The Yellow Umbrella

Chapter Fourteen: The Gift of Giving

It was a rather strange Christmas.

    As I got older, I realized that Christmas was the one day a year you could pretend that everything was okay. So instead of remembering the divorce, a miscarriage, or a dog dying, you unwrapped a holiday bath set or a new pair of slippers.

    That morning, the first thing I did was look out the window. Every year since I learned what a white Christmas was, I wanted one more than anything. I was starting to believe in miracles cause that year, overnight a light snowfall had coated everything in white. It gave me hope that maybe it would be a normal Christmas.

    After the accident, my parents avoided each other at all costs. They never fought when I was home anymore because they didn't interact with each other. When one came into a room, the other would leave. My dad worked late so he never had to sit at the dinner table with us. My mom took afternoon shifts at the grocery store so she could sleep in and not eat breakfast with my dad. It felt oddly peaceful, even though they weren't going to be together soon.

    They even got each other presents, breaking their silent pact to avoid each other.

    "A new belt?" My dad said, expressing his distaste for the bright red piece of leather, "Thanks Chika, I'll use this, probably."

    She smiled tightly, "I know, and I love the sweater three sizes too big, thank you Thomas." Then to me she said, "Jake, open your last present."

    I was between my mom and dad, a wall reminding them to behave. We were all sitting around a short little tree with about ten ornaments hanging on it. My mom hung up a few then got bored. Every year, she insisted on buying a fresh tree, even though my father said it was economically smarter to buy a fake one. Then they would get into the same argument, that Christmas meant more to my dad than my mom because he actually believed in a religion. All I heard was that I was the one who had to crawl under the tree to water it and take it down. It made me almost hate Christmas. You wouldn't enjoy having to get rained on by a hundred little needles every other day to stop your house from potentially burning down.

I decided early on that I would be one of those people who did not get a tree when I moved out.

    I looked around the tree, underneath the tattered wrapping paper, and behind the manger with mismatched pieces and a black baby Jesus my mom had bought at a garage sale. My eyebrows furrowed, there were no more presents.

"Uh," I said, puzzled, "Where is it?"

Without answering, my mom shot up and excitedly ran towards the garage. My dad just pulled out his phone and checked his email. A second later she appeared with the metal contraption, a giant red bow sitting on top between the handlebars.

"A bike!" I exclaimed with fake enthusiasm.

I hadn't asked for a bike, nor did I want one. It was the least practical gift they had gotten me, tied with the snowboard and a giftcard to a paintball range. I think they forget sometimes they had a son that didn't like physical exertion. But I didn't want to rain on her happiness charade.

My mom wheeled it over to me.

"But I have a car guys." I added politely.

My dad shrugged, "Yeah but your car is  getting old, this is in case he ever breaks down."

"She is a tank." I corrected.

I don't know why guys always assumed their cars were girls, but my truck felt like a little sister I took care.

I felt my phone buzz in the pocket of my flannel pajama pants:

Mia @ 10:56

check your mailbox, then throw out your phone, this message explodes in 3...2...1...BOOM!