by Sienna Blake
I hadn't expected things to be rosy exactly when I decided to stay in Denver. But I could handle thorns. I had no idea what to do with this: it was like trying to grab hold of fog in the early morning. It was there, you could see it, but cupping it in your hands was impossible.
At the end of the week I was growing desperate, and so I called Abbi into my office toward the end of the day. She gave a knock and waited to enter till I said to. Her politeness made me grind my teeth.
Abbi entered with a stack of files held against her hip. She did not raise her eyes to mine as she read from her notes.
"The accounting department has approved the request we sent on Tuesday," she said. "We're just waiting on one more signature, which I'll look into."
"Ms Miller," I said, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the desk while I dragged my fingers through my hair.
She continued as if she hadn't heard me. "I emailed you the list of people who have invites for Monday's meeting for your approval. I wasn't sure whether you wanted Jenna in on that or not."
"Ms Miller."
"Your hotel called and asked whether you wanted the room serviced with new towels for the weekend."
"Ms Miller."
"I told them no expense was to be spared and—"
"Abbi."
I parted my hands pressed against my temples to see Abbi's eyes on me. She was looking at me, but her face was still blank, no spark in her eyes as if she'd snuffed it out herself.
"Abbi, you must know why I stayed in Denver?"
Abbi hesitated, but then cleared her throat, tidied her stack of files, and fixed her emotionless eyes on me firmly.
"Sir, I don't presume to know why you make your business decisions," she said as if reading from a script. "I just do as I'm told."
This again, I thought, brimming at her words. Why was she so insistent on selling me this version of herself? This passive, obedient, lifeless version of herself? This “I just follow orders” self? This “I just do what I'm told” self? It was bullshite. Utter bullshite. And it pissed me off.
Because it wasn't her.
"I was going to leave," I said. "I—"
"You should have."
Her quick response should have brought me pain, but I had to hold back a sigh of relief. Because I'd heard the anger in her voice. I'd caught that flash of lightning in her eyes. It was something.
But I wanted more.
"I was going to leave," I repeated with as steady of a tone as I could manage. "I made it all the way to the airport, actually."
The cab had come. I'd gotten in it. My passport had been in my pocket, my ticket in my email. Abbi remained silent, so I continued.
"I went past the ticket booth, past security," I said. "I went all the way to the gate. I was checked in. There was nothing stopping me."
Abbi's eyes again flashed darkly. "There is nothing stopping you."
The fierceness in her voice gave me hope even as her words indicated there was none at all to be had.
"I was right there beside the gate," I said, recalling that early morning two days ago. "I was planning on leaving. I was going to go. But they announced boarding and I just didn't get up. They called my group and I did not move. They went through all of boarding and still I just sat there."
The same curiosity about my actions filled me then as they had there at the airport. I, myself, still didn't understand it, and judging from Abbi's knitted eyebrows, she didn't either.
With a sigh, I said, "They announced that boarding was closing. They called my name. They called it again. They called it again and again and again. They called my phone. I didn't answer. An attendant came over and asked if this was my flight. I shook my head. I said 'no'. I don't know why. I was sitting right there. I was sitting right there and I watched, unmoving, as they closed the doors."
I glanced up at Abbi, who was looking at me like she was searching for the same answers I was.
"I was going to leave," I said, voicing the only answer I had. "But I didn't."
Abbi's voice was soft as she said again, "You should have."
"I couldn't," I whispered.
Abbi recoiled like I'd raised my fist to her. She knew the danger of my words. Immediately her posture became defensive: her shoulders tensed, her lips drew into a tight line, her eyes darkened.
"I want to know my daughter," I said.
She'd known what was coming, but that didn't stop her from sucking in a breath. She shook her head empathically.
"No," she said. "Absolutely not."
"I want to know my daughter, Abbi," I repeated.
"No," Abbi said, no longer able to stay still. She paced frantically back and forth in front of my desk. "No, no, no, no."
Sparks practically flew from her as she spun on her heel to march in the opposite direction. Fury was in her eyes as she lifted a shaky finger to point at me.
"I will not allow my daughter to be hurt," she said, passion obvious in the pink flush of her cheeks. "I will not allow you to flit into her life for a few weeks to ease your conscience, only to leave her."
"Abbi," I started to protest.
"No!"
It was my turn to flinch. Abbi's voice had boomed in the expansive office. I wouldn't have been surprised if half the office heard her. Abbi was panting, moving frantically, desperately. It was obvious that she didn't care who heard her. It was impossible for my heart not to go out to her. She was clearly panicked and the sole cause was me. I lifted my hands and spoke calmly as if trying not to startle a wounded animal.
"Abbi, please, I—"
"Is there anything else you need, Mr O'Sullivan?" Abbi interrupted, eyes wild and unfocused.
She gripped her stack of files as if it were the edge of a bottomless cliff. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. I felt I couldn't give up yet. I took a steadying breath.
"Abbi, she's my—"
"Is there anything else you require of me, Mr O'Sullivan?" she repeated, eyes fixed down on her notes. "Otherwise I am leaving."
I knew she wouldn't look up at me again. I watched with growing pain as her body quivered and her fingers clenched more and more tightly the stack of files in her slender arms. It was an unavoidable fact that I was the cause of her discomfort.
I was used to concessions during fierce negotiations in the boardroom, where losing something meant gaining something else. But it was clear that there was nothing to gain here. I could push Abbi harder in an effort to gain a chance with my daughter, but I would only cause her more pain without getting closer to my goal.
I wasn't used to losing. But I had lost. I would bear that pain for the rest of my life. The only win I had left was to release Abbi from some of her own.
"No, there's nothing else," I said finally. "Thank you, Ms Miller."
Abbi retreated from my office like a rabbit cut free from a snare in the forest. It was just as likely that the creature would return to the trap as Abbi would return to me.
For the first time in my life, I didn't have a plan of attack. I didn't have a strategy. I didn't have a multi-step plan to follow.
For the first time in my life, I simply did not know what to do.
Abbi
A few days later when I received a call from a woman announcing herself as the principal of Zara's school, I assumed they got the wrong number.
"No," I said, keeping my voice down at my desk. "I'm Zara's mother. Zara Miller."
"Yes," the principal said. "Zara is here in my office."
I frowned, my certainty wavering slightly. "There must be some mistake," I said with a growing sliver of doubt. "My child doesn't get into trouble."
"Ms Miller, you need to come in," was all the principal said.
I left work and drove over to the school, still with the belief that there had to have been some sort of mix-up. Zara wasn't just a good kid, she was the best kid. She was quiet and studious and respectful. I had no clue whatsoever what she possibly could have done to land herself in the principal's office. I had
been more than familiar with the principal's office during my school years, but Zara couldn't be more unlike me if she tried.
But when I hurried into the principal's office, a spacious room with tall windows and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves my thousands a year paid for, I found my daughter nearly unrecognisable. Zara was slouched in one of the two chairs positioned in front of the imposing dark wood desk behind which the principal sat, tapping her pen against the surface with a disapproving scowl. I hadn't even seen Zara slouch while we watched movies on the couch weekend nights. She ate her popcorn and M&Ms with a straight back and raised chin as if she was dining on braised veal and rosemary fingerling potatoes at some private literary society.
Her arms were crossed petulantly across her chest, and her eyes, usually wide like the mouths of pitchers to drink in as much knowledge as her books would pour into her, were narrowed at her principal in the form of a silent protest. As my steps slowed upon seeing her, I recognised more of myself in her than ever before. I saw that questioning of authority, I saw that defiance for rules and dictates, I saw that bristling energy like a caged wolf.
"Zara?" I said as I slipped into the chair next to her and laid a hand on the armrest of hers.
I asked the question as if I wasn't sure it was her, as if maybe I had been right after all—they'd mistaken my quiet, thoughtful, introverted child for another. Zara didn't look at me, instead continuing her staring contest with her superior.
"Zara, would you like to tell your mother why you're sitting here in my office?" the principal asked.
I glanced between the principal's tightly drawn bun and my child's wild blonde hair that hung like a curtain over her face. I wasn't so sure that if I reached out and tucked the dishevelled strands behind her ear that I wouldn't see hazel eyes instead of green.
"Zara?" I repeated, though it was the principal who I looked to for answers.
With a sigh, the principal removed her thin gold wire spectacles and rested them carefully on a large book before pinching the bridge of her long, narrow nose.
"What's going on?" I asked, growing more and more concerned as my attention moved from the educator to my daughter.
"I've been asking Zara for an explanation for her behaviour this afternoon, because I also do not understand. She has refused to indulge me," the principal said, finally turning to me. "During French, each student was asked by the teacher to say, 'My father is…' and then provide an adjective from their recently learned vocab."
My stomach sank. I looked at Zara, but she was still hidden behind her hair. Not that I needed to see her eyes, I could practically feel the heat rolling off of her as if the blurry waves on a long desert highway.
"Zara refused to do this simple task," the principal continued. "When her teacher pressed her to do so, Zara made a scene, digging her heels in even further and disrupting class immensely."
I listened with the sensation that the principal's voice was drifting farther and farther away, like her voice was a lantern in a cave retreating till it was nothing but a speck in the dark and I was alone. Was that how Zara felt, too?
"This is concerning behaviour, of course, but Zara went even further," the principal was saying as I stared at the curtain of blonde hair next to me. "She told her teacher in perfectly pronounced French, 'I am getting tired of your shit.'"
My head whipped to face the principal as if on a rubber band snapping back into place.
"She said what?"
The principal merely bridged her fingers, elbows resting on the desk, and nodded at me. Zara was still staring straight ahead.
I leaned forward and whispered as if my daughter couldn't hear us, "They're learning swear words?"
"Of course not," the principal said, leaning back as if personally offended by the accusation. "It seems Zara has been self-studying."
A little warmth of pride swelled in my chest at hearing this. With it came a bit of reassurance: the daughter I knew was still there.
"How far ahead of her class is she?" I asked the principal. "Does she need to be moved to a higher-level class?"
The principal's eyes narrowed disapprovingly at me; I was more than familiar with that look.
"That is certainly not the matter in question in here today, Ms Miller."
I shook my head, blushing as I dragged my fingers through my hair. "No, no, of course not," I said.
"This kind of behaviour is not accepted at our institution, Ms Miller. It is my opinion that it more than warrants a day's detention," she said. "However, since Zara has no previous disciplinary marks, I would merely ask that she give us an explanation to lessen that punishment."
I nodded as both our attentions moved toward my daughter. I shifted slightly in my chair, however, when Zara remained silent. I cleared my throat, glancing sheepishly at the principal, before resting a hand on Zara's back.
"Honey?"
Zara didn’t say a word. She only huffed and sank deeper into the chair. The principal gave another curt nod.
"Very well then," she said, handing me a pink slip. "Zara must report to my office for detention first thing tomorrow."
Zara got up, still silent, and left the office. The principal slipped the carbon copy of the disciplinary report into my daughter's file and then slammed it shut. The message was clear: this would remain on Zara's permanent record. Private schools in Denver were already competitive enough. Any more misbehaviour would seriously harm Zara's future prospects.
I mumbled something halfway between an apology and a thank you before hurrying after Zara. I found her marching down the hallway toward the exit, and I had to run to catch up with her. I laid a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face me.
"Hey," I said. "Hey, hey."
I almost flinched at the cold blankness of her eyes as she lifted her gaze to me.
"Hey," I said, more softly as I ran my hand over her hair. "Z, baby, what was that?"
Zara glanced back toward the principal's office. "Those stupid assignments are for babies anyway," she said stubbornly. "I know way more than everyone."
My head hung briefly between my shoulders. "I know," I admitted. "But why didn't you just say the sentence your teacher wanted? We're supposed to listen to our teachers, right? Follow the rules. Obey what they say."
I felt the hypocrisy in my words; forcing them out felt like struggling to bridle a wild bronco.
"I couldn't say what she wanted me to say," Zara said.
"Why?"
"Because just like you said, I don't have a father."
Her words were a punch to the gut. What was I supposed to say to that? She was practically quoting me.
"So that's what I said," Zara continued, her little voice earnest as she thought she was pleasing me. "I told my French teacher in French that I did not have a father. That I did not need a father. That all I needed was myself. But she just wanted me to say, ‘My father is tall.'"
"And that's when you swore at her?" I asked.
Zara hesitated. "She made me mad."
I sighed. I'd never known my daughter to be angry. She was even-tempered and calm, not emotional or explosive. It was clear to me that something that changed. There was emptiness in her eyes, anger in her heart, and rebellion in her lips. It could ruin her chances to get into a good high school.
It could ruin her heart.
"Okay," I said, pulling her in tight to me. "Okay."
I held her close because I wanted her to know I was here. I held her close because I was afraid to lose her. I held her close because I knew what I had to do, and it terrified me.
"Let's go," I said finally.
As we walked toward the car, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and found the number for Michael's Blackberry.
Babysitter cancelled for tonight, I texted, forcing myself to press each and every letter. Can you be at my place in an hour?
Michael
I was sitting across the kitchen table from my daughter.
My daughter.
My daughter.
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Perhaps if I repeated this fact enough times in my head, it might not come as such a surprise every time I blinked to find her there, staring silently at me. As it was, my heart was receiving an electric jolt every few seconds, half painful, half exhilarating.
I was sitting across the kitchen table from my daughter.
Abbi hadn't said much when she left her apartment thirty minutes ago. She opened the door for me with just a quick, hesitant glance before kissing Zara on the head, whispering to her to be good, and hurrying away. I thought her hasty departure might be because she feared if she lingered, she'd come to her senses that this was, after all, a terrible idea. She'd tell me to get the fuck out of her apartment, the fuck out of her and her daughter's life. And I'd be staring from the outside at a door that rattled on its hinges from being slammed so definitively shut.
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.
