The Swap

by Robyn Harding

  “Have a good trip,” I said. She gave me a last, quick hug and they left.

  * * *

  Their absence gave me an opportunity to deliver Maggie’s DNA sample to Jamie. I fetched the car seat from the garage and dropped the tube into the diaper bag. Maggie had yet to be taken on an outing, but I was familiar with the backward-facing safety device. I popped her into the seat, adjusted the straps, and installed her in the back seat of my truck. Then I drove to Hawking Mercantile.

  The plastic bucket seat bumped against my shin as I walked into the shop. Jamie was with a customer, but her eyes widened when she saw me. Her gaze flitted to the baby, and I saw her swallow. She hurriedly rang up the woman’s purchase—one of Freya’s bud vases—and expediently wrapped it in natural-colored tissue paper. Jamie’s hands were shaking as she handed the brown paper bag to the customer and watched her leave. As soon as the elderly woman had gone, Jamie rushed over to us.

  “You came,” she said, stating the obvious. But she wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were on the little girl snoozing peacefully on the floor. Jamie knelt down and spoke softly to her.

  “Hello, honey.” She gently stroked her downy head. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  Maggie didn’t stir, even as Jamie touched her cheeks, her hands, her feet. I could see the emotion in Jamie’s eyes, hear it in her voice as she murmured sweet words to the sleeping child. It was getting to be a bit sappy, so I broke in.

  “I brought the swab.” I reached into the diaper bag and extracting the sample.

  Jamie stood. “Thank you. You’ll never know what this means to me.”

  “Don’t tell Freya I did this,” I said. “Ever.”

  “I won’t. If you promise not to tell Brian.”

  “Brian?”

  “He wants to do everything by the book. He wants to get a lawyer, and go to court, and have a judge demand a paternity test. But I can’t wait that long.”

  “But how will you get his DNA if he’s not in on this?”

  Jamie gave a sheepish smile. “Deep sleeper. Mouth breather.”

  She was that determined. That desperate.

  “Once Freya sees these results, once she knows for sure that Maggie is Brian’s child… I think she’ll be reasonable. All we want is access. We’re not trying to steal her away from her mother.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said, hoisting the car seat. “I’d better get Maggie home before she gets hungry.”

  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 dal 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.”

  A lump of self-pity formed in my throat. “Thanks.”

  He gave my arm an affectionate squeeze and then left.

  60

  Freya returned looking relaxed, happy, and a little hungover. “God, I needed that,” she said, sinking into the white sofa.

  “Glad you had fun,” I said, only the slightest
edge to my voice. I was holding Maggie, jiggling her gently on my shoulder. “We were fine here. Alone.”

  “Good,” she said, oblivious of or ignoring my tone. “I need to do a photo shoot with Maggie.”

  I had been anticipating this suggestion. Freya had made the critical error of chronicling her wine tasting, her sunbathing, and her culinary adventures on Instagram and YouTube. Some of her followers appreciated her glamorous photos, but others were ruthless.

  Leaves her newborn baby to get drunk in wine country. #motheroftheyear

  I’m sure the nanny is having a great time right now too.

  People this selfish should be sterilized.

  These attacks gave me a sense of satisfaction. I wanted Freya to feel guilty for leaving Maggie and me. I wanted her to regret her trip to Sonoma so much that she never left us again. The trolls were saying what I couldn’t.

  “I thought I might try breastfeeding her,” Freya said.

  “Really?” I asked. “Do you even have any milk left?”

  “It’s just for the photo,” Freya said. “Even if she won’t latch, you can make it look like she’s nursing.”

  The shoot was damage control. Maggie was just a prop.

  “Sure,” I complied. Because I was invested in Freya’s celebrity.

  She dragged herself off the sofa. “I need to shower and do my makeup. Make sure Maggie’s hungry so she takes the breast.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Freya reappeared looking fresh and natural. Her hair was softly tousled, and you could barely tell that she had used a curling iron. Her face appeared wholesome and makeup-free; I knew it took a lot of skill (and a lot of makeup) to create that look. She wore a white eyelet peasant top: the epitome of demure sexiness.

  “Let’s do this,” she said, lifting Maggie from the bouncy seat that kept her placid. It was the first time she had touched her daughter since her return.

  “Support her head,” I said automatically.

  Freya gave the child a cuddle and a kiss and then said, “I don’t like her outfit. Does she have anything white?”

  White was a highly impractical color for a onesie, but I recalled seeing a summery dress in the nursery. “I think so.”

  “Actually, maybe she should be naked. Skin on skin is good for kids, right?”

  “Right.”

  Freya lay the baby down and unbuttoned her onesie. I stood by with my camera, watching the businesslike precision with which Freya undressed her tiny daughter. Then she yanked down her top, exposing her perfect, non-lactating breast. She picked up the baby and pressed her face toward it.

  Maggie had always been bottle-fed. She had not even taken to the pacifier that I’d offered her numerous times. So the human nipple Freya was now waving in her face was not of interest. I took a few shots, but the baby turned her head away, squirming in her mother’s arms.

  “Come on, Maggie,” Freya cajoled, “take it.”

  But Maggie let out a squawk of defiance, her little body stiffening with irritation. As I pressed the shutter button, Freya tightened her grip, pressing the back of the baby’s head toward her breast. “Do it, you little brat.”

  And then, she shook her.

  It was a small movement, not enough to seriously hurt Maggie, but it was rough. And it was scary. Maggie let out a piercing scream of shock and distress, and something surged in me. A mother-bear protectiveness. I suppose it’s natural that I would have developed a bond with the baby after our many hours together, but the visceral reaction took me by surprise. I dropped my camera onto the armchair.

  “Give her to me.”

  “No,” Freya snapped, clutching the little body now racked with sobs. “Just take the fucking picture.”

  “Let me calm her down first.”

  “I’ll put a blanket over her. No one will know she’s upset.”

  “No.”

  “Do it,” she commanded, her eyes flaming at me. “Or I’ll find another photographer. And another nanny.”

  It was an ultimatum. Comforting Maggie could get me banished from her life. And Freya’s life. Though the child’s anguish tore at my heart, I reached for my camera. Then the doorbell rang.

  We both froze. Only Maggie kept wriggling and screeching. My eyes met Freya’s ice-blue gaze, and I saw the same dread I felt. There was no way of knowing who was at the door, but somehow, we knew it was trouble.

  61

  The woman on the doorstep appeared only a few years older than I was, but she wore a cheap pantsuit and a severe bun, clearly an effort to be taken seriously. She held a briefcase in her hand, an old-timey rectangular one. She was even smaller than Freya, who was now standing in the open door, facing her.

  “Freya Light?” she asked over Maggie’s continued screams. I bounced her gently and made shushing noises in her ear, but she was too traumatized to settle. We were standing several feet behind Freya, lurking in the foyer. She had dispatched Maggie and me to the nursery, but I had disobeyed her. I had to know who was at the door and what was going on.

  “Yes,” Freya answered, her tone hostile.

  “My name is Britney Chin. I’m with the Hawking branch of Child Protective Services.”

  My stomach lurched. CPS had never checked on my younger brothers. This was not just a routine visit. Britney elaborated.

  “We’ve had a call from someone who is concerned about your child’s welfare.”

  “Who was it?” Freya snapped, which was probably the wrong response.

  “That information is strictly confidential,” the young woman replied, and I could tell that this was exciting for her, possibly even her first case. Her enthusiasm did not bode well. “May I come in?”

  Freya said nothing but stepped back to allow the petite CPS worker inside. It was too late to duck into another room; that would have looked guilty. But Maggie was still sobbing, was wearing only a diaper in the spring chill, was covered in tears and snot and drool. The woman took us in.

  “And you are?”

  “She’s the nanny,” Freya answered. “My husband and I are with the baby most of the time, but we have some professional obligations. We wanted to make sure all of Maggie’s needs are met.”

  “Why isn’t she dressed?”

  Again, Freya responded. “We were changing her when the doorbell rang.”

  “She’s very upset,” Britney observed.

  I took this one. “Colic,” I said.

  This seemed to satisfy Ms. Chin, and she moved into the kitchen. Luckily, Max had done the dishes and stocked the fridge upon his return. She’d find nothing incriminating there. Freya trailed after her, snarling at me as she passed. “Get Maggie dressed and calm her down.”

  I took the baby back to the living room, where her onesie was discarded on a chair. Dressing her would set her off again, so I swaddled her tightly in a blanket, and bounced her on my shoulder. Over her dwindling snivels, I could hear Freya and Britney moving to the main-floor nursery. After several minutes there, they climbed the stairs to the upstairs bedrooms. I had snooped through Freya and Max’s master bedroom on more than one occasion. It was simply too tempting when I was left to my own devices. There was a lot of lingerie, a few run-of-the-mill sex toys, but nothing that would condemn them as parents.

  And then, they were headed to my basement quarters. My heart pounded against Maggie’s little body as I heard Freya and Britney descending the stairs. It was a disaster in there. I never made my bed or picked up my dirty clothes. But it wasn’t embarrassment that had me trembling, it was fear. Because I had things to hide. Serious things.

  There was a small bag of weed, but it was concealed in a rolled-up pair of wool socks, buried deep in a drawer. I wasn’t a big stoner but sometimes a toke helped me through a long, dull day of babysitting. There was a lighter and rolling papers, too, but they were also well hidden. If discovered, they would be damaging. They might even get me fired. But if they found the photographs, my entire world would come crashing down around me.

 
; Most of them were on my phone, and I was pretty sure Britney Chin did not have the authority to make me enter my passcode so she could search the device. But I had asked Thompson to print a copy of each photo, so I could hold them, touch them, stroke them. He had complied, handing them over to me with a disturbed look on his face. Under my mattress were five four-by-six photographs of Freya and Max making love on the living room floor. No… they weren’t making love. It was too intense, angry, and violent to be called that. They were photos of them fucking while Freya periodically hit, bit, and scratched him.

  I’m not a voyeuristic perv; the photo shoot was not premeditated. I had been roused from a deep slumber by thumps and bangs and Freya’s angry shrieks. I’d considered ignoring the cacophony. They wouldn’t thank me for my interference if it was just another squabble like last time. But something—concern or curiosity—had drawn me out of bed and up the stairs. By then, the cries had ceased, morphed into gasps and moans, the thumps into a rhythmic knocking. What I saw from my vantage point on the second-top step was rough and wrong… and so hot.

  I’d had my phone in my hand—I must have grabbed it on autopilot in case I needed the flashlight app. Crouching lower on the stairs, I took a video of the action, and several still shots. It was for my viewing pleasure… for flexing my recently discovered sexuality muscle. And it was collateral. If things went wrong with Freya again, if she tried to boot me from her universe, I would have ammunition.

  But if Britney Chin found the photos under the mattress, all hell would break loose. Was rough-sex porn starring a baby’s parents grounds for the child’s removal? What if the rough sex porn had been secretly documented by the nanny? Did that make it better or worse? I didn’t know. But I knew that Freya would fire me. I knew she’d find my phone on the dresser and she would smash it, drown it, destroy the evidence. She’d come for my camera, too. It was still on the chair, and I scooped it up by the strap. But I couldn’t protect it and hold Maggie at the same time. I waited, my heart in my throat, for Freya’s angry voice. And then I heard their feet coming up the stairs.