White Christmas

From Tulip’s front door, she could see the whole entire world. To the left, in the distance, onyx skyscrapers towered from the ground. Tulip liked to hold shiny quarters up to the line where the land met the sky and laugh at how small the massive structures looked. To the right, as far as the eye could see, were endless, rolling hills. Tulip liked them best when they were a pale jade green, dotted with wildflowers, but now they were buried in sheets of snow. Skyscrapers and fields, Tulip knew these to be real and true. She knew there was the “Windy City” to the left and vast farmland to the right. She knew that if she were a PowerPuff Girl, she’d be Blossom. She knew that her grandmother’s peanut butter and jelly was the best because it was always cut up into twelve, bite-sized pieces. And she knew that she had two dads. There was “Dad,” and there was “Dad in Nebraska,” and Tulip knew that this made Dad in Nebraska very, very angry. She wasn’t sure if Dad in Nebraska was bothered by the moniker itself, or that he had to share the title, but even then she suspected it was both. He always argued with her mom about it. 

 

          Dad in Nebraska’s unhappiness with the family arrangement always came up in their visits. Tulip, nonetheless, was bubbling with excitement for her trip to Nebraska. She rocked back and forth in her light up sneakers, eying the dusty trailer of Dad’s big, old truck. Flaxen hair fluttering in the wind, Tulip counted the tires — all eighteen of them. When she dragged her fingertips along the thick rubber, it left smears of raven black dirt across her skin. She was too short to climb into the cab, so Dad helped her climb up the steps and buckle in. In her seat, her feet didn’t touch the ground. Tulip swung her feet in the air, and sunlight reflected off the sequins on her jeans. As the engine grumbled to life, like one of the monsters in the movies she watched with her grandma, the vibrations made Tulip giggle. The barren midwestern farmland began to blur past, and Tulip rested her forehead on the window and counted to eighteen over and over again. 

 

          The trip to Nebraska was always better in spring or summer, after the snow had melted away, leaving golden wheat, swaying cornstalks, fields of soy. It was a week before Christmas now, which meant the snow wasn’t about to vanish any time soon, but it also meant that it was a week before Tulip’s birthday. She’d always resented that her friends could never come over to celebrate with her, that people often handed her a single gift and declared it both a Christmas and a birthday present. But now, none of that mattered. It’d been a long time since she’d seen Dad in Nebraska, and even longer since she’d seen him for her birthday. Staring at the snow outside, Tulip’s thoughts drifted off to what she dreamed her trip would be like. She imagined building a snowman with Dad in Nebraska, who’d have the perfect carrot to stick in as a nose and the perfect flannel scarf to wrap around the head. She thought they’d collapse in laughter over their silly snowman and create snow angels. The day before Christmas, they’d brew homemade hot cocoa with a fluffy mountain of marshmallow and they’d watch The Year Without a Santa Claus. Dad watched that movie with Tulip every single year, and she was desperate to share it with Dad in Nebraska. Even if he’d seen it before, she thought, it’d be better to see it with her. 

 

          The trip was long — over nine hours, Dad told her. So when they both grew tired of sitting, and their stomachs began to rumble, Dad pulled into a truck stop that had a diner. 

 

          Inside, Dad reached over the table to drizzle globs of amber syrup on Tulip’s pancakes, making her grin. He was tall and burly, arms dotted with tattoos he’d grown to regret: a cross from when he was Catholic, a jaguar from when he thought he was cool. His skin was dry and cracked, tanned by the sun. He worked two other jobs when he wasn’t driving the big truck — he delivered papers, and he was a mechanic. Tulip’s mom said he was a “jack of all trades,” and it filled Tulip with pride. One day, she thought, she’d be as hard a worker as he was. 

 

          “Are you excited to see Dad in Nebraska?” he asked. 

​

          Tulip wiggled in her seat. “Yeah! He said we’re going to go to the zoo!” 

 

          Dad’s eyes flicked to the window, then rolled over. He sighed. Shook his head. “Sounds fun, kiddo. But you’ll have fun even if you don’t go to the zoo, right?” 

 

          “I mean — well, yeah — but I want to see the lemurs! He says there’s lemurs at the zoo in… Om…” 

 

          “In Omaha?” 

 

          “Yes! In O-my-ham!” 

 

          Dad leaned onto his elbows. “You know where else has a really fun zoo?” 

 

          “Where?” Tulip asked. 

 

          “Chicago,” Dad said. “When it warms up we’ll go to the zoo in Chicago, alright?” 

 

          “That’d be so cool!” 

 

          “Yeah. So don’t be too sad if you don’t go to the zoo.” 

 

* * *

 

Tulip carried her bags and her Christmas presents into Dad in Nebraska’s house one by one. The cold, whipping air bit her cheeks. Standing outside the truck, Dad and Dad in Nebraska talked to each other, leaving Tulip to catch flashes of the conversation as she passed. 

 

          “You know, I don’t get why you do this stupid shit,” Dad spat. “You tell her these things and then — you know what, just forget it.” 

 

          “I told her we might—” Dad in Nebraska began. 

 

          “She’s six, Jim, what the fuck do you expect?” 

 

          Dad in Nebraska chuckled, threw up his hands. 

 

          Dad stepped closer to him, putting their faces inches apart. “A week. You better be able to keep your shit together for one whole week.” 

 

          They both glanced at Tulip, so she headed inside. She was slow and careful not to slip on the ice. She wanted to hear the rest of what they said to each other. She wanted to understand. But maybe, she thought, she wasn’t supposed to. 

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Dad in Nebraska sat on the floor beside the Christmas tree. The twinkling lights reflected in his glasses. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and patches of it soaked through his shirt. Wrapping paper torn to shreds was strewn around him. All of Tulip’s presents that she and Dad had brought from Chicago were open. She knew they were hers — she recognized the ripped paper on the floor, and the toys piled up behind him had been on her Christmas list. 

 

          “What are you doing?” Tulip asked him. 

 

          Dad in Nebraska cocked his head. He patted the floor. “Come sit with me.” 

 

          Tulip tip-toed around the paper to get down on her knees beside him. She fought the urge to look at all the unwrapped toys. She wanted them to be a surprise on Christmas. “You opened all my presents,” she said. 

 

          Dad in Nebraska ran his clammy fingers through his greasy, black hair. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Yeah. I need to borrow them for a little bit, okay?” 

 

          “Borrow them?” Dad in Nebraska chewed his lip. “You don’t want to play with those, they’re girl toys!” Tulip laughed as she tried to explain. 

 

          “No, no,” he replied, patting her back. “Not to play with.” 

 

          Tulip didn’t understand.  

​

* * *

​

Dad in Nebraska shuffled his feet. 

 

          “I’ll give you two hundred for everything,” the man on the other side of the counter said. Dad in Nebraska nodded, and the man took away each box one by one: Barbie roller skates, a Rainbow Brite, the exact Care Bear Tulip had asked for — all brand spanking new, unopened. Unloved. 

 

          After clearing the counter, the man handed Dad in Nebraska crisp, green bills. They were green like the summer back home in Illinois, where Tulip had a sudden, inexplicable urge to be. 

 

          “Let’s go, Babykins,” Dad in Nebraska said, taking Tulip by the shoulder. 

 

          “But… my presents.” Tulip’s voice cracked. 

 

          “It’s just for now, Tules,” Dad in Nebraska insisted. “We’ll come back to get them.”  

 

* * *

​

Tulip was very confused. In fact, it occurred to her that she’d never been as confused as she was right then. Sitting criss-cross-applesauce on a stained, corduroy couch, she colored in a princess coloring book with colored pencils from her Auntie Sue — the sole Christmas present they hadn’t left behind at that strange store. Beside her, a man she’d never seen before was sprawled out on the couch, fast asleep. Dad in Nebraska had told her they were going to visit his friends, but this one didn’t seem like very much fun. Tulip poked him in the ribs with her cherry red pencil, and then in the cheek, but he didn’t stir. He must have been really tired, she thought. Any other time it would have made Tulip giggle, but right then she didn’t feel much like giggling. 

 

          Tulip slid off the couch, thirsty for some water, and set her coloring book down on the coffee table. Dad in Nebraska, and the two friends who’d been laughing beside him, groaned. He picked the book up and shoved it back to her. 

 

          “Watch what you’re doing, Tulip — Jesus.” The sharp edge in his voice dropped bricks in her stomach. 

 

          Tulip took the book, hands trembling. Now, she realized what she’d done. The back of her book was dusted in something white. It looked like the baby powder her grandma would let her toss in the air like dusty snow. The powder covered the table. Dad in Nebraska and his friends were playing a game, and Tulip had messed it up. Using a playing card, he pushed the powder into a set of lines. And Tulip felt guilty, hot tears filling her eyes. No one looked up at her, so she took her coloring book and gathered her pencils, and then sat down on the carpet next to the front door. Alone. 

 

          Tulip did not want to mess anything up. Tulip wanted Dad in Nebraska to be happy. He was not happy with her, but he was happy with his friends. Everything was clear. Tulip understood now, and so she erased herself from the picture.  

 

* * *

 

The rest of Tulip’s trip was blurry — more images and moments in time than anything. Glimpses and flashes — a paragraph, but not a chapter in a book. Pieces and shards like a broken mirror. Tulip made snow angels and snowmen, but she did it alone. There was no hot cocoa, because the milk in the fridge was spoiled. And there was no Year Without a Santa Claus or Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer or The Grinch — there was no cable, and Dad in Nebraska didn’t have the tapes. 

 

* * *

 

It was cold, very cold. Tulip shivered. Dad in Nebraska hugged her and kissed the top of her head. Mom’s Christmas wreath, filled with poinsettias and pine cones dipped in gold glitter, swung in the whistling winter wind, and Tulip watched it smack against the front door. Her heart felt tight. 

 

          “I don’t want you to leave,” she said. Her tears froze on her cheeks. 

 

          “I know, Babykins. You’ve got to stay with your mom,” he said. “We’ll see each other soon, okay? I promise.” With that, he got up to his feet, but he wavered. Tulip watched him ring the doorbell and then race back to his car. The moment felt hazy like a dream. As Tulip waited, tires squealed on the pavement behind her. When the front door cracked open, Dad looked down at her. A toothy grin split his face. 

 

          “Well, hey, kiddo!” He dropped to his knees to give Tulip a hug, but after a moment, Tulip felt his grip tighten. “Where’s your dad?” he asked, breath warm on her ear. 

 

          “He left,” she said. 

 

          Dad pulled back and looked around, eyebrows furrowed. 

​

          “Where’s all your stuff?” 

 

          Tulip twisted her hands. “I don’t know.” 

 

          “What do you mean you don’t know? What about your Christmas presents?” 

 

          Tulip’s stomach was in knots — as if she’d done something wrong, as if she were about to be in trouble. “Dad in Nebraska brought them back to the store.” 

 

          Dad paused for a moment. His face was bright red, like Rudolph’s nose. “What store?” 

 

          “He said it was really important.” 

 

          “Your dad took all your presents back to the store?” Tulip nodded and Dad scoffed, kicked snow off the porch. “What did you do for Christmas?” 

 

          Tulip didn’t know what to say, and even if she did, she had the distinct feeling she wouldn’t be able to speak. Her skin was frozen, her tongue was ice. She couldn’t even muster a shrug. And she didn’t think it mattered. 

 

* * *

 

“Tulip!” 

​

          Tulip followed the call of her name out of her bedroom, down the stairs. Dad was sitting on the couch, hands folded in his lap. At his feet was a plethora of wrapped boxes. Shiny paper and sparkling bows enchanted her to tiptoe closer. The smell of baking cookies drifted from the kitchen. Once she was standing beside Dad, he gave her a tight-lipped smile and handed her one of the boxes. 

​

          “I know it’s late,” he said, “but merry Christmas, kiddo. Happy birthday, you know. All that good stuff.” Tulip was grinning now, unable to stop. “Go ahead, open it.” 

 

          Together, Tulip and her dad ripped the paper off all the boxes. 

 

          She got Barbie roller skates. 

         

          A Rainbow Brite. 

 

          And the exact Care Bear she’d asked for.