The Swap(74)

You see my photos and you see a beautiful woman with a beautiful baby and a beautiful home. But you don’t see the loneliness and despair. You don’t see the hurt and sorrow. No one wants to hear about the dark side of motherhood. No one wants to talk about the difficulties of bonding with your child, of breastfeeding, of playing the role of mommy when you don’t feel it. I can’t tell anyone about the black thoughts where I want to hurt my own child, when I want to make her disappear. And when I say my baby would be better off without me, no one wants to listen. No one wants to hear it. But it’s the truth. And I will do what is best for my daughter. Goodbye.

#postpartumdepression #sacrifice #sorry

I took the phone to Brian’s office, where he was working on his latest novel.

He read it, his brow furrowed, then looked up at me. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a suicide note,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m sure of it.”

“No,” he said. “Who would leave a suicide note on Instagram?”

“Lots of people,” I said. “Freya.”

He knew I was right. I could see it in his eyes.

“I have to call Max,” I said. “I have to go over there.”

“You can’t. Any contact could be seen as harassment. It could be used against us in court.”

“But if Freya is dead . . .”

“But if she’s not . . .”

Neither of us spoke for a few moments, the weight of what Freya may have done settling on us. Finally, I said, “Low might know something.”

Brian nodded. “It’s worth a try.”

But Low had been banished, she said, when I phoned her. “I don’t know what’s going on with her. She wasn’t coping. She was freaking out. But when I tried to help her, she sent me away.”

“Do you think she would . . . kill herself?”

“She talked about it. A lot. I didn’t think she really meant it. . . .” I heard Low sigh. “I’ll try to talk to Max. I’ll keep you posted.”

And so, we waited.

“We’ll know the truth, soon enough,” Brian said. “Small towns like to talk.”

But that day passed, with no answers and no whispers. And then another. Low didn’t respond to my texts. I didn’t reach out to Max. I convinced myself that Freya was fine. Her Instagram post was just a cry for attention. She was being overly dramatic, as was her habit, manipulating people into worrying about her. I screenshotted the post to use as evidence of her instability in our custody fight.

It was on the morning of the third day, when Brian and I were having toast and coffee in our pajamas, that a vehicle crunched down our drive. Visitors to our home were rare in general, and even more rare at 6:45 a.m. We both moved to the front of the house and peered out the window. Crawling toward us was Max’s black Range Rover.

My heart was in my throat as I watched the big athlete get out of the vehicle and walk around to the back doors. He moved slowly, like he was in pain. Or in mourning. Or both. Reaching into the back, he withdrew a bucket car seat. And in it was our beautiful baby.

“He brought Maggie,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Brian said, practical and cautious. “We don’t know why he’s here.”

I hung back as Brian opened the door and ushered Max and the baby inside. Max had a bulging diaper bag on his shoulder, and my chest fluttered with hope. There would be no need to pack so much gear for a short visit.

He eschewed pleasantries. “Freya’s gone,” he said.

Brian’s eyes flitted to mine. Then he said, “Gone where?”

“She just disappeared.” He swallowed. “The police think she jumped off a cliff into the ocean.”

“Oh God,” I cried. While I had suspected suicide, hearing it articulated was devastating. Tears pricked my eyes for the loss of the woman I’d once loved, the woman I’d thought was my best friend, the mother of the beautiful little girl before me.

“They’ve dragged the coastline near our property, but they haven’t found her.”

Brian said, “Could she have left? Gone back to LA or somewhere else?”

“Her wallet and credit cards are still at the house. Her parents and old contacts haven’t heard from her. Only her phone is missing. I don’t know if you saw her Instagram post . . .”

“We did,” I said. “We’ve been concerned.”

“I would have called you, but the police have been interrogating me.” He shifted the car seat into his other hand. “I’ve been cleared.”

Brian and I both nodded. “Good.”

Max took a labored breath. “I want Maggie to live with you.”

“Really?” I gasped, not sure I could believe my own ears.

“She doesn’t belong to me. I know that. And I can’t take care of her on my own. She deserves two parents who will love and adore her.”

“We will,” I said, the tears spilling over. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” Brian said, clearing the emotion from his throat. “We’ll be the best parents we can be.”

“I’m moving back up north,” Max continued. “I need to be close to my family. I need some quiet. I’ve put the house on the market, but you can come and get her furniture. We’ve got everything she needs.”