ARIEL BERRY

Ariel Berry is a freelance writer and editor with a PhD in creative writing from Western Michigan University and a master’s degree from the University of Maine. Her work has appeared in many literary journals, including 3cents, Flash Fiction Magazine, and American Short Fiction. She’s usually nestled deep in the woods on a New Hampshire mountainside with her family, where she writes, reads, and surrounds herself with creatures, both wild and adopted. 

broken things don't always need fixing

the trees were yellow green red twist circle pop wow! sun high and bright and warm. josie twisted the kaleidoscope at the sky and got cloud dizzy and felt snug in her boots. it was fall and she wore a red cardigan her mother had picked out. there was lint on it. purple lint. from a skirt or some such thing. soon her mother would be calling, always calling, come in the house! or do this thing! or don’t run! or i love you now take a nap. it was always something with her mother. her mother never listened to the sounds of dogs barking in the distance or the way mourning doves’ sorrow bleeds in your ears. her mother never thought about the way bread has holes but when you crunch its hard crust in your mouth you make solid food. her mother had never put on her socks slowly, marveling at her toes. her mother was always hurry hurry hurry! her mother, she was sure, had never looked through a kaleidoscope.

this fall josie was very aware of it being fall. previous falls had passed nearly unnoticed, but this fall was momentous. this fall josie collected leaves, bending to the ground so many times her back hurt, searching for the perfect leaf. she collected many beautiful leaves, maple oak birch cherry elm. but still, no perfect leaf. it eluded her like a mirage in the sand. it had become an obsession. a central part of her being. without her leaves, she was nothing. a husk. the leaves made her vibrant. this, she understood. her father would have understood. her mother stood to the side, vague and distant. if her father had been there, he would have helped her find the perfect leaf. but he was gone. gone gone gone. she was so bereft she could hardly think it.

he had left her that summer. left being the operative word. really, he was destroyed. disastered. dead. she wasn’t sure which was worse: pretending he had only left her or accepting her loneliness was here to stay. her loss was mostly visceral, the intense noticing of his absence. her feelings were tinged with the subtle realization that a person she loved no longer existed. she had trouble thinking of the right word. her mother called it sad. she could see that it was distressing. but sadness was not what she felt. she felt a bitter, angry resentment against her mother. her mother would not help her find the perfect leaf. her mother would not let her go outside without her cardigan. or play in the mud. her mother her mother her mother.

come inside, her mother said. come inside and i’ll fix you lunch. josie came inside, as slowly as she could. tucked the kaleidoscope into her dress pocket. she sat down at the table, looked at her plate. it had a chip on the side. that made it special. broken things don’t always need fixing. that’s what her father had always said. but sometimes they do. broken might have been the right word to describe how she felt, the one she had been searching for, if she had known better. she didn’t know if she needed fixing. but her mother did, that’s for sure. now there was a bologna sandwich on her plate. cut into triangles. she hated bologna. she hated sandwiches. she hated lunchtime, sitting across the quiet table with her mother staring at her, watching her eat, watching the bites go down down her throat. eat, said her mother. josie took a bite and tried not to gag. this was her life now. bologna sandwiches and being called inside.

when you go to school tomorrow, i want you to behave, said her mother. her stomach squeezed. she sensed another scolding. i’ve talked with your teacher again, said her mother. he said you’re having a little trouble during lessons. and quiet time. and recess. josie looked at her sandwich. three bites now taken out of it. why were they talking about this? what was even the point? she kicked the table leg. he said you pushed a boy, her mother said. he said you knocked him over, her mother said. this conversation was fruitless. she was just bad. she was a bad kid. she knew it. her teacher knew it. her mother definitely knew it. what did it matter. she could promise to be good, but that would be a lie, which would also be bad. she couldn’t help it. the boy had said, hey, your freckles are ugly, and she had shoved him, and he had fallen against the table and hit his head. it bled a little bit. that was nice. until she got in trouble.

i want you to do well in school, her mother plodded on. it’s what your father would have wanted, her mother said. josie flushed. she hated it when her mother said what her father would have wanted. her mother knew nothing about her father. no one knew her father the way she had known him. they had kept secrets from her mother, little secrets, like ice cream and a late bedtime, but they mattered. everything mattered. she didn’t know how much until they were gone. he wasn’t coming back. they had been worried, the grown-ups, that she wouldn’t understand that. that she was too young to comprehend the gravity of the situation. that she would wait for him at the end of the driveway, looking searching scanning, waiting like a dog. she was not a dog. dogs were lovely. she had always wanted a dog. but she was smarter than a dog and she knew what the grownups thought she couldn’t possibly understand. she had heard them explaining things to her mother before they came and told her the stupid version they crafted just for her. she already knew, but she pretended that she didn’t. a farce, for their sake. oh no. wow. how terrible.

what she had heard them saying was that there was an accident at work. he slipped. not because he was clumsy, because he wasn’t. he was strong and agile. he slipped because of someone else. they let go of something, and it swung and hit the beam he was standing on. she didn’t fully grasp that part, but she knew the important bits. he fell fifty feet. he splattered smack dab. there were blood and bits. everybody saw. the man who told her mother was still shaking. in his adrenalin he told her maybe too much. the visuals were unappealing. her mother had to lean against the doorway. josie was crouched at the top of the steps. listening. she heard it all. after she slipped back to her room, her mother found her sprawled on the bed. pretending to sleep. her mother told her, there’s been an accident. her mother told her, your father has passed away. as if he were on a boat trip, gently gliding into the night. passed away was how grown-ups said dead. because they were too afraid to say the word. as if, if they said it, he might die again.

i want you to do well in school, her mother was saying again. how can i help you do better, her mother said. stop making me bologna sandwiches, josie said. i hate bologna. i want peanut butter and jelly, she said. okay, said her mother. okay, i can do that. josie kicked the table leg again. her mother was calm. collected. professional. this was a negotiation. but that was all she could think of. those stupid bologna sandwiches. peanut butter would be better, but she wouldn’t be better. she knew it in her bones. she was a bad kid. one that couldn’t be saved. have we reached an agreement? her mother said. she spit out the bite of bologna in her mouth onto her plate. yes, josie said. we have.

after lunch she helped wash up. cleaned the plate with the little chip and wiped it dry. the front of her dress got a little wet from the dishwater, and her mother sent her to change. it was damp and clammy against her stomach, but she didn’t want to change. she liked that dress. she had picked it out herself that morning. hurry and change, said her mother. hurry hurry hurry. josie liked to do things slowly. if things were too fast she couldn’t think clearly. her eyes would blur and her stomach would tighten. her father had understood this. he had done things slowly and carefully. her mother had always said that josie was like him. she didn't understand what her mother meant until now. josie picked out a new dress, a different plaid, different colors. she stepped into it with her boots still on and struggled it up her body until it was settled. she got the kaleidoscope out of the pocket of the old dress and trained it on her skirt. red blue gray gentle spin. roll it to change, everything change. she wanted to melt inside the tunnel, slide among the colors. beautiful was a word she didn’t like to use anymore, but sometimes it was all she could think of when she put that little piece of magic to her eye. her father had given her the kaleidoscope for her last birthday. so you can see the colors, he had said. colors almost as beautiful as you.

hurry, called her mother. an angry spark flickered in her chest. she tucked the kaleidoscope into her pocket and clunked down the steps. we need to go to grandma’s house, her mother said. she’s expecting us, her mother said. why do we have to go? her house always smells like peas, josie said. her mother tugged josie’s plaid dress straight, smoothing out the wrinkles. because i promised her we would go, her mother said. she wants to see you and have tea. seeing grandma was ugh. she always patted her head and in the last few months now she nearly always cried. she would just be sitting there and then her eyes would well up and she would say something like, i miss him so much, and her mother would tear up and say, i miss him too, and grab her hand, and then josie would just sit there awkwardly with nothing to do. once her mother asked her if she felt like crying. why? josie had said. her mother had looked uncomfortable. because you’re sad, her mother had said. i’m not sad, she had told her mother. i’m not the same as you.

they went to grandma’s house. she was waiting for them at the door, waving to them before they even got out of the car. her mother turned around and looked at josie in the back seat. now, don’t tell grandma that you don’t want to be here, said her mother. you’ll hurt her feelings, said her mother. her grandma continued to wave from the porch. i know, josie said. i know. they got out of the car and went inside. her grandma hugged her too tight and for too long. i’m so glad you came, her grandma said. i’ve made cookies, her grandma said. they were oatmeal raisin. old people cookies. her mother was watching her closely. she took a bite of a cookie. the raisins were gooey gross. she took another bite. the oatmeal made her mouth dry. her mother turned away to talk to her grandma. she put the cookie in the pocket of her dress to toss away later. wow i am so good right now. give me a prize please and thank you. i’ll wait.

she went in the other room and sat on the sofa. she could hear the windchimes out on the porch tinkling. they had put them up when her father died. to remember, her grandma had said. she didn’t see how she could forget. there were too many throw pillows on the couch. she felt like a bird in a nest. or maybe a rat. she wanted to turn the television on, but wasn’t sure if she was allowed. she got out the kaleidoscope and pointed it at the window. light white light white spinning like an orchestra of blank. is this what heaven looks like? father, are you there? oh, there you are! said her grandma. she ignored her, kept spinning the kaleidoscope. father? please set that down and talk to your grandma, said her mother. no. no no no. there was a flash of color but she spun again and it was gone. maybe a bird flying past. she knew it was silly but she kept on spinning. hurry hurry hurry. answer your grandma, said her mother. what had she said? father? where are you? a hand was grabbing the kaleidoscope. her mother had yanked it from her hands. answer your grandma, she said. you’re being impolite. no, josie said. i won’t answer. she didn’t know the question, but it didn’t matter. she wouldn’t answer it. they had deprived her of her kaleidoscope. they had taken away her father. she realized she was crying.

no, i won’t answer i won’t answer, she choked. her mother and her grandma stared. i’m sorry sweetie, you don’t have to answer, said her grandma. josie was shaking now. her mother reached to touch her but she pulled away. this was trash. josie ran outside, slamming the front door behind her. josie, wait! her mother called behind her, but she wouldn’t go back. not like this. they had seen her cry. she was humiliated. she was young, but she was not a little baby. she didn’t get sad. she threw herself under the large tree in the yard, surrounded by a smattering of yellow leaves. they separated her from the dirty ground, sticking gently to her. she expected her mother to come after her, but she didn’t. she picked up leaves indiscriminately and began earnestly shredding them. she was done crying, but her nose was running and she blew it on a leaf. leaf after leaf she picked up. yellow shred scatter bits on her lap and boots. she wished she had her kaleidoscope. if she spun it now it would be all yellow. then she realized it would look just the same as things looked now. yellow yellow yellow. above and below and around. she picked up a leaf and wiped her tears with it, leaving dirt streaks on her face. she held it in her hands. its coloring was perfect, it was smooth to the touch, its outline was sharp and defined. there were no rips. and then she realized: this was it. she had found the perfect leaf. 

she marveled at it. then she tucked it in her pocket to keep safe. when she got home she would put it in one of her father’s large books to press it flat. when her hand was in her pocket, her fingers brushed the half-eaten cookie. she took it out and brushed off the pocket lint. it was a very bad cookie. she broke it into crumbles and spread it on the ground for the birds to eat. they would go home to their nests with full bellies. she wanted the birds to be happy. she wanted to be happy. she laid down on the ground, leaves in her hair. she looked up at the sky through the tree branches. she heard the door to the house open. come on inside now, said her mother. hurry, it’s time to go.

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