WHERE'S TINY
“A doll is a huggable, lovingly made reflection of our inner and outer spirit.” Gayle Wray
‘Twas a bitter cold yuletide evening. I gazed out our living room window. The sun had set; pale winter stars filled the sky; snowflakes swirled slowly blanketing the neighborhood streets; and icicles hung from the rooftops. Inside, a Yule log crackled in the fireplace, and presents lay under the tree. I warmed my hands around a cup of hot cocoa, breathing in the fresh smell of the evergreen adorned with shiny ornaments, twinkling lights, and glistening tinsel. I reached for my Tiny Tears doll but was unable to find her. Where’s Tiny?
I patted around me where I sat cross-legged on the rug, and rummaged in the pile of presents looking for my favorite doll who was never far from my side.
“Mama, I think Tiny’s lost!” I said.
Mother lowered her magazine. “Did you look in your closet? Sometimes she hides there.”
I ran to my room, checked the closet, but no luck. She wasn’t under my bed either.
“Where did you last see her?” Mother asked, when I plopped on the couch out of breath.
I thought back. I’d woken up with Tiny beside me like always, fixing her hair and placing a Christmas bow in it.
“I took her to our third-grade Christmas party!” I yelped. “I must’ve left her there! We have to go get her. Hurry, please!”
Mother put her hand on my shoulder. “Darlin’, school’s closed until after the holidays. There’s no way we can get to her until after Christmas.”
Christmas without Tiny? “But it’s dark and cold at school. She’ll be lonely and scared…and…and she won’t be able to sleep without me.”
“She’ll be just fine,” Mother said. “Scurry off to bed now, like a big girl. Remember to brush your teeth.”
“Yes, Mama.” I replied, sliding off the couch and glancing back with the most woebegone look I could muster, but Mother had already returned to reading her magazine. I slipped into my flannel pajamas and nestled into bed, pulling the covers tight around me. I felt strange and alone having the pillow all to myself. If it was strange for me, how much worse must it be for Tiny? With no bed or covers, not even a coat to keep her warm. With no one to wake up to on Christmas morning. I buried my face in my pillow and cried myself to sleep.
But when the chilling December wind rattled the windowpanes, I awoke with a start and reached for Tiny but felt only my empty pillow. Was Tiny reaching for me now too? Could she hear the wind? Was she crying? Did she think I’d forgotten her? I simply had so see her and let her know that she wasn’t forgotten.
I jumped out of bed and slipped into my furry slippers, inching my way through the darkness past the Christmas tree and into my parents’ bedroom. I paused in the doorway, listening to their heavy, even breathing. Perhaps Daddy will take me to see Tiny. I tiptoed over to him and whispered in his ear. “Daddy, wake up!” I pulled on his pajama sleeve.
Dad’s breathing hitched, and he rolled over. He sat up, flipped on the bedside lamp, and put on his glasses. “What’s wrong, Sweetie Pie?”
“It’s Tiny,” I said. “She’s lonely and can’t sleep.”
He blinked in confusion and pulled me onto his lap. “Where is she?”
“I took her to school for the Christmas party and left her there by accident. She doesn’t even have her coat.” I dissolved into tears.
“There, there.” He said, grabbing a handkerchief from his bedside table and dabbing away my tears. Then he rubbed his chin. “I’ll tell you what. We can’t get into the school to get Tiny, but we can drive over to check on her and make sure she’s okay.”
“We can?” I said, my eyes widening in disbelief. “Really? Right now?”
“Right now. But quietly, we don’t want to wake your mother.”
Dad wrapped me in a blanket; carried me outside; and tucked me into the front seat of his pickup truck. He pumped the gas pedal until the engine of his old jalopy sputtered to life. We backed out of the driveway and crept along the streets, thick with deep snow. I wiped frost off the truck windows and looked out at the abandoned streets. We seemed to be the only people in the world, just the two of us, like figures in a snow globe. We’re coming, Tiny! I thought as the schoolhouse came into view.
Dad pulled into the parking lot; eased his truck up close to my classroom window; and rolled down his window. I held my breath as he leaned out to peek in. “I see her!” he said, turning back to me and patting my shoulder. “Tiny’s fine. Her eyes are shut. She’s asleep.”
I climbed over to look out myself. I could just about make out my desk, but where was Tiny? “Are you sure? I can’t see her.”
“Let’s double check.” Dad backed the truck up even closer to the window; lifted me out; and carried me to the truck bed. I stood there, shivering, snow biting at the tip of my nose, while he grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment and shined it into the classroom. “Can you see her now? She’s right up there. See?”
The beam of the flashlight swept over the teacher’s desk to a shelf behind it. I pushed up on my tip-toes. There was Tiny settled comfortably, peaceful as could be, along with some other toys my teacher must have collected—cars, a stuffed bear, a rubber ball, a jack-in-the-box, and an old sock puppet. “I see her!” I said. “She is sleeping! I think she’s okay!”
“It’s warm and safe inside,” Dad said. “So she doesn’t need her coat. There are lots of other toys with her, so she won’t be lonely. They’ll all take care of each other. That’s what toys do at Christmastime.” He kissed me on the head, brushing away the snowflakes that had gathered there. “Even though Tiny won’t be with you, you won’t be lonely either. You have your family to take care of you. You understand?”
“Yes, Daddy. I do.”
He wrapped me in his arms; hugged me; and tucked me back into the truck, where I fell asleep against his shoulder taking refuge in his tender attentiveness. It wasn’t until some years later that I realized the significance of this seemingly small but sweet holiday memory. When I woke Dad in the middle of a blustery December night, he could’ve simply dismissed my childhood emotions and sent me back to bed. Instead, he lovingly accepted my concerns going out of his way to address them and shed light on them. Not a Christmas season goes by that I don’t think back to that special holiday moment, grateful for the enduring, timeless gift of love Dad gave me.
*This story, originally titled “Another Toy Story,” was edited and appeared in Guideposts, The Joys of Christmas, December 2015.
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