Chapter 6: The Morning After in the Dress
I woke up on the couch and for a second I didn't know where I was.
That was Dad's apartment. The blinds were open and the light was flat and white and nothing like the glow from the night before. No tree lights. No chandelier. Just the street outside and the sound of someone dragging a trash can to the curb. My legs were tangled in the blanket he'd put over me. I was still in the red dress but he'd taken off my Mary Janes and set them by the couch, side by side.
My name is Maya and I was nine that Christmas, and that morning I realized I'd fallen asleep in the same dress I'd stood in next to the gray folding chair.
Dad was in the kitchen. He had his back to me, wearing a gray t-shirt and sweatpants, his blazer hung over the back of a kitchen chair. The apartment smelled like coffee and heat coming through the vents. On the small kitchen table the cream envelope was sitting under his car keys, not hidden, not displayed. Just there. Sealed.
He heard me move and turned around.
"Hey, kiddo," he said. His voice was rough like he hadn't slept much. "You stayed asleep. I didn't want to move you."
I sat up and the blanket slipped. My tights had a run near the knee I hadn't noticed before.
"You want pancakes or eggs?" he asked. "I don't have much. I can do scrambled eggs and toast."
"Eggs is fine," I said.
He nodded and went back to the stove. I watched him crack three eggs into a bowl. His hands were steady the way they'd been steady when he reached into his jacket. In daylight without the navy blazer he looked younger and more tired.
We didn't talk while he cooked. The pan hissed. He scraped the eggs with a spatula, put two pieces of bread in the toaster, poured me a glass of orange juice from a carton. He brought both plates to the table and sat across from me. The sun was coming in hard across the table and I could see dust in it. No snowman figurines. No gold chargers. Just two chipped white plates.
I picked at my eggs. He ate a bite and then stopped and looked at me.
"You okay to be in that dress a little longer?" he asked. "I didn't have your bag in the car. I can wash it today."
I looked down at the three gold buttons. "It's okay."
We ate in quiet for a minute. The apartment was so quiet I could hear the tick of the heater. Last night felt far away and too close at the same time, like if I turned my head I'd still see the French doors and the trash can next to my chair.
I put my fork down. My throat did that tight thing it had done the night before in front of the doors.
"Dad," I said. I had to pause and breathe. "Is it like I'm not really your kid to them?"
I said it exactly how I'd said it the night before. I needed to hear what he'd do with it when there was no one else to impress, no Christmas lights to make it softer.
He didn't answer right away. He didn't say no right away either, which I was grateful for. He set his fork down slowly and pushed his plate a few inches away. Then he reached over and slid the cream envelope from under his keys and held it flat on the table between us, but he didn't open it. He kept his hand on it.
He looked at me, not at the envelope.
"If you were not my kid, I would not be sitting here," he said. "I would not have walked out of that house holding your hand."
I swallowed. "But they think it."
"Some of them do," he said. He said it plain, not mean. "Grandma thinks family is something you have to fit into. Like there's one shape. I don't think that way. You know that."
I nodded a little.
He tapped the envelope once with his finger. "You asked what this is."
I nodded again.
"It's a letter I wrote to my mom," he said. "Before we went last night, actually. I wrote it after last Thanksgiving when the same kind of thing happened and I told myself it was a one-time thing. It's not a gift. It's not money. It's just words from me saying how it's going to be from now on. If you are welcome, we both come. If you are not, we both don't. I put it on paper so she can't pretend I didn't say it clear."
He didn't push it toward me. He didn't open the flap.
"You don't need to read it," he said. "It's not for you to carry. It's my job to say it to her. But I want you to know that's what it is. A boundary. That's the word adults use."
I stared at the envelope. The cream paper looked yellow in the sun. The seal was still tight.
"Are you going to give it to her?" I asked. My voice was small.
"Yes," he said. "Properly. Not tossed on the table last night while everyone was watching. I want her to read it when it's quiet and she can't make it about manners or being a good host. I slipped it in my pocket because I thought I might need to leave it if last night went bad. And it did."
He left his hand on the envelope a second longer, then took his hand away and put it back under his keys, where it had been.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
I nodded.
"Do you want to go back to school next week and have people ask about Christmas at Grandma's?" he said. "Because we get to decide what we tell them."
I thought about it. The eggs were getting cold. Outside a car door slammed.
"I don't want to lie," I said.
"We won't," he said. "We'll just say we had Christmas here. Which we did. We're having it right now."
He reached across the table then, not for the envelope, but for my hand. His palm was warm from the pan. He squeezed once and let go so it wasn't a trapped feeling.
"Finish your eggs," he said. "Then we'll get you out of that dress and I'll wash it. And that envelope will stay right there until we figure out the right way to get it to her. Okay?"
May you like
"Okay," I said.
And for the first time since I'd stood by that folding chair, I believed the envelope wasn't going to disappear or fix itself. It was just paper, and it was his job, and it was still sealed.
