All the Pretty Things

by Emily Arsenault

  I typed in grand mal seizures and Down syndrome. Epilepsy was slightly more common in people with Down syndrome than in the general population, but not by much, according to the first couple of sites that came up. Next I tried grand mal seizures and roller coasters, and grand mal seizures and amusement park rides. There was some debate about whether certain types of rides could trigger seizures. One commonly cited trigger, though, was flashing lights. Something the Laser Coaster had in overwhelming abundance, especially at night.

  I was beginning to feel sick from the weight of the information. I switched over to my texts from the past few days and considered calling Jason, but instead looked up Shawn Colvin and Polaroids. After digging an old set of earbuds from the drawer next to my bed, I listened to the song. And then again. I hadn’t heard it since I was seven or so—the gentle thumping of a guitar at the beginning, the singer’s lullaby voice, her humming at the close of the song.

  An old feeling came crashing back—of hiding, of being in the dark, of letting myself be comforted even though I knew something indefinably unsettling was unfolding around me.

  I repeated the song over and over, and then fell asleep.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Ivy…Ivy?”

  My father’s voice woke me up. It was still dark. He was standing in my doorway, backlit by the bathroom light.

  “What time is it?” I mumbled.

  “You want to see something awesome?”

  I picked up my phone and looked at the time.

  “A three-thirty a.m. kind of awesome?”

  “When’s the last time I woke you up in the middle of the night?” he asked.

  I sat up. “Probably never. Are you okay?”

  “More than okay. Come with me, honey. I want to show you something.”

  “Where?”

  “Fabuland.” Dad was grinning like I hadn’t seen in a while. I couldn’t help smiling in response.

  “Am I going to look at a half-dozen dough balls?” I asked.

  “Just come with me, Ivy. I’m gonna go down and make myself a quick cup of coffee while you get yourself dressed.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  * * *

  • • •

  We drove to Fabuland with the windows open. I don’t normally drink coffee, but I sipped at the one my dad had made me, enjoying the sugar and cream and ignoring the bitterness beneath them. That and the breeze woke me up, and I started to feel better. I’d just let myself get too hot and stuffy under the covers, I told myself. I was fine now.

  “I really wanted you to see this,” Dad said as we pulled into the parking lot. “It’ll be gone by morning, because we don’t want anyone to see the practice one.”

  We walked to the east pavilion area of the park. And when we arrived, there it was: a golden-brown doughnut the width of a small house. Slathered with white frosting and glistening in the moonlight.

  “It worked, honey,” Dad whispered. “Look how well it worked.”

  It really was amazing. You could tell the doughnut was made of separate parts. But it didn’t look like a shortcut. It looked deliberate because of the cute floral formation the parts made. I circled it, running my hand along the golden dough beneath the frosted top.

  “How’d you get the balls all the same size?” I asked.

  “Well, we mixed up each ball as a separate batch, with the same amount of weighed ingredients. The balls didn’t rise or fry to exactly the same height, but we trimmed some of the tops to make them uniform since they were all going to be frosted anyhow.”

  “Wow.”

  It really was like he, Winnie, Carl, and John had performed magic in the night. Way bigger magic than my little cotton candy machine could ever produce. I wished I’d been a part of it.

  “Where is everyone else?” I asked.

  “They had a long night. I told them to go home and sleep.” He handed me a bucket of sprinkles. “Do the honors with me?”

  “If you’re just going to clean this all up by opening time, isn’t it a waste of sprinkles?”

  “I want to see what the finished product looks like.”

  I smiled. “Sprinkles never make things look anything but fabulous. You don’t need to test that part.”

  “Of course not. But I want to. Come on. You first.”

  I took a handful of sprinkles and threw it at the doughnut.

  He did the same. And then I threw another handful.

  “All right!” Dad said. And after a moment, we were both laughing.

  And I felt close to him—like I used to.

  “Dad?” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “So you heard about Reggie Wiggins…”

  Dad stopped sprinkling and glanced at me. “Yeah?”

  I gazed at the partially sprinkled doughnut, suddenly unable to make eye contact with my father.

  “I was with him just a couple of hours before he did it.”

  “I know.”

  Dad half-heartedly threw a handful of sprinkles at the side of the doughnut. Most of the sprinkles fell into the grass.

  “I feel bad,” I said.

  It wasn’t very articulate, but it was straightforward. Which was the best way to communicate with my dad.

  “You need to try not to,” he said firmly.

  I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to do that. And that didn’t seem like a question my father would be prepared to answer.

  “Can I maybe do the doughnut media job from home for a little while?” I asked. “Probably I should stay away from Fabuland for a few days.”

  “You think that’s gonna help you?” he asked.

  I couldn’t tell if his tone was concerned or skeptical.

  “Maybe,” I said, still sprinkling. “So, would that be okay with you?”

  Dad nodded.

  “People make mistakes,” he offered after a moment’s silence.

  I didn’t know if I’d ever heard him make that concession before. I wasn’t sure if it was his way of telling me I was forgiven for whatever he might have heard about me and Reggie. For snooping through his texts. For being weak and hiding under the covers. For needing a few days away from Fabuland to figure out how to show my face. And maybe, too, it was his way of asking for forgiveness—for yelling at me earlier today, or for his generally demanding manner lately.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  I took a giant handful of sprinkles and let them slip through my fingers, falling back in the bucket.

  Fairy sand, I used to think when I would play with sprinkles as a kid.

  I was around five or six when Dad filled a small kiddie pool with sprinkles and let my friends and me play in it. It was glorious. Like nothing else any other kid on the block had at her house, ever.

  He did it just because I’d asked. Imagine a beach of sprinkles, I’d said. And he’d made it happen. Like so many things he’d made happen for me. Violin lessons. SAT prep courses. Birthday parties with bounce castles and wedding-style cakes. He made things happen. If you believed in him, he believed in you.

  If I could forgive him, I had to think he’d forgive me too.

  “Can I take a picture of this?” I said. “Not the whole thing, just a little glimpse of the frosting and sprinkles. Just as a teaser. I won’t post it yet. Maybe the night before the event?”

  “Sure,” Dad said. “Good idea.”

  I took out my phone and started trying to capture a sliver of the doughnut from different angles.

  “This is even cooler than I thought it would be,” I told him, and meant it. “Cooler than I ever imagined.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  The practice doughnut was dismantled before sunrise. Dad texted me pictures of the cleanup process and the aftermath. By opening time the next morning, you wouldn’t have guessed the doughnut had been t
here. I knew, though, that hidden in the grass were a few hundred stray sprinkles.

  Things were quiet for a few days. According to Dad, Tim and the rest of the maintenance staff did extra cleaning and spackling and painting to spruce up the place before the big event. I posted Facebook teasers and Fabuland ticket giveaways. I prepped the official press release while working from home in my pajamas.

  Press Release

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  Danville, NH

  Fabuland Theme Park will be hosting a special event on Saturday, July 21, featuring an approximately 30-foot doughnut that will be baked and constructed by Fabuland staff. Park guests will be invited to partake of the communal celebratory doughnut after an opening musical performance. Special food discounts, giveaways, and samples will be offered throughout the day.

  Fabuland is the home of the famous Laser Coaster, which was designated one of New England’s top ten roller coasters by Grayson’s Travel Guides in 2016. The park also features an enhanced Little Adventurers area, which includes several new rides for the youngest parkgoers, ages 2 to 7. Since last summer, the park has been operated by new owner Edward Cork, well known in Danville for his ownership and growth of the beloved Cork’s Doughnut Dynasty franchise.

  DOUGHNUT DAZE SCHEDULE:

  9:30: Seating area opens

  10:00: Music by local band Hammer, Anvil, and Stirrup

  10:30: Opening remarks

  10:45: Communal sprinkling

  11:00: Doughnut cutting and sample distribution

  11:30: Performance and sing-along by guitarist Gary Ottemeier

  Mr. Cork sums up his wish for the event: “This isn’t just about a big doughnut. It’s about our small community, and the big hearts within it. It’s about coming together for something extraordinary.”

  Contact:

  Ivy Cork, Assistant Press Manager

  603-551-1992

  IvyC@XBMail.com

  With the release finally sent, I made lots of calls to the newspapers, regional magazines, and online events bulletins. I didn’t text Morgan at all. I convinced myself I didn’t have time. And it was looking like I’d have to figure out how to survive without her anyway.

  To make sure my dad wouldn’t regret this little break he’d given me, I was preparing an extra surprise for him. I’d made some headway with a young Channel 12 News reporter. Her name was Lexi Givens, and she seemed new to the job, from what I saw of her online. She was what my dad would call “a live one,” and seemed really interested in our event. After I’d followed up on several phone calls and sent her some teaser photos of my dad’s moonlit “practice doughnut,” she promised she’d come and “check it out” with a cameraman. I’d added, in our final confirmation, that the event was going to have “a few extra surprises” for the community. I wasn’t sure what I meant by that, but I figured it would end up being true. My dad always makes sure there are surprises.

  Jason even made good on his promise to try to come, arriving late Thursday—two days before the big doughnut event. I was sitting on the back deck—watching Emoji stalking a sparrow—when I heard his old Toyota.

  When I got to the front of the house, Jason was climbing out of the car, stretching and surveying the front yard. I wondered if it looked different to him. He hadn’t been here since Christmas.

  “Hey!” I called, and ran up.

  I wasn’t sure if we should hug. Sometimes we don’t. This time he reached for a quick one. And then we sat on the steps together.

  “The drive sucked.” He sighed. “I should’ve remembered what 495 is like this time of day.”

  He looked even more tired than he sounded. His dark hair was growing over his ears, and his face was stubbly. He was wearing a plaid dress shirt with the sleeves rolled almost up to the shoulders. An odd style choice, but I could tell he was working on his ruggedly jaded writer look.

  “Where’s Dad?” he asked.

  “Showering. He’s going back to the park for another late night, probably.”

  “He’s not making you go?”

  “Umm…not tonight,” I said softly. I hadn’t told Jason that I’d been working from home. In fact, we’d barely communicated at all in the last few days.

  “Hmm,” Jason said. “Maybe he’ll want me to go in.”

  “You heard anything about Reggie?” I asked.

  I’d been worried about Reggie. But since I hadn’t been at Fabuland, I hadn’t had an opportunity to hear any updates.

  “Heard he went home from the hospital—yesterday, I think.”

  “Good,” I said, relieved. “So, how close are you two? Or…how close were you?”

  “We smoked the occasional joint together in the parking lot after work last year, if you want to know the truth.”

  Jason looked at me sheepishly, as if I was supposed to be scandalized. On the contrary, I wondered how he was so lucky to have a casual friend who trusted him like that—smoking pot a few steps from Fabuland, just out of view of our father.

  We sat in silence for a few minutes. I followed his gaze to the right of the steps, where the ghost of our mother’s old flower garden grew. It used to be a medley of tulips, lilies, irises, and a rotating variety of annuals. Now only the hardiest of perennials lived there—crowded irises and a couple of yellow Asiatic lilies that grew each year just to be immediately munched petal-less by the little orange beetles that lived in the garden. The bare, pointy green stems were always a weird reminder of my mom’s bygone presence at this house.

  The screen door creaked behind us. I turned to see Dad, hair still wet from the shower but already combed away from his face.

  “Kids,” he said. “I’m going to let you catch up. But tomorrow I want both of you at Fabuland. It’s the last day before the big day. I’m going to need you both around. Especially you, Ivy.”

  I stood up, but Jason stayed seated.

  “Hi, Dad,” he said, nodding a little.

  Dad patted him on the shoulder. “Glad you made it. Good to have you both here at the same time. We’re a one-of-a-kind team, you know?”

  I couldn’t read the expression on Jason’s face.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Dad patted his pockets until he found his keys. “It’s nice to be back, isn’t it, Jason?”

  “Yup,” Jason breathed, glancing toward the garden again.

  “Yup,” Dad repeated before heading to his truck. He revved the engine and waved to us as he roared away from the house.

  “Where’s Emoji?” Jason asked, watching the truck speed down the street.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I saw her in the back before you got here. Hiding in the wilderness now, I’m guessing.”

  “I hope she knows to stay out of the way when Dad’s amped up and driving like that.”

  “If she didn’t, she’d be dead by now.”

  “Wouldn’t we all,” Jason said.

  I slapped a mosquito that had settled itself near my elbow. “I wouldn’t go that far,” I said.

  “No,” Jason said. “I guess you wouldn’t.”

  The mosquito already had blood in it. Gross.

  “You think you’ll go see Reggie while you’re home?” I asked, deliberately changing the subject.

  Jason shrugged. “Maybe. If he wants visitors.”

  I nodded and said nothing. Jason was quiet, too. A bird started squawking in one of the two maple trees that separated our house from our neighbor’s. Probably Emoji was nearby.

  After a while, Jason’s road-weary gaze met mine.

  “I decided I’m ready to tell my Yo-Yo story now.” He hesitated. “If you’re ready to hear it.”

  He seemed to be waiting for my response. I heard my stomach growl. I couldn’t think of the last time I’d eaten.

  “I thought I’d already heard i
t?” I asked.

  “No. I was going to tell you the rest the other night, but you wouldn’t answer your phone.”

  “Sorry about that. I wasn’t much in the mood for talking to anyone.”

  That was an understatement. I didn’t know how to say to my brother, I was so depressed I’m not sure how I ever got out of bed. But since I had gotten out of bed, maybe it didn’t matter now.

  “Dad asked me to paint that ride because he wanted to sell it,” Jason explained. “Originally, I was going to repaint it yellow. But while I was up there doing it, I noticed this spot where the ride was rusted so bad that the metal was as thin as paper. I went to Dad and told him about it, but he didn’t seem all that surprised. I almost thought maybe Mr. Moyer had known about it and told him. Warned him. And that’s why Dad was getting rid of the ride.”

  Jason was talking fast, almost breathlessly. As if he was afraid I might stop him. “Which, on the one hand, was a relief—that the ride wasn’t being used. But then I was like, maybe we shouldn’t paint it. If you’re going to sell it, you should leave it unpainted and make a full disclosure about the rust to whoever buys it so they’ll know it needs a major repair and the price can be negotiated.”

  “And what’d Dad say to that?” I asked.

  “He said I was being naive. That of course any buyer would have the ride inspected before they’d put it into service at a park or carnival. That in the meantime, rides are hugely expensive and we needed to get the best price possible.”