The Swap

by Robyn Harding

  I tucked into my bowl of grains and greens. “Have you had a chance to talk to your doctor about a birthing plan?”

  “Not yet.”

  “There’s still time,” I said, keeping my tone light to hide my concern.

  “There’s been a lot going on,” she said, sipping her wine. “With Max.”

  Now that everything was out in the open, I didn’t have to feel awkward and sweaty at the mention of his name, but for some reason, I still did. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, in as casual a tone as I could muster.

  “He’s been fighting.”

  “With whom?”

  “Anyone who wants to take him on,” Freya said. “When he’s away with the boys, they go out to bars. He’s always been a target. The tough guy. The guy who killed Ryan Klassen. But now, he instigates things. And then he doesn’t fight back. He lets himself be beaten. He wants to be physically punished for what he did.”

  The black eye I’d seen that day in the restaurant made sense now. And, perhaps, the puckered scar on his chest.… “Has he talked to someone? A therapist?”

  “He’s not that kind of guy,” Freya said as she chewed. “Even if he were, this backwater is sorely lacking in mental-health services.”

  I knew that to be true. But Max traveled frequently; he could find help on the mainland. This sounded serious. I was about to offer this suggestion when Freya spoke.

  “How can he be a good father when he hates himself so much?”

  I looked at my friend and saw tears in her eyes, dimples of emotion in her chin. It was rare to see this display of feeling from Freya. She delivered intense, heartfelt words with a breezy casualness. She shared tales of her childhood pain as if she’d read about them in a book. But she was hurting now. She was worried.

  “The baby will change him,” I said quickly. “It will become the most important thing in the entire world, and he’ll realize he has to get help. He’ll have to forgive himself in order to be a good dad.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I know so,” I said with an adamance I could not back up. But I believed that this baby was going to be transformative. Freya and Max would become the people their child needed: warm, doting, adoring. It was biology: nature’s way of ensuring the propagation of the species. And everything felt good and right and possible at that time.

  Freya smiled at me. “You always know what to say to make me feel better.”

  I returned her fond gaze, feeling pleased and warmed. Everything was going to be all right. I would make sure of it.

  48

  The e-mail came in about a week later, via Hawking Mercantile’s website. I had set up a contact address for customers and potential suppliers. The sender’s name was unfamiliar, the address a generic Gmail account. I thought it must be spam; I almost deleted it. The only words were:

  Please read this.

  And then a link.

  I was alone in the kitchen, my laptop set up on the small pine table. We had had an early dinner, and now I was paying invoices while Brian watched TV in the living room. If I’d asked his opinion, he would have told me not to click. He’d warned me many times about phishing and viruses. But I didn’t call out for advice as my mouse hovered over the words and I debated whether the message was safe and legitimate. Something told me to take the risk. And so, I clicked.

  An article from the Calgary Herald filled my screen. I had an aunt in Calgary, had visited her on a few summer vacations when I was growing up. It was an archived story from several years ago, about NHL hockey player Max Beausoleil. He’d been involved in a paternity suit; a woman had sued him for child support. My brow crinkled with confusion and concern. Did Max have another child out there? Did Freya know about it? Why had they never mentioned it?

  As I continued to read, I learned that Max had disputed the mother’s paternity claim. An attractive blonde, Paula Elphin, maintained that they’d slept together when Max played for the Kings. He was newly married to Freya then. Of course he’d deny it. Even if he had Freya’s blessing to sleep around, the optics were bad. But it was his defense that made my pulse race and the back of my neck break out in a sweat.

  Maxime Beausoleil claimed to be sterile.

  His lawyer had submitted a doctor’s note into evidence. Complications from mumps, it said, a rare but plausible cause of infertility. The baby couldn’t possibly be Max’s—or so he declared. But the judge hadn’t bought it, had insisted on a paternity test. At the time of writing, the results were pending.

  I immediately searched for a follow-up article. I had to know if my best friend’s husband had a child out there. Perhaps its existence explained Max’s long and frequent absences? But why had the kid never come to visit? It would be in elementary school by now. I knew that Freya had hated children, but her pregnancy had changed things, had changed her. This child, if it were Max’s, would be welcome now.

  But if it wasn’t his…

  A specific Google search provided the answers I sought. The test results proved that Max was not the father of Paula Elphin’s baby. So did that mean Max was sterile, as he’d claimed? The judge had ordered only a DNA test, not a fertility test. Max’s ability to father children was irrelevant to the court. But it was not irrelevant to me. Because if Maxime Beausoleil was not the father of Freya’s baby, who was?

  And who had sent me this article?

  Suddenly, Brian was behind me. “Almost done?” he asked cheerily.

  I turned to face him, my chagrin and confusion evident. “I—I just got this e-mail.”

  “From whom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Brian took a seat, and I slid the laptop to him. He read the first article, his brow furrowed with confusion. Without a word, he clicked to the second piece, his face growing darker as he read the results of Max’s paternity test. I saw him put the pieces together in his brain, watched him scramble with the possibilities.

  “What does this mean?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

  Brian stood. “It means we need to talk to Max and Freya.”

  49 brian

  My hands held the wheel in a vise grip, and my foot felt heavy on the gas. I was conscious not to speed, not to be reckless as we drove toward the cliffside home. If my driving reflected a lack of urgency, a sense of calm, it might translate to my wife and me. But Jamie was practically vibrating in the seat beside me, nerves and apprehension coming off her in waves. And I felt sick to my stomach. Because this encounter, this confrontation, was going to be brutal. It was going to change our lives, one way or another.

  Neither of us spoke, neither of us articulated what that article could mean for us. And for the baby. After my initial suspicions about its paternity, I had put the child—and its parents—out of my mind. Freya had provided the dated ultrasound image, and it had looked authentic. But it could easily have been doctored with some Wite-Out and a scanner. I had wanted so badly to believe its veracity, been desperate to disconnect from that toxic couple and put the night of the swap behind us. But if Max could not father children…

  Despite our struggles, I still wanted to be a dad. Jamie may have grieved longer and more openly, but I still ached for a child. I’d always envisioned myself with a little girl on my shoulders, tossing a baseball with my son. But not this way. Please, God, not this way.

  Freya had charmed me at first, I’d been a pawn to her beauty and sex appeal, but now I saw through it. She was manipulative, even scheming. She got off on playing with people. I’d watched my wife careen from jubilance to despair and back to restrained delight as Freya embraced her, dumped her, then lured her back in. I should have been angry at Max for sleeping with my wife, but he was just Freya’s puppet. That night was all her doing.

  Had Freya wanted to get pregnant? Had she orchestrated the couples’ swap so she could conceive? She wasn’t the maternal type, didn’t seem to have a clue about kids. But this pregnancy had reignited her Instagram career. And got her so much attention—from Jamie, Max
, even Low who, as far as I could see, was Freya’s volunteer PA. But would Freya go this far? Would she get pregnant with my baby just to fuck with us all? She’d have to be a psychopath.

  And now, this woman I despised was carrying my child. I knew it in my gut, had known it all along if I’d been honest with myself. I glanced at my wife, and she looked back, meeting my eyes. She knew it, too.

  What were we going to do about it?

  50 jamie

  We eased down the long gravel drive toward Freya and Max’s home. My stomach was in knots, the smallest bump in the path making me nauseous. I wanted to tell Brian to turn around, tell him we needed to go home to discuss and strategize. But we were here now, and there would be no turning back. We needed answers. If we had somehow gotten this wrong, if the baby was Max’s, they would never forgive us. But if we had gotten it right…

  I was anxious, terrified, but I felt something else… a glimmer of hope. This baby might be my husband’s child. Was there a way that Freya and I could both be mothers? I know it sounds weird and “out there” but we lived on an island with a progressive, highly alternative culture. Low’s family was the perfect example. They shared their children and their partners with ease and aplomb. Everyone was loving and happy and devoted. Except Low… but I wasn’t sure her misery could be blamed on her family’s makeup.

  And Freya wasn’t jealous or possessive. She’d let me sleep with her husband without a second thought. Perhaps she would let me mother her child, too? Joint custody would take the pressure off her. She’d have time to exercise, to pamper herself, to travel. She and Max could work on their marriage and his self-hatred issues without the demands of a baby. Over time, they might find that they preferred the child live with us full-time. They could visit. They could take it to Disneyland. But Brian and I would be its real parents. I would be its mother.

  But if Freya had wanted us to be a part of the baby’s life, why had she lied to us? Why had she hidden her child’s paternity?

  Brian stopped the car behind the white Range Rover and turned to face me. “Who could have sent you that e-mail?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe someone with a grudge against Max and Freya?”

  “But why did they send it to you? It has to be someone who knows I slept with Freya. It has to be someone who’s concerned about the baby.”

  I swallowed. There was only one person I could think of who didn’t want them to have that child.

  “Could it be Max?” I said.

  “Could it be Freya?” Brian suggested.

  We both sat there, mulling the possibilities. Max had never seemed excited about the baby. Freya could have gotten cold feet. They were the only ones who knew the infant’s true paternity.

  “What about Low?” Brian suggested.

  “No,” I said instantly. “She’s an odd kid, but she wouldn’t do something like this. And besides, she doesn’t know what we did that night. Freya wouldn’t tell a teenager that we had a couples’ swap. That would be sick.”

  Brian nodded slowly, then he unbuckled his seat belt.

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  51

  When Freya opened the door, she looked pleasantly surprised to see me. But I watched her pretty face as she clocked my agitation, my husband’s tense presence at my side. The delight on her features quickly evaporated, replaced by darkness and dread. This was clearly not a social call.

  “Hey,” she said flatly.

  “Hi,” I replied, my voice strangled.

  Brian said, “We need to talk to you and Max.”

  She hesitated, and for a moment, I feared she’d slam the door in our faces. But she stepped back and ushered us inside.

  “Jamie and Brian are here,” she called, her lack of enthusiasm evident in her tone. She sounded resigned, like she’d expected us to show up on her doorstep demanding answers. And maybe she had?

  Max walked into the room then, wearing faded jeans and a clinging T-shirt that showed off his physique. But I felt no pitter-patter of attraction, no blush of remembrance. We were here on business. A child’s future hung on this encounter.

  “What’s up?” he said, matching his wife’s cool but accepting presentation.

  Brian spoke directly to Max. “We just got an anonymous e-mail with a link to your paternity case. The one where you stated—in court—that you’re sterile.”

  Max’s handsome face turned into a scowl. “Who sent you that?”

  “Someone who thought we should know that the baby”—Brian gestured toward Freya’s bump—“isn’t yours.”

  I turned to Freya then. “Is it Brian’s child?” My words wobbled with emotion. And cautious optimism.

  But Freya ignored me and turned to Brian. “Max lied in court. That slut was trying to get money out of him. It seemed the easiest solution.”

  “The paternity test proved it wasn’t Max’s baby,” Brian countered.

  “Yeah, because he didn’t sleep with her,” Freya snapped back. “Not because he’s sterile.”

  My husband turned to Max. “So you never had complications from mumps? You lied about all of it?”

  “I had mumps,” Max stated. “And I had complications. But I’m not sterile. I just have lower-than-average fertility.”

  “We have sex every day,” Freya said. “Sometimes twice.” She looked at Brian with a disdain. “We still have a higher chance of conception than one lame night with you.”

  I was simultaneously relieved and insulted that Freya considered my husband a lousy lay. But that was irrelevant right now. “There’s an easy way to solve this,” I said. “You can take a paternity test.”

  “Fuck you,” Freya barked. “I’m not risking my baby getting stuck with a needle to put your mind at ease.”

  “There are noninvasive ways to test paternity in utero,” I said. “They can take your blood and extract the baby’s DNA from it. It’s perfectly safe.”

  Freya looked at me, her lip curled into a sneer. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

  She’d sensed my hope, but I was far from loving this. “Yeah, it’s wonderful,” I snapped. “My best friend is pregnant with my husband’s child, and she’s been lying about it for months.”

  “I told you it’s not his fucking baby! You’re so desperate to be a mother that you’re trying to steal my child. You’re sick. You’re pathetic.”

  Anger welled up inside of me and made my voice shake. “Then prove it,” I said. “Because if the baby is Brian’s, it will be a hell of a lot better off having me for a mother than you!”

  Freya’s eyes widened with shock, and her face paled with chagrin. My words were cruel, they would irrevocably destroy our friendship. But it felt good to stand up to her, to hurt her even. She thought I was weak and cowardly. She thought I worshipped her so much that I’d cave in, back down. But I would fight for the truth about this baby.

  She took a step back as if I’d slapped her.

  “Oh shit,” she said. “I think my water just broke.”

  I saw the wet patch on her designer maternity jeans, watched it spread down her legs. “It’s too early,” I said, my voice hoarse.

  “Fuck,” Max muttered.

  “Is it too early?” Brian asked. “If the baby’s mine, you’re only a couple weeks from your due date.”

  “It’s not fucking yours!” Freya screeched, her face red, eyes wild. She was hunched over, clutching her belly. She looked angry. And terrified.

  “We need to go to the hospital,” Max said, putting his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, tears pricking my eyes. Had my verbal attack caused premature labor? Was the baby in jeopardy because I couldn’t control my rage? “Can I do anything? Does she have her bag packed?”

  “Stay the fuck away from me, Jamie!” Freya yelled as Max grabbed a small suitcase from the front closet and escorted her to the door. “You’re not getting anywhere near me, or my baby!”

  52 max

>   We took my car; Brian had parked directly behind Freya’s white Range Rover. The hospital was only a fifteen-minute drive from our home, but Freya’s contractions seemed to be pretty intense. At least, that’s what I could deduce from the vitriol she spewed at me through gritted teeth.

  “You sent that fucking e-mail, didn’t you? You told Jamie that it’s not your baby.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You’re the only one who knows I slept with Brian! It has to be you, you fucking traitor!”

  “It wasn’t. You must have told someone.”

  “Who would I tell? I have no one here!” Then she let out a fierce, guttural scream as a contraction hit her.

  “Breathe,” I said.

  “Fuck you!” she responded.

  When the pain had passed, she continued her rant. “You never wanted this baby! You’re trying to give it away!”

  “I’m not,” I said, which was the truth. But she was right; I’d never wanted it. Freya and I weren’t meant to be parents. Years ago, I would have welcomed a child, but not now, not after all the ugly shit we’d been through. I’d known that my chances of fathering a child were “practically zero” when I married Freya. If I’d wanted a family, I would have chosen a different wife. It sounds harsh, but Freya was not mother material. Freya was sexy, beautiful, witty… but she was not selfless; she was not loving. She was not cut out to be someone’s mom.

  Neither was Paula Elphin. I barely knew her, but a person who would lie in court about having sex with an athlete just to get child support… well, she was hardly a positive role model. Thank God I hadn’t slept with her. She’d been all over me in the bar that night, but I was a newlywed, madly in love. Freya wasn’t possessive, but I wasn’t interested. When Paula accused me, my lawyer thought my sterility would be the quickest and easiest way to make it all go away. We hadn’t expected the judge to order a DNA test.