The Colour of Broken

by Amelia Grace

  He took a deep breath. His strong business persona had wavered a bit. ‘That’s what I’m hoping.’

  He strolled over to Gram. I watched Gram interact with the man, mesmerised by the happiness glowing from within her. This store and the people she served was everything to her. It was her life.

  I gazed dreamily at the handsome man. A marriage proposal. That’s something I will never experience—a man down on one knee before me, asking for me to be his wife ... sacred promises and vows—not with my scars. I could never be beautiful. Not after what happened. And babies ... I don’t want to bring any souls into this troubled world. It wouldn’t be fair, and besides, I couldn’t bear to watch my own flesh and blood suffer when poisoned arrows came their way, injuring their souls, hearts and minds.

  I sighed and removed my apron for the last time. I grabbed the letter out of the pocket for Xander and held it in my hand, then walked over to Darcy.

  He looked at me and frowned. ‘Are you quitting, Andi?’

  ‘No. Gram fired me! She said she has been cured.’ I shrugged.

  Darcy’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a little hard to believe.’

  ‘And too quick, what—three days?’

  ‘It must be a miraculous kind of drug she’s taking.’

  ‘Hmmm ... steroids. And you’d better check to see if she has a stash of marijuana out the back!’ I gave him a smile.

  Darcy chuckled. ‘I guess you’ll be going back to the base?’

  I nodded my head. ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. Those safety boots won’t look out of place there!’

  I looked down at my brown steel-capped safety boots. Were they really that bad? It didn’t matter. They made me feel safe.

  ‘Take care, Darcy!’

  ‘You too, my sweet!’

  I turned and went to Gram’s office and grabbed my bicycle and walked through the store with it, glancing around and absorbing the colours and perfumes of the flowers. I think I must have had some kinda love for flowers. After all, I’m sure I had inherited the flower love chromosome through my genetic makeup.

  I stepped outside the store and went to Gram’s bicycle basket. I placed Xander’s letter in amongst the flowers, then took out my phone and took a photo, for memories sake. I must admit, receiving and sending letters through the flowers was exciting, even for a non-romantic like me.

  I paused and looked through the window at Gram one last time. She glanced at me. I kissed my fingers then blew the kiss to her. She lifted her hand and pretended to catch it, then kissed her hand and blew her kiss to me. I lifted my hand and pretended to catch her kiss like she had done, then I placed it over my heart. I loved her, unconditionally.

  I pushed my bicycle a little further before I mounted it and rode to my parents’ house. There, I changed out of my floral work dress and threw on jeans and a t-shirt and started to pack.

  There was a knock at the door.

  I looked up and stopped packing. My mother leaned on the door frame. She was the colour of soft pale pink, reminding me of a warm blanket, wrapped around a newborn baby with the overflowing, unconditional love of a mother.

  ‘Dr Jones wants to see you. There’s an appointment at 2pm,’ she said. Her eyes tracked my facial movements, wary.

  ‘You knew, didn’t you!’ Tears welled, and I blinked them away.

  ‘Gram called and spoke to me about her decision late last night.’

  ‘And you agreed with her? You, of all people know that with medication for chronic illness, you need to take it for a while to see if it works the way it’s supposed to. Three days is too early to know whether her meds are right!’

  ‘I agree. I tried to talk her out of it, but you know Gram when she’s off with the fairies and unicorns!’

  ‘I don’t need to see Dr Jones! Cancel the appointment!’ I said, the resumed packing my belongings.

  ‘I disagree. You were talking in your sleep last night.’

  I stopped and looked up at my mother. The world slowed down and sorrow crept into the crevices of my fractured heart.

  ‘No, Ma ...’ This time my tears fell. Talking in my sleep was a bad sign. It was the forerunner to a depressive episode. A shiver ran through me. Darkness was not my friend. It was nobody’s friend. I hung my head. I didn’t want to take medication anymore. Every morning when I used to pop that pill into my mouth, it reminded me of the event on that terrible day.

  I looked up at my mother and brushed away my tears. ‘This is the last time that I will see her.’

  ‘Okay.’ My mother’s voice was soft.

  ‘Okay,’ I said with firmness.

  I rode to the quaint little white house with the pretty flower garden that was my psychologist’s office and sat in my regular chair. The one with the imprint of my butt on it. I was aware for a while now that I associated this place with negativity, and the ever reminder that I was damaged. Emotionally and physically.

  The door opened smoothly and silently. Dr Jones was dressed in a dark grey pants suit with a white button-up shirt. Her black court shoes were particularly shiny.

  ‘Yolande.’ Dr Jones’s voice was comforting, like the smell of cupcakes baking and my mother’s warm smile as I walked in the door after school. Perhaps I was over thinking the negativity of visiting my psych doctor.

  I stood and followed her into the office. The familiar office.

  I faltered in my step. Dr Jones had repainted her room. She now had a sky-blue feature wall. I liked it.

  Dr Jones put a light hand on my shoulder. ‘Would you like to sit on the sofa or lie on the couch today?’

  ‘I’ll take the sofa.’ I gave her a smile, covering the nervousness that bubbled in my stomach. What would she uncover and explore and make me face today that would have me squirming?

  I hugged three cushions when I sat on the sofa while Dr Jones went to make of pot of tea. I heard the chink of the china teacups and saucers and the boiling water. I closed my eyes and rested my hands on my stomach. I had a plan for today’s psych visit. And that was to spend as little time possible here, and to walk out victorious.

  At the sound of approaching footsteps, I opened my eyes. Dr Jones placed two teacups and saucers on the table. I reached over and picked one up. The warmth of the brew touched my lips and I relaxed a little. Aah ... tea ... liquid wisdom. If the good Dr served the truth serum of wine, she would end up learning a whole lot more about me ...

  ‘What brings you here today, Andi?’

  ‘My mother,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed. But you must agree with her to be sitting here on the new sofa.’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have started talking in my sleep again—usually a sign of doom and gloom about to come, but this time, I don’t feel it.’

  ‘What do you feel, Yolande?’

  ‘Normal ... but scared—the precedent has been set.’

  ‘Sleep talking, the medical term—somniloquy—is a sleep disorder defined as talking during sleep without being aware of it. It can be triggered by stress, or depression, or sleep deprivation, or alcohol. Or, it could not. Did you do anything on Sunday that was noteworthy for you?

  ‘Perhaps ... I painted a series of seven canvases, to stop my obsession and panic attacks with the colour red, and blood.’ I pulled out my cell phone and showed her the photos.

  ‘Can you tell me about each of the art pieces, Yolande.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘The first canvas began with dripping red paint from my fingertips.’ I looked up at Dr Jones. ‘You know why.’ I looked back at the image. ‘This painting was the gatekeeper of my emotions, and I opened the gate. It resulted in a flood of despair, pain, love, defiance, and of loss of the ways things use to be. It clearly told me the past is done, I can’t change it, and I have to accept it.

  ‘The second canvas is red. Just red. But not just red. It’s an emotionally intense colour. I loathe red because it’s the colour of blood. But this canvas ... this one is full of blood
, and fire, and energy, and war, and danger, and strength, and power, and determination.

  ‘This one, the third, is about betrayal, and how I feel I broke my word with Mia.

  ‘The knife is what happened to me, as well as the next one with the eye and the tear of blood ... for me it means guilt and death of my former self.

  ‘The two gripping hands decorated with blood are what would have changed everything, if I was strong enough to hold on to Mia’s hand.’ I stopped speaking and swallowed my sadness. ‘And the red heart ... it’s my forever love for Mia.’ I put my hand to my heart, feeling it beat precious life-giving blood through me.

  ‘The emptying of blood which leads to death seems to be a recurring theme on your canvases,’ Dr Jones said.

  ‘Blood means life, or lack of blood means—death. The last painting signifies love, and throughout the entire seven canvas story, love remained. The realisation at that revelation was terrifyingly freeing from the chains that bound me,’ I elaborated.

  ‘Art is a powerful instrument of expression and of exploration. It has a way of releasing energy when words cannot unlock what you feel. It can lead you to some insightful conclusions about yourself,’ Dr Jones said.

  ‘I think ... for me ... these seven canvases are about confronting my fears ... conquering my fears, and ... trying to ... create something physical from nothing but memories.’

  ‘Does it feel empowering to you?’

  ‘I feel ... stronger in myself, and I feel a sense of ... freedom, and calmness ... healing even.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the earlier question about talking in your sleep. You said sleep talking for you was a sign of doom and gloom to come. But this time you don’t feel that it is. Tell me, Yolande, did you talk in your sleep as a child?’

  ‘Chronically. I was a regular sleep talking chatterbox.’

  ‘Then I would like to suggest to you, based on your journey of the seven art canvases, that perhaps your recent sleep talking is natural for you, and not an indicator of depression to come.’

  I nodded my head as I considered her analysis.

  ‘Are you taking your medication regularly?

  ‘No. I stopped taking it.’

  Dr Jones stopped writing and looked at me. I didn’t know whether she was happy or angry or disappointed.

  ‘I’m confident that you have considered the ramifications of stopping medication with detail, knowing you. I have also given you alternative strategies to help you through a period of difficulty.’

  ‘You have, Dr Jones, and I’m grateful for that. It’s also what helped me to decide to go medication free. I feel stronger ... emotionally.’ I wasn’t telling the entire truth. It was mostly because I couldn’t stomach taking anti-anxiety medication anymore. I wanted to be me, without a chemical sense of security. I wanted the real me back.

  ‘Let’s go back to the topic of death, Yolande.’ Dr. Jones didn’t look at me. She was scribbling something in her notebook. I waited for her next statement. It always followed a pattern. She would declare the topic, pause, then ask me to tell her about it.

  ‘Taking the data from numerous sessions, you seem to have an abnormal fixation with death. Tell me about it.’ Bingo. There it was—the question.

  ‘No. Not death itself ...’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Dead people never come back,’ I said.

  ‘That’s a fact. But they live on in your memories—’

  ‘What? Do you think it makes it less real? Or better? Or solves the whole finality of death?’ I was fuming.

  ‘Tell me about death.’

  Did she mean physically or spiritually? ‘You stop breathing. Your body stops functioning. Your personality, or whatever makes you, you, is gone. You no longer have a consciousness of earthly matters.’

  ‘Is it what you look like that makes you who you are?’

  I closed my eyes. That was a tough question. ‘No. Nobody chooses the body they are born with. What we look like is physical deception, hiding the real you, inside. I think ... what we look like, can shape how we act, once we’re aware of society’s acceptance or rejection, but it’s not who we are.’

  Dr Jones was focused on her notepad, madly writing.

  ‘Imagine a world, Dr Jones, where people had sight, but they couldn’t see what they looked like—because there were no reflective surfaces—how would people be different then?’

  Dr Jones raised her eyebrows at me, then smiled after a moment. ‘That’s an interesting question and scenario, Yolande ... tell me, what attracted you to Mia?’

  Silence. How did we end up on the topic of Mia? And where was she going with it?

  I pressed my lips together in a hard line before I spoke. ‘The very first time I met her was when we were eight years old. She was on a seat, sliding her green rain boots on.’

  She stood and buttoned up her rain coat and ran into the rain and jumped in puddles. I wished I could be like her. Not afraid of the mud. My mother hated mud. And so I hated the mud. She stopped jumping and looked at me, then walked towards me, her hand outstretched.

  ‘Come and play,’ she said.

  She pulled me into the rain and we jumped in puddles and spun around and around and around with our arms outstretched, our faces towards the dark clouds, rain splattering our faces. I felt free. For the first time in my life.

  ‘We stayed best friends until I was ten, and then I saw her no more because my family moved ... until, I accidentally knocked the study notes out of a girl’s hand at the new high school when I was thirteen.’

  The paper scattered on the ground like paper from a party popper. I scrambled to pick them up for her, apologizing profusely. When I gave the papers back to the girl and looked up, she was smiling at me.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I had said to her.

  ‘Hi, So-Sorry, I’m Mia. You remind me of myself.’

  ‘What’s that? Clumsy?’

  ‘Yes, in fact.’ We both giggled.

  I paused and stared at her. ‘Mia?’

  ‘Yolande?’

  ‘We squealed, and click, there was our immediate bond. Our paths had crossed again.’ I stopped talking and let out a deep breath.

  .

  ‘So, you connected over an incident?’

  ‘No. We connected over our similarity.’

  ‘Perfect!’

  ‘Perfect what?’

  ‘Have you got any other friends like Mia—who you can connect with?’

  I shifted on the sofa. I didn’t want to talk about Mia and friends. ‘I have friends—but no one will ever be my best friend like Mia.’

  Dr Jones looked at me and tapped her pen on her note pad.

  ‘Why do you hand write notes when you can type them straight into a computer document?’ Great deviation from the subject matter, Yolande!

  ‘I’ve tried both. Handwritten notes have an extra depth to them. I remember more from my handwritten notes. I can think with clarity, analyse, ponder and ... I feel more connected to the patient and the notes.’

  I nodded my head and looked over at the white coat that hung on the wall near her degrees. That was new! Was it symbolic or something? Did she ever wear it?

  Dr Jones followed my line of gaze and smiled. ‘My private joke.’ She shook her head then looked at me. ‘Have you spoken to Mia?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You need to.’

  ‘I can’t, yet.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It makes it more real.’ I looked down at my trembling hand. I swear I could still see the stain of blood on my fingers. My blood. The same blood that dripped onto Mia’s forehead like she was being targeted by a marksman for a fatal shot.

  Dr Jones was writing madly. I think she needed a red pen to write the word “denial”, because when it came down to it, that’s what I was doing to the ending of that terrible day of the scars.

  ‘When do you go back to the base?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘How does that make you feel?’
/>
  I shook my head. I was getting tired of analysing how I was feeling. ‘Excited but worried.’

  ‘More information.’

  I sighed. ‘I’m excited to be going back to base to work as an aeronautical engineer, and worried about fitting into the routine again and about catching up on what I have missed out, especially on critical data that will be needed to make decisions, plus, I’m worried about Gram’s health.’ My voice was flat.

  ‘That’s not uncommon to feel multiple emotions,’ she said.

  Please, not the magic wand question ...

  ‘If you had a magic wand, what positive changes would you make to the situation?’

  I scratched my eyebrow to stop myself from rolling my eyes at her. Magic wands didn’t exist, and never will! ‘Without a doubt, I would use it to cure Gram’s Meniere’s disease.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yolande, here’s my personal number. Call me at any time if you need to talk. I take texts too, if you prefer to use that form of communication in particular situations.’

  I took the card from Dr Jones. Our session time had ended. If she had a magic wand to make any positive changes, what would she choose to do?

  ‘Thanks for your support, Dr Jones.’ I stood and shook her hand. I was hoping this would be the final time I would ever see her. She was so mentally exhausting.

  ‘It’s my pleasure, Yolande, and, thank you for sharing your artwork with me. I know they’re very personal to you. Take care.’

  ‘I will.’

  Dr Jones walked out of the consultation room with me, as she always did with her patients.

  I turned to her before I left.

  She smiled at me, and then and there, I decided never to return for another psych session.

  Ever.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘FLOWERS, TEA, COFFEE ... OR BOOKS?’ The words rolled off my tongue like I’d never left the flower store while I entered data into Gram’s accounting book. In the two weeks that I was back on the base, I had managed fall deeply into analysis and design. My happy place. Somehow, flowers weren’t so exciting ... or tea, or coffee, or books.