The Swap

by Robyn Harding

  One morning, her disposition seemed darker than usual. There were circles under her eyes and her shiny hair was dull and lank. She muttered hey and then disappeared into the kiln room. I was getting used to her moods by now. It was best to stay quiet, keep my head down, and let her work through her emotions. Eventually, my lovely, charming Freya would return. But that day, as I was staining the veins on a butterfly’s wings, she stormed toward me.

  “You got glaze all over the kiln shelves, you moron! Your stupid fucking pots are fused to them!”

  Freya had been cranky and snappish toward me, but she had never verbally assaulted me before. I was shocked by the intensity of her anger. Setting down my brush, I managed to croak out a response. “They can’t be. I waxed the bottoms.”

  “Oh, okay…” Sarcasm dripped off her words. “I guess I just imagined the fucking mess in there.”

  “I-I’ll take care of it,” I stammered. “I’ll buy you a new shelf.”

  “This is a specialized gas kiln! Where are you going to buy a shelf for it on this godforsaken island?” She was falling apart, and it wasn’t over a kiln shelf. Something else was wrong. Very wrong.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “No! No, I’m fucking not.” She turned away and dropped her head into her hands.

  I stayed frozen on my stool, unsure whether I should go to her or give her space. My heart was pounding, and my throat was thick with dread.

  “I’m sorry, Low,” she said through her hands. “This isn’t about you.” Then she lifted her beautiful face. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Of course.”

  She took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

  There was no joy in her voice, so I didn’t have to fake any. Because I was not joyful, not joyful at all. I didn’t want to share Freya with some needy, clingy, sniveling infant. I’d just been run out of my home by one baby; now another was threatening my territory.

  “Oh no,” I said softly.

  Freya sighed. “I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t think I could conceive.”

  Silence hung heavy between us. I was at a loss for words, stunned by her news. Maybe I shouldn’t have been; Freya was a married woman of childbearing age, but she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. When I’d told her that Eckhart had been born, she’d wrinkled her nose in distaste before muttering, “Congrats, I guess.” On more than one occasion, she had commented on my mother’s mental health for having four children. And for having another baby at forty-two. She said things like:

  “Is your mom trying to fill some emotional void by having all those kids?”

  And:

  “Is your mom on crack?”

  She’d told me about her crazy mother and their fraught, on-again, off-again (mostly off-again) relationship. I simply couldn’t imagine Freya as a parent.

  She moved to the small paned window and stared out into her driveway. “My periods have always been sporadic,” she explained. “I just thought I was getting fat.” She turned back toward me. “I don’t even know if I’m going to keep it. But I’m already in my second trimester.”

  I should have said something to make her feel better about this terrible mistake; that was my role as her friend and confidante. But all I wanted to say was: Get rid of it Make it go away before it ruins your life and mine! I couldn’t be so callous, of course, but the words of support would not come.

  Then she said, “Promise me you won’t tell Jamie.”

  “Jamie?”

  “She wants a baby so badly, and she can’t have one. This will devastate her.”

  My employer had never mentioned her desire to be a mother, but I guess it made sense. Whenever an infant or toddler came into the store, she was all over it. After, she’d seem wistful, lost in thought, even tearful. During our hours together, Jamie often tried to engage me in conversation. When I remained uncommunicative, she’d babble on about her former marketing career, her husband’s fantasy trilogy, her college experiences at the University of British Columbia. But my boss had never admitted she wanted a family.

  “I won’t tell her.”

  “Thanks,” Freya muttered, heading for the door. “I’m going to lie down. Clean up the mess in the kiln.”

  When she left, I looked down at the intricate butterfly wings I’d been working on. Somehow, I had snapped them in two.

  22

  I didn’t sleep well that night. Normally, I went out like a light, even on the hard attic floor. But that night, I stared at the rafters for hours. Freya was pregnant. If she had the baby, it would usurp my space in her life. She wouldn’t come to the studio anymore, wouldn’t have time to do pottery with me. I knew firsthand how demanding babies were, how noisy, smelly, and needy. Freya might allow me to continue my work, but did I want to without her? Was my pinch-pot plan as fulfilling without her involvement?

  And I didn’t want to go back to my parents’ house. Even if my mom’s assurances that Eckhart would grow out of his monster phase were true, I didn’t want to be there. My youngest brother had tipped the scales. We had gone from being a large, noisy, loving family to a chaotic shit show. The last few months had shown me that I needed space and calm and quiet.

  If it had been a normal night, if I had been asleep, I wouldn’t have heard them. The screams were too far away, weren’t loud enough to wake me from a typically deep teenage slumber. Later, I would wonder if the cacophony was a regular occurrence. When I’d slept in Freya’s spare bedroom, I had thought I’d heard similar shrieks, but I’d been too drunk and high to know for sure. But this time, I was stone-cold sober. And I could hear Freya screeching.

  Panic sent me scrambling out of bed, down the ladder, and out into the night. Luckily, I’d been sleeping in a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, so I wasn’t streaking across their lawn in pajamas or less. As I hurtled toward the house, I didn’t consider how my appearance at their door in the middle of the night would look. My sole focus was Freya’s anguish. I had to save her from what was clearly an awful fate.

  The front door was locked, so I ran up onto the deck where double doors connected it to the kitchen and dining room. Residents of the island were lax about security, but Freya and Max were from the city. They would be in the habit of locking their doors to bar intruders. Had they fallen into complacency? Had a burglar gained access through an open door? A murderer or rapist? As I reached for the handle, I saw them through the glass.

  Freya and Max were facing each other in the kitchen. She wore a silky pink robe; he was in a pair of boxer shorts. I watched as Freya smacked her husband across the head. Hard.

  “You stupid piece of shit!” she growled. “I fucking hate you!”

  She smacked him again. And then again. Max just stood there, accepting her blows, flinching only slightly under the assault. Blood trickled from an angry scratch on his left cheek.

  “You ruined everything for me!” Freya screeched. She moved backward, picked up a pottery mug off the counter, and hurled it at her husband with a guttural roar. Her arm was impressive, but Max was quick and agile despite his size. He ducked, and the mug missed him by mere inches. Instead, it hit the cupboard behind him and fell to the floor with a crash.

  “You’re a stupid fucking animal!” Freya screamed, grabbing a two-pronged barbecue fork. She drew her arm back, and I didn’t know if she was going to rush at Max and stab him or throw the weapon and impale him. Either way, I couldn’t stand there and watch it happen. I turned the door handle and it gave way.

  “Stop!” I shrieked, as I burst into the room.

  They both turned toward me, and I saw the shock on their faces. It was quickly replaced by fury on Freya’s, something like shame on Max’s.

  “What are you doing here?” Freya growled. I had seen her annoyed, irritable, even angry, but this was different. This was unadulterated rage. She was still holding the fork and a frisson of fear ran through me.

  “Put the fork down,” I said, keeping my distance.

  Freya s
lammed the utensil down on the counter. “Why are you here?”

  Max added, “This is none of your business, Low.”

  Suddenly, I realized that I was the intruder, that my help, my interference, was unwanted.

  “I—I was working late,” I stammered. “I guess I dozed off. I heard screaming. I came to help.”

  “Get out, you psycho.” Freya’s voice was cold.

  I looked at Max.

  “Go home,” he said softly.

  As I slinked across the deck and down the stairs, I heard Freya’s voice. “And don’t come back!”

  She didn’t mean it, I told myself. She was angry and overwrought and would regret her words in the morning. What had Max done to warrant her fury? This had to be about the baby. Maybe he was making her keep it? Or making her get rid of it? It had to be something really bad to make her want to fork him like a steak.

  When I reached the studio, I grabbed my keys and hurried to my truck. Climbing in, my fingers fumbled with the ignition, my key stabbing blindly in the darkened cab. My breath was coming rapid and shallow. I was on the verge of hyperventilating, on the precipice of a full-blown panic attack. I was in no state to drive, but I had to leave. I had to put distance between myself and the scene at the luxurious home.

  As I drove the dark and deserted road up the island, I breathed deeply through my nose, trying to calm myself. Tomorrow, Freya would text me to explain. It was a lovers’ quarrel heightened by the unfortunate pregnancy news. The hormones had made her crazy; she wouldn’t really have hurt Max. She’d thank me for diffusing the situation, apologize for her harsh words, beg me to come back to the studio. She’d promise to have an abortion as soon as possible and then things would go back to normal.

  Even after what I had seen, I was still desperate to be a part of their lives.

  23

  When I got home, my dad was lying on the sofa with Eckhart on his chest. He didn’t question my entrance at 2:40 A.M., didn’t ask where I’d been spending my nights for the past few weeks.

  “Be quiet,” he whispered, and pointed at my brother, who was still sniveling even in his sleep. And I was quiet. I tiptoed up to my room, which now had a crib in one corner, and climbed silently into my bed. As soon as my head hit the pillow, Eckhart began to wail.

  It was almost noon when I woke to a silent house. Leonard and Wayne had gone to school, and my parents must have taken Eckhart for a soothing walk or a drive. I rolled over and retrieved my cell phone from beside the bed. I knew Freya would have texted me, would have made everything right.

  But there were no messages—not from Freya or anyone. My stomach plummeted with disappointment. And with dread. What if last night’s incident would not simply blow over? What if my interference in Freya and Max’s domestic drama was a deal breaker? The thought that Freya could have meant those words—and don’t come back—made me nauseous.

  I got up and padded down the creaking stairs to the kitchen, where I found a cold pot of coffee. I turned the machine back on to warm it, indifferent to how long it had been sitting there. Caffeine would make me see things more clearly. It would make me see that Freya was not going to destroy our pure and perfect friendship just because I had witnessed her tantrum. She couldn’t. It meant too much to both of us.

  The disastrous state of my family home did nothing to soothe my angst. Cloth diapers hung from a drying rack set up near the extinguished wood fireplace. Baby paraphernalia—blankets, burp cloths, toys, and rattles—covered every surface, interspersed with my school-aged brothers’ books and balls and hoodies and leftover snack plates. A disturbing odor permeated the air, either a bucket of soaking diapers, or a bucket of fermenting sauerkraut. Either was a possibility.

  The coffeepot was warm by now, and I poured myself a cup. It tasted like shit, so I added some honey and milk. I gulped the lukewarm concoction, waiting for the caffeine to hit my system, to wake me up and give me clarity. Taking my mug out to the back patio (a few paving stones with a couple of wrought iron chairs), I breathed in the crisp autumn air, let the chill awaken my senses. And it worked. Soon, I could see that I really had no reason to be upset about last night.

  As far as Freya and Max knew, I had done nothing wrong. They had no idea I’d been squatting on their property. My excuse of having worked late and dozing off in the studio was completely plausible. And they couldn’t have known I’d spied on their magic mushroom party. They were all high at the time, and otherwise occupied. So, for all intents and purposes, I was the innocent party here. The reason Freya hadn’t contacted me was her own embarrassment. I had seen her at her worst… violent, ugly, mean. She was ashamed of herself, and so she should be. But I still worshipped her. She needed to know that.

  Setting my mug on the ground, I texted her.

  Don’t worry about last night. I still think you’re awesome.

  After I hit SEND, I went in and refilled my coffee. It was properly hot now, and the taste was improved. I decided to take it up to my bedroom, where I’d left a half-finished novel I’d abandoned when I moved into the studio’s attic. Crawling into my soft bed, away from the mess and the smell of the main floor, I could feel myself relaxing. It was all going to be okay.

  The sound of car doors slamming, wailing, and tense voices announced my family’s return. I snuggled deeper into my bed, not in the mood to deal with the sights, sounds, and smells that accompanied my new brother. I was pretty sure my parents were too exhausted to remember how many kids they had, so I’d be able to read my novel, drink my coffee, and wait for Freya’s response in peace.

  “Low?” It was my dad’s voice, calling up the stairs. Dammit.

  “Yeah?” I hollered back.

  “Stop yelling,” I heard my mom admonish. “You’re upsetting Eckhart.” Sure enough, Eckhart’s cries had turned into frantic, hiccupping sobs. He was such a spaz. Dragging myself up, I went downstairs.

  “What?” I asked, standing on the bottom step.

  “This was on the front porch,” my dad said, pointing to a pile of stuff on the floor behind him. As my dad moved to the kitchen, I saw my sleeping bag, my pillow, half a package of cinnamon raisin bagels, and a white plastic garbage bag. I jumped off the step and opened the red drawstring top. Inside were my handmade pinch pots, smashed to smithereens.

  I felt the color drain from my face (not that it ever had much color). Freya had found my camp and it had so enraged her that she’d destroyed months of painstaking work. I could visualize her tossing my tiny pots into the garbage bag and then smashing the whole thing on the ground. Or she might have thrown each of my handmade creations across the room, then swept the refuse into the sack. My legs trembled as I heard in my head her angry scream, heard the bisque clay breaking. In that moment, I hated her more than I’d hated anyone.

  Gathering my belongings, I hurried back upstairs. My parents, absorbed by my malcontent brother, didn’t sense the hurt, anger, and betrayal consuming their eldest child. Alone in my room, those emotions gave way to another, more powerful one: fear. Freya hated me. She was cutting me out. My phone buzzed then, and I picked it up off the floor.

  Stay away from me, stalker

  It was from Freya.

  24 jamie

  Autumn is not as spectacular in the temperate rain forests of the West Coast as it is in the deciduous forests in the east. Most of the trees here are conifers, but the few maple, beech, and birch trees seemed determined to make up for their small numbers with a display of colorful leaves. As Freya and I strode along the packed-earth path, my eyes darted to the vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges above us. Soon, the leaves would fall to the ground and winter rains would turn them into a brown, sodden carpet, but for now, they clung to their hosts, dazzling me with their beauty.

  Freya didn’t seem to notice nature’s pageantry. She was subdued that morning, her hair pulled back, her designer tights replaced with baggy sweats and an oversize jacket. I’d noticed a subtle change in her disposition over the past couple of months. She was
a little less bubbly, a little less vivacious. When I asked after her well-being, she was dismissive, saying she hadn’t been sleeping well. She yawned a lot, which seemed to back up her story. But she wasn’t yawning today. And her face looked troubled.

  “I have something I need to tell you,” she said.

  She didn’t look at me, didn’t slow her pace, but her delivery was ominous. I felt my jaw clench. Our friendship had pretty much returned to normal since the night I had betrayed her. We saw each other regularly for walks, salads, or wine. But we hadn’t socialized as couples; Brian was struggling with finishing his book, going back and forth with his editor. And I didn’t want to see Max.

  Our night together had been consensual. Max had asked if he could touch and kiss me, assured me that we didn’t have to do anything I wasn’t comfortable with. I had given him my exuberant permission. But I still felt tricked, duped, and ashamed of myself. I didn’t know what to say or how to act around him, and so I avoided him. But I had worked hard to return normalcy to my friendship with Freya. Things felt fine between us. At least I thought so.…

  “Okay.” My voice sounded strangled.

  “It’s about Low.”

  Relief flooded through me. “What about her?”

  “I caught her spying on Max and me.”

  “What?”

  “We were up late the other night talking in the kitchen. It was past midnight. Suddenly, we saw Low watching us through the glass patio doors.”

  “Jesus. What was she doing there?”