I followed the direction of his outstretched hand and from the elevated vantage point of our kitchen I could see that the neighbor’s pool was filled with water, and my six-year-old daughter was swimming morning laps like she was on a regulated workout routine.
“What the f-” I started and then stopped, shooting a glance down at Blake who looked up at me with more exaggerated shock than he’d given his sister.
I watched her for point one more second and sprinted for the front door. “Keep an eye on the other ones,” I shouted at Blake as I pushed open our heavy red door.
It was just early fall in rural Connecticut. The grass was still green; the mornings were foggy but mostly still warm. The house next to us had been empty for almost a year. The owner had been asking too much for it in this economy, but I understood why. It was beautiful, clean-lined and modern with cream stucco siding and black decorative shutters. Big oak trees offered shade and character in the sprawling front yard and in the back, an in-ground pool was the drool-worthy envy of my children.
I raced down my yard and into my new neighbor’s. I hadn’t noticed the house had sold, but that didn’t surprise me. I wasn’t the most observant person these days. Vaguely I noted a moving truck parked in the long drive.
The backyard gate must have been left open. Even though Abby had taught herself how to swim at the age of four-the end result gave me several gray hairs-there was no way she could reach the flip lock at the top of the tall, white fence.
I rounded the corner and hopped/ran to the edge of the pool, the gravel of the patio cutting into my bare feet. I took a steadying breath and focused my panic-flooded mind long enough to assess whether Abby was still breathing or not.
She was, and happily swimming in circles in the deep end.
Fear and dread quickly turned to blinding anger and I took a step closer to the edge of the pool while I threw my silk robe on the ground.
“Abigail Elizabeth, you get out of there right this minute!” I shouted loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood.
She popped her head up out of the water, acknowledged me by sticking out her tongue, and promptly went back to swimming. That little brat.
“Abigail, I am not joking. Get out of the pool. Now!” I hollered again. And was ignored-again. “Abby, if I have to come in there and get you, you will rue the day you were born!”
She poked her head back up out of the water, shooting me a confused look. Her light brown eyebrows drew together, just like her father’s used to, and her little freckled nose wrinkled at something I said. I was smart enough or experienced enough to know that she was not on the verge of obeying, just because I’d threatened her.
“Mommy?” she asked, somehow making her little body tread water in a red polka dot bikini my sister picked up from Gap last summer. It was too small, which for some reason infuriated me even more. “What does rue mean?”
“It means you’re grounded from the iPad, your Leapster and the Wii for the next two years of your life,” I threatened. “Now get out of that pool right now before I come in there and get you myself.”
She giggled in reply, not believing me for one second, and resumed her play.
“Damn it, Abigail,” I growled under my breath but was not surprised by her behavior. She was naturally an adventurous child. Since she could walk, she’d been climbing to the highest point of anything she could, swinging precariously from branches, light fixtures and tall displays at the grocery store. She was a daredevil and there were moments when I absolutely adored her “the world is my playground” attitude about life. But then there were moments like this, when every mom instinct in me screamed she was in danger and her little, rotten life flashed before my eyes.
Those moments happened more and more often. She tested me, pushing every limit and boundary I’d set. She had been reckless before Grady died, now she was just wild. And I didn’t know what to do about it.