Chapter 1

ONE

AMBER

M addy screams as I dip her toes into the water.

She was fussy all day yesterday. And last night. And when she woke up this morning.

It's not like I'm surprised that she's crying again, but I can't help wishing she were happier. I'm aware that it's a bit ridiculous to have such lofty expectations for swim class with my six-month-old, and I'm not proud of it, but I was hoping for validation that I'm not bungling being a mother.

Unfortunately, instead of validation, I have doubt. So much doubt.

I don't have to look at the teacher to know she's watching us. She's had her attention trained on us since we arrived. At first, she was probably staring because of who I am. I did my best to put her at ease. I got here early and gave her and everyone else signed photos. I was personable and friendly, and by the time we got in the pool, the adults were joking with me like I was one of them.

No one is joking now. At least, I don't think so. It's hard to tell over Maddy's screaming.

The rest of the kids in the class are happily bobbing in the water. Some of them are splashing and squealing. Not a single one is crying, let alone screaming.

I elevate Maddy a little and shift so I can use my body to block the spray of water from the boy next to us. My arms throb from the exertion, and although she isn't getting splashed, she remains unimpressed. She expresses her displeasure by screaming even louder, her chubby little legs kicking against my chest.

I might be in excellent shape, but there's no way I can hold her above the water for—I glance at the clock—forty more minutes.

It's only been five minutes.

What do people do when they have no idea how to make their child stop crying?

Start crying themselves?

I probably ought to be better at this by now. It isn't as if she was born yesterday. If I could think straight, I might be willing to cut myself some slack. After all, this is our first public outing.

And possibly our last.

If I had a magic wand—I'd flick my wrist and Maddy's distress would turn into joy and her sobs into laughter. Because that's realistic. I almost giggle but catch myself just in time. Laughing while my child is screaming is not appropriate. Imagine what the other parents would think.

The teacher—an older woman with purple streaks in her hair—slowly pushes through the water toward us while she speaks to me in a brisk tone. "The best thing to do with a reluctant swimmer is lower them into the water swiftly. It'll be a shock, but once she's in, her body will adjust."

I'm not confident this lady knows what she's talking about.

The water is flipping freezing. I've got goosebumps pebbling my skin, and Maddy isn't used to the cold. We live in Southern California and our pool has a heater, so it's roughly the temperature of bathwater.

This feels like a dip in the North Atlantic.

"She's having a difficult day," I try to explain.

"She'll never learn to swim if you don't put her in the water," the teacher says, not unkindly, but not patiently, either.

"My son was like that at his first class, too," the man next to me says encouragingly. "It really does work to just plop them in and let them scream it out."

His son appears content enough, although his lips seem to be turning blue, so maybe all the splashing he's doing is necessary to keep him from freezing.

The rest of the parents chime in to agree, and I'm not going to lie, their comments are getting to me. If their children cried the first time, but aren't now, maybe they know what they're doing. They certainly seem to know more than I do.

Do I want to plunge my child into frigid water? No.

Do I want to keep holding her up with trembling arms? Also no.

Letting her acclimate is worth a try . I hope.

Without any further questioning of them or myself, I lower Maddy straight into the water.

Her screams hit a high note that took me years to master. Maybe I should have started her on voice lessons rather than swimming. Is learning to sing before she can talk the equivalent of learning to swim before she can walk?

I look down into her scrunched face and thrashing body, and I can't do it. I can't torture her like this. I pull her out of the water, press her into my chest, and dash toward the stairs while she trembles in my arms. Without glancing back, I exit the pool and barrel into the locker room, then I strip off her watermelon swimsuit, bundle her in a towel, and move in front of one of the hand dryers.

The dryer turns on, warmth envelopes us, and it feels wonderful.

She doesn't stop crying, but at least she stops screaming, which is a marked improvement.

"I'm so sorry. We're never doing that again," I assure her, and even though she doesn't understand, I feel a bit better after promising her. I may not be winning at this whole parenting thing, but I am flexible enough to admit when I've made a mistake—and to adjust if things go awry.

When Maddy is warm and starting to get a bit sweaty, we move away from the dryer and into the changing area. I grab a diaper and manage to get it on. Then, while she continues crying softly, I wrestle her into a cute tank and skort set.

She resists when I try to put on her sporty little jacket, so before she can start screaming again, I toss it back into my bag and pull an oversized shirt over my wet swimsuit. I sling the bag over my shoulder, pick her up, and hightail it out of the building.

Thankfully, the parking lot is empty when we get outside. With any luck, we'll be gone before anyone appears. The last thing I need is someone witnessing us fleeing swim lessons.

I stop next to my Range Rover and grab the back door handle, but it doesn't budge.

I try the front, but it doesn't open, either. I yank on it a couple more times and then push the little button on the handle. Still nothing.

Where are my keys? I stick my hand into my bag and rifle around. No keys. Sweat pools on my back as I plop the bag on the hood and peer inside. It's stuffed full of junk, so I start to dig through the mess while Maddy's whimpers get a touch louder.

"Please don't start screaming," I beg her as I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember if I set my keys down in the locker room. Unfortunately, I have no recollection of ever touching them. My assistant told me she put them in my bag, and obviously she did, because I drove here.

The question is, where are they now?

Operation Independence: miserable failure.

I root around for another minute before accepting that I have no choice but to sneak inside to see if they're there. Tears leak from Maddy's eyes as we head back into the building.