Snowstorms

On chilly winter nights when I saw “New York City Public Schools Closed Tomorrow” flash across the news screen, I called my dad every time. 

Tradition? I would ask, as I clutched the body of the landline between my semi-closed fist while I twirled its cord with my fingers. The window next to me showcased the lowering sun reflecting off the murky waters of the Hudson, half frozen half flowing both ways, chunks of ice breaking off from the main sheets. The trees were barren, frost blossomed in place of the leaves. 

Of course, he replied. My brother was already happily packing away; he knew what the answer would be before it was uttered. His overnight bag was being stuffed with warm clothes and thick socks to brave the snow, a toothbrush, and pajamas with the help of our mom. He liked going to Dad’s place because Dad let him stay up to watch sports games, order any takeout he wanted, and indulge in sweet treats and candies making his teeth ache.

I slammed the receiver down and immediately sprang into action, habitually pulling on thick beige socks and pairing them with my bright orange waterproof “moon boots” that reminded me of discolored bubblegum bubbles or an orange Michelin Man. My mom nagged my brother and me to wear woolen hats, for our tiny ears grew red in the blizzard's cold, but I opted for a fluffy pair of pink earmuffs that loosely fit over my ears. My coat had a faux-fur embellished hoodie, and it gave me my very own lion's mane. 

Descending floor by floor in the green marble and metal elevator, we met our dad standing in the middle of the lobby near the grand desk. Alex, our doorman, greeted us with a few words of hello and a fist bump, and I marveled at the decorated room that loomed large over my adolescent body. Poinsettia plants in pots with a green tin foil wrap littered all corners of the room; a Christmas tree towered over mock, hollow presents and the red carpet reminded me both of a Christmasy warmth and runways of fashion shows I saw on television. My dad had tracked snow onto the carpet with his beaten-up black boots, and he stood tall albeit slouched over with his hands in his jacket pockets. His hair was a bit too long and graying, and he wore a blue sweater that popped against his khaki pants. 

Outside the storm hadn’t started to pick up its speed yet, and as I stepped outside, my boots heavy on my little feet, soft flakes fell from the sky, and only a thin sheet of snow covered the ground in spots that the groundskeepers hadn’t shoveled yet. I tilted my head up and stuck out my tongue, hoping to feel the cold burn of snow. 

The walk to my dad’s apartment was only a block, but with it being slightly uphill and freezing outside it felt like an eternity. My hands were turning pink with the sting of the cold winter air and for a second I contemplated turning back home. My mom would have my favorite hot chocolate, Silly Cow, ready and steaming, and I could curl up on the couch with socks that weren’t damp and rest my aching head on a multicolored pillow. 

But I decided to keep trudging along, placing one foot in front of the other. After a snowball forced down my shirt by my monster of a child brother and an encounter with what I deemed must be hypothermia where they would have to cut my toes off because icy snow had seeped into my boots, we finally reached the building in which we would hide from the coming blizzard. 

The exterior was grayish-yellow, and the building stretched upwards and stood tall in the sky. Terraces decorated with red and green outdoor lights floated around windows, and the driveway housed three or four cars in a row at a time. We briskly walked to the entrance on the ground floor, excited to be sheltered from the wind and snow. 

The revolving doors twirled us around to reveal the Hudson Manor lobby; its yellow wallpaper and fluorescent lights weren't quite as welcoming as the familiar hues of red that radiated warmth in my familiar well-trafficked lobby. The doorman didn’t know us by name but gave us a quick nod of hello as we mounted the elevator. Dad’s apartment at Hudson Manor was messy, like much in his life: his marriage, his car, his family ties. As he opened the door with his key that wasn’t on a chain, I anticipated the living room to at least have a pair of jeans or two thrown in odd places, a coffee cup left on the glass table, or a pile of work papers strewn upon the stand next to the door. I made a mental note to make him a pretty key chain so he wouldn’t lose his house key as the door swung open to reveal his nice, albeit small apartment, and it was obvious he had made an effort to clean up in anticipation of our arrival. Thrown clothes had been stuffed in the closet that held his black safe, his bed was made and tidy, and all the plates and cups that would otherwise be scattered in odd corners of the apartment had been washed and carefully placed in the cupboards of the kitchen. All that was left of the mess was an empty pizza box on a round glass table, a puddle of water on the floor next to the shower that should have been mopped, and coins that had fallen from his wallet peppering the living room floor. 

Unlike Mom’s apartment, which was filled with miscellaneous objects and painted warm colors that gave off a homely aura, Dad's place was much more subdued in its coloring. Grays, blacks, and whites filled up space from the walls to the furniture, and the objects it contained were much more modern and minimalistic. The gray couch was shaped in an L, and when you jumped on it there wasn't a bounce—rather, rough fabric—a couch choice you could expect from a middle-aged man who lived alone. The bookcase was surprisingly orderly and full of books on self-determination and business, and the table that was bearing a simple yellow lamp was made of hazy glass with a black rim. I remembered the coffee table used to stand in Mom’s house. Underneath it had been a white rug that Dad had also taken with him when he moved out. Above the table stood the only painting in the apartment: a replica of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night Over the Rhône.” It used to adorn the wall in Mom’s apartment. The bathroom was white and simple, just enough space for vitamins and facial products in the medicine cabinet hidden by a mirror. The kitchen was stocked minimally—if you opened the fridge you’d find a carton of milk and maybe some eggs. The man who lived in this space ordered in or ate out for almost all of his meals. 

Although my dad’s girlfriend at the time didn’t live with him, sometimes I would find an object of hers here and there that reminded me that we weren’t the only ones who came to visit. Her name was Daliana, and she had introduced my dad to the Keto Diet and the ritual of going to a Manhattan rooftop bar for New Year’s Eve. I had met her a few times, once on Christmas when she bought me a heart-shaped silver jewelry box with my name engraved, and once at Six Flags where she had to go to the bathroom every five minutes and “pee,” which wasted our precious time on rides. My brother and I have a sneaking suspicion that she was just touching up her appearance in the park mirror. I had a feeling Daliana didn’t want my brother and me around. She made sure to leave my dad’s before we arrived and come to visit after we had left. The only plus about her was that she left little good-smelling soaps and shampoos around the apartment, or a hairbrush or lost shirt that made the apartment feel more lived in. I was glad she kept my brooding father company.

The bedroom was my favorite room in the apartment. When I walked inside, I immediately pulled off my damp clothes and put on my pajamas, which were stored away in my own drawer in the black dresser, and ruined the newly made bed with a quick jump on top for fun and then a movement under the covers for warmth. The mattress was comfortable, and I peered out from under the covers at the familiar view of the Hudson and the flickering lights of the buildings and the skyline of Manhattan not so far away, which was less familiar. While my dad and brother watched whatever game was on that night and feasted on takeout on paper plates from the Thai grill nearby, I downloaded a free movie on one of those sketchy websites onto my dad’s laptop. As always I fell asleep halfway through it, claiming this as my spot and thus making someone sleep on the couch. 

The next morning we awoke to a blanket of snow covering our lives, preventing us from going to work or school because our car was buried in snow and the roads were unsafe, cutting out power lines and stranding us in a day where time stopped, a breath of relaxation in the midst of the stress and cold depressing days of winter. We got all dressed up and ready to walk through the snow like always, some of the first nutcases to venture out into feet of snow and leave our bootprints behind, and we walked all the way to our favorite diner that was somehow always open even in that kind of weather. The lightly salted streets were no match for last night's storm. 

It was our tradition to order pancakes and waffles, omelets and coffee, and freshly squeezed orange juice to wash it all down. The interior of the diner was a safe haven from the bitter cold outside. It offered us time for our coats to dry and our bodies to be warmed with liquid caffeine before we had to go back into the arctic tundra of slush that was New York City streets on these types of days. The diner was decorated for Christmas as well, with little multicolored lights around the counter with glass cases filled with pastries, triangle banners that showcased images of Santa Claus and elves, and green and red mistletoe hanging from parts of the ceiling. The place was busy, orders being called out and waiters rushing to fill them, people as crazy as us to brave the storm sitting in booths eating fries that were hot from oil that sizzled still in the frier in the kitchen, and the loud voices of the staff beside the hot stovetops. 

That particular day my dad stared at his regular order of an omelet with avocado, peppers, and mozzarella cheese, poking it with his fork but not lifting it into his mouth, instead drinking cup after cup of coffee. Something tugged at the thin smile plastered on his face, and his expression read like a faux-leather garment that you could tell wasn’t real. 

The walk back to the apartment at Hudson Manor was more solemn than the usual snow day, fewer people venturing out to sled on the grassy knolls of the park, more abandoned gloves on city sidewalks. There was less of a bounce to our walks, more of a slow trek with legs as slow-moving as molasses. 

After we had walked over the snowy overpass of the highway to get to the other side of the neighborhood, we finally reached Dad’s building. Back in the apartment, I sprinted to slide the nob of the heater from the medium to hot and snuggled back into the warm comforter of the bed. I had a few more hours left at Dad’s and was determined to make the most out of them by finishing the movie on his laptop I had started the night prior. I whipped open the laptop and a slew of messages from Daliana greeted me on the screen. 

The first of the series read: you spend too much time with them, we both don’t have work today and could have spent time together, you care about them more than me. And finally: take them home.

At that moment I realized why my dad’s face had been painted in that funny smile. He had been upset about her reaction and was conscious of his decision to spend this tradition time with us over her. All of a sudden my chest closed up and my stomach tightened and all I wanted was for the snow to melt away and the sun to cast its rays on my life. I wanted to be home, at my mom’s, even back in school, anything but to be closed in this apartment where I now felt that I was a tiny ant who had crept under the door, to somewhere that I wasn’t meant to be. 

This was the last snow day spent at Dad’s, the last night that I spent at that apartment ever. This was not entirely his ex’s fault—my dad moved out of Hudson Manor and farther away so that we couldn’t walk there in the snow. However, the encounter with these messages left a bitter taste in my mouth. My brother still goes, and they watch the games together and eat takeout even though Dad cooks now. I still go with them to breakfast on snow days if the road conditions are good enough, but I have lost the excitement I felt when the first sign of snow hovered above my head in the shape of a cloud. Now I watch the icy river from the warmth of the Hayden, not Hudson Manor, and my mother agrees that it’s a much more suitable living condition for a growing child. 

It was only years later, at the first sign of a great snowfall, that I would come to understand the situation more fully. I was in the car with my father when the first flake hit the dashboard of the vehicle. My fingers twirled around each other, unsure of where to rest as my mind wondered what to say. I brought up our old tradition, now buried under the weight of the years. I brought up seeing those texts from his ex. My father was shocked. As he drove, he lifted one hand from the wheel and patted my arm. He was trying to console without the means to. My father then explained that Daliana had been living with him for some time and that when he learned of the snow, he asked her to check into a hotel so that my brother and I could come over for the tradition. He had told her that the conditions of her moving in with him were Friday nights spent elsewhere so he could spend them with his kids. That snowstorm had hit on a Friday night, leaving Daliana stranded in the snow either to drive to her mother’s house in Jersey in bad conditions or check into a nearby hotel. 

Hearing that my father had been living with Daliana unbeknownst to me for months was admittedly harder than rehashing the details of that snowstorm sleepover. All the items she had left behind in his apartment weren’t a product of her going over sometimes but of her fully living there. It hurt a little. To think I had it all figured out, the situation fully understood. But I hadn’t. I never would truly understand some aspects of my childhood even though I craved to. I had thought that no secret could be kept from me, that no ball wasn’t in my court. But the truth is that my choice to never return to Hudson Manor hadn’t been the product of strategy, it had been born out of hurt.