally fucked-up.”

“Where are we going?” Max said to her departing back as she moved to the kitchen.

We both trailed after her.

“We’ll go back to LA,” she said, flicking on the coffee machine. “You know I’ve been thinking about it for months. This thing with CPS was the last fucking straw.”

“It’s not that simple,” he said, as she rummaged in the fridge. “We’d have to sell the house. In this market, that could take months. Even years. And we won’t get much bang for our buck in LA.”

Freya emerged with a carton of oat milk. “I don’t care if we live in a dumpster in LA. I’m not raising my daughter in this hillbilly backwater.”

I had stood by, listening in mute horror, but I stepped forward then. “You can’t leave.”

It was clear from the look on Freya’s face that she had forgotten I was there. “This doesn’t concern you, Low. Go home.”

“I live here.”

“Not anymore.” She poured the nondairy beverage into a mug and slammed it into the microwave. “We won’t be needing your services.”

“You can’t just . . . let me go.”

“We’ll pay you two weeks’ severance,” Max mumbled.

But this wasn’t about money. “I’ll go with you,” I suggested. “I hate it here, too. I can look after Maggie in LA.”

“You wouldn’t fit in there. You’re too . . .” Freya’s eyes roved over me and I steeled myself for an unkind assessment. But she said, “You’re an island girl. This is where you belong.”

The microwave dinged, and she turned away from me. If she had thrown scalding oat milk in my face it would have hurt less.

“Maggie needs me,” I countered. “We’ve bonded.” I swallowed my fear and added, “She barely knows you.”

Freya set down her coffee mug and turned to face me. “You called CPS.”

“What?” My face blanched, which I feared would read as guilt. “No.”

An incredulous laugh erupted from her. “Are you jealous of my baby daughter, Low? Are you trying to get rid of her so you can have me all to yourself?”

Now my face was burning, and I knew my cheeks were fuchsia. Freya was onto me. She had read my thoughts and emotions. But I had not made that call.

Max addressed his wife. “Stop.”

But she didn’t stop. She kept coming at me. “You’re obsessed with me, aren’t you, Low? And Max, too. You’ve got some deluded fantasy that we’re soul mates. That we’re in love.”

“I don’t.”

“Do you watch us fucking? Do you take pictures of us and then masturbate to them?”

“Jesus Christ, Freya,” Max said.

But she knew. She knew about the photographs hidden in my bedroom. Had she seen them? Or could she simply sense my lust, my fascination?

Freya almost smiled as she watched me grapple with her accusations. And then she narrowed her eyes at me. “Pack your shit and go home to your sex cult.”

Obediently, I hurried from the room.





64


It didn’t take me long to gather my belongings. I’d been living there less than a month and had been too busy with the baby to really make myself at home. I shoved my clothes, my bag of weed, and a few trinkets into the backpack. And then I reached under the mattress for the photographs. I’d intended to use them in an instance exactly like this.

Take me to LA with you or I’ll post these online!

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she was right about me: I was a voyeur and a pervert. I grabbed the photos and stuffed them into my bag.

Lugging my backpack up the stairs, I moved to the living room to collect my camera from the low teak coffee table. Had the breastfeeding photo shoot really been this morning? It felt like an eternity ago. I could hear Freya and Max arguing.

“You’re upset. You’re not thinking this through.”

“You didn’t think it through when you moved us to this island full of freaks and losers!”

I drove home in a fog. I was losing her. Them. Forever. It couldn’t be real. Maybe I was in shock because the next thing I knew, I was parked in my driveway. My dad and my brothers were chopping kindling. My mom was pushing Eckhart on a rickety swing. I slowly got out of the truck with my backpack.

“Low!” Wayne ran over to me and wrapped his arms around my waist. “You came home.”

His words were a punch in the gut. I didn’t want this to be my home.

My mom approached, “Are you okay?”

I didn’t want to tell her; she wouldn’t understand. But the words fell from my lips. “Someone called Child Protection Services about Maggie. Freya thinks it was me.”

“I’m sorry,” my mom said, reaching out to stroke my arm. “But it’s for the best.”

“How is it for the best?” I snapped.

“What matters is that the baby is safe and well cared for.”

“She is safe. I was caring for her.”