Page 79 of The Apparent Trap

“Please, I am too big of a prude for this conversation.”

“I’d say if the walls of your Swedish hotel room could talk, they’d adamantly disagree.”

“Just turn on your stupid, completely unrealistic movie that we both love,” I chide.

And with another one of her patented laughs, she does.

Chapter 24

“I’m not sure I’m prepared for this,” I say to my dad on Wednesday afternoon as I walk out of my apartment and into a Manhattan snow globe.

New York between Thanksgiving and Christmas always seems like the perfect setting for a snowy walk. It certainly is in all the movies set here during this season. But every time we watched a movie with that storyline, my dad liked to point out how much of a rarity it actually was. January and February are much more likely to have snow than December because of the temperature of the Atlantic and the polar jet stream. December is usually slush at most.

So having grown up with a dad who talks to me about polar jet streams, I didn’t really take the chance of snow too seriously before I went outside.

I guess there are exceptions to every average, because it’s really coming down now.

But I suppose my dad guessed that I’d think that way, because he just hands me a raincoat to put over my parka.

“Interestingly, big snowfalls are even rarer before December fifteenth,” he says, linking his arm through mine and jabbering on despite the wetness around us that would probably send anyone else back inside. “They account for only six of the top hundred snowiest days in Manhattan, isn’t that crazy?” He’s happiest when talking about esoteric weather facts, so I let him.

We stroll along toward the park as he talks, comparing snowfall percentiles and discussing the changes in averages in recent years all while ignoring that so few other people are out due to the weather.

I got home from work a couple hours ago, and I texted my dad to see if he was free for a walk. We’ve been back from Sweden for almost a week, and we haven’t seen each other until now. I don’t know if it’s my doing (first the regular movie-watching avoidance and then my post-Georgia-conversation days of necessary avoidance) or if, even worse, it’s his because he hasn’t noticed.

But it’s time. I’ve let Georgia’s words ping-pong across my psyche for long enough.

We reach the Central Park Zoo, a place we’ve gone to together forever. We wander in and practically have the zoo to ourselves. No one else is out in weather like this, except animals who seem thrilled by the extra cold. The sea lions are jumping around, and the red pandas are crossing branches. But we both walk automatically to our favorite spot. And as a bonus, it happens to be covered.

We sit down on the bench at the snow leopard exhibit. We’re shielded under a little roof in front of a layer of glass, but behind that layer, the snow is still falling on the open area where the leopards live. The one currently visible leopard is getting draped in a layer of snow as she naps on a rock. It’s an incongruous view in the center of Manhattan, and we both silently take in the beauty of it for a few minutes.

“I need to talk to you about something,” I finally say, my voice unsure, this kind of topic so frequently avoided that it feels like a foreign language to bring up.

“It’s about Carmen, isn’t it?” he asks, and I whip my head around to look right at him.

“How did you know?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve handled all of this very well with you.”

“That’s not true—” I start. But then I sigh and turn back to face the snow leopard. “It’s not about Carmen, specifically,” I say. “I just think . . . things have changed with us. With you dating someone. And it’s not a bad thing . . . but we need to acknowledge the difference.”

“I know it’s going to sound embarrassing, but I didn’t really consider it until you texted me today.”

“Today?”

He nods sheepishly. “I made banana bread the day after we got back from Sweden. I meant to bring you some, since I always do. And I never make them thinking about when I’ll see you, because I just always do. I always make two loaves, and one is for you. But this time . . . I was going to bring you the banana bread, and I realized it was five days old.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry I got so caught up in my own stuff that I haven’t been there for you.”

But I shake my head. “That’s a problem, though, isn’t it? It shouldn’t be a big deal to not see your adult child for five days.”

“I guess not,” he concedes, unsure.

“It’s not on you,” I say. “After Mom died . . .” I hear him suck in a breath. We never talk about her. But we have to, so I keep going. “We just never really learned how to let go of each other again.”

He runs his hand over his face. “That is on me. I’m the parent, I should’ve dealt with it better. I should’ve gotten my shit together and prioritized you instead of making you deal with everything alongside me.”

I turn and look at him, because for the first time in so long, I hear the grief in his voice. I’ve known it was still in there—the silence of it was louder than any words—but its timbre is tethering. I feel less alone hearing it.

And it makes me more resolute to have this conversation.