But as it was, I was sitting across the kitchen table from my daughter.
I had a chance. A chance for what, exactly, I wasn't quite sure. But I had a chance.
So far it wasn't going great.
The apartment was dark around the two of us, save the pendant lamp hanging above the kitchen table. It gave the impression that we were locked together in an interrogation room, though I wasn't sure who was interrogating whom. We sat across from one another in such silence that we could hear the tick of the second hand on the clock on the wall.
I couldn't help but notice how our postures mimicked one another's. Both of us sat straight up in our wooden chairs, backs flat against the back, knees forward; the only difference was my feet rested on the linoleum and hers swung several inches from the floor. My hands were clasped on the table, elbows wide, and hers were quite the same. It was how I sat in boardrooms, conference rooms, negotiating tables. But what terms were to be agreed upon? Who had the upper hand? What was to be gained? To be lost?
Zara, my daughter, oh my fucking God, my daughter, kept my gaze without flinching away, without growing shy, blushing or turning away. She sat there, her little hands folded carefully, and assessed me silently. There was curiosity in her green eyes and I sensed—or feared, perhaps—that she was reading me as easily as the book on the US's national parks resting at the edge of the table.
As I watched her watch me, I looked for Abbi in her, because the presence of myself was overwhelming. I shifted nervously in my chair and resisted the urge to fidget with my Rolex. How had this child broken me down more swiftly and more thoroughly than some of the fiercest litigators in the world?
"So, you're, um," I cleared my throat and wondered if she noted this sign of weakness, "you're nine?"
"Yes."
I nodded.
"How old are you?" she asked politely.
"Oh, I'm, I'm thirty-four."
Zara nodded in much the way I had.
"You're American," I said.
"Yes. And you're Irish."
"Yes," I said, moving my hands to my lap so she couldn't see me wiping the sweat across my pant legs.
This was my fault, I thought. This stilted, formal conversation was my fault. I hadn't prepared the way I should have. Whenever I had a meeting with someone, I was diligent in doing my research beforehand. I never went in blind to a boardroom or courthouse. Why should a kitchen table in a past lover's apartment be any different? I should have done my research, prepared a plan of attack, and executed a vetted “father-daughter bonding” tactic.
As it was, I was out of my depth. I cleared my throat and turned my head toward the rest of the apartment.
"So, um, do you have blocks?"
Zara's eyes were narrowed at me when I looked back toward her. "Blocks?"
The obvious disdain in her voice told me blocks was the wrong answer. The sound of the second hand from the clock on the wall seemed to grow louder and slower, much slower. The darkness around us encroached closer and closer as the lamp above us grew hotter and hotter. I wondered if she could see that I was sweating, that I was breaking beneath the pressure of her steady green eyes. I drummed my fingers on the edge of the table and guessed again with my voice nearly croaking like a nervous prepubescent boy.
"Um, Barbies?"
* * *
"No, no, no, you're out of your mind!" I shouted, hands flailing wildly into the air as I paced across the rug in the living room. "Do you know what kind of inflation that will set off? You're out of your mind, kid."
I snatched the bowl of popcorn from Zara, who sat on the couch with a victorious smile as she laughed and shook her head. I stuffed a handful of popcorn and M&Ms into my mouth in frustration as she replied.
"Not if the trust in banks is salvaged," she said, pointing a finger at me like she was lecturing undergrads at goddamn Harvard. "That's the job of Federal Reserve, after all."
I wasn't sure how we started arguing about US monetary policy. But before I knew it, the living room was bathed in warm light from a ring of lamps, the smell of popcorn and candy scented the warm summer air, and the sound of our lively argument was wonderfully bothering all of the neighbours. Her eyes sparkled and my feet wouldn't still because I was having fun.
"The job of the Federal Reserve?" I said incredulously. "The job of the—crazy ideas like that don't deserve popcorn."
I swatted at Zara's hand as she reached for the bowl of popcorn. She laughed and the sound took my breath away. It was the first time I'd heard her laugh, and it was like all the bells of Ireland chiming at once. I stammered over my lost words and Zara grinned victoriously.
"See! I'm right," she said, crossing her arms adorably over her chest like she'd just won a round of negotiations. "Dropping the bank rate is the thing to do, and you know it!"
"Bullshite!"
I slapped a hand over my mouth immediately after the word slipped from my lips. I stared at Zara and she stared at me, both of us silent for a moment.
"I'm sorry," I started to say. "I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean to—"
"Bullshite."
My eyes widened in surprise at the foul word—even my accent copied—from the innocent little girl. My eyes went to the apartment door as if I, too, was a kid about to
