The Colour of Broken

by Amelia Grace

  ‘Does he know about ... you know?’

  ‘No. He will run from me if he knew.’

  ‘Oh, Landi ...’ My mother hugged me. She thought she knew how deep my pain was. But no one could ever truly know. And that's the way I wanted it.

  I showered and got ready for work. It was going to be a long day. In fact, it was going to be a long six days until the competition was over.

  *~*~*~*~*

  Gram’s bicycle was not out the front of Flowers for Fleur when I arrived. I unlocked the doors and entered the store. The first thing I did was to wheel her mulberry-coloured 1950s Raleigh Cruiser bicycle out the front, then created a bouquet of pink peonies to place in the basket.

  I returned inside the store and started on the list of pre-opening jobs.

  Darcy walked in through the rear shop door. He was the colour of earthy brown today, secure and comforting. ‘Good morning, Andi!’

  ‘Morning, Darcy!’

  ‘No good, today?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Good things will come.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. But I wasn’t so sure.

  I pulled the top of my work dress higher over my chest scar. Since last night I had become acutely aware of it again. And I hated it!

  Charlotte entered the store early with yellow sunshine following her, leaving a trail of sparkles wherever she went. Perhaps she should be the one dancing with Xander. She would fit his Perfect song, perfectly. And she didn’t carry a truck load of baggage with her. She was every man’s dream girl. She was that girl a man falls madly in love with. A keeper. The marrying type.

  I left her to the sales desk and took over Gram’s workbench of flower imagination since she wasn’t here this morning. I opened the book of yesterday’s orders for today, then activated the computer to download overnight orders that had come in. There was a lot to do. At least I wouldn’t be able to dwell on my misery while I concentrated on creating bouquets of beauty.

  I pulled out my phone and texted Gram. I needed to know if she was okay.

  ME: Hi Gram. How are you today?

  GRAM: Not so good today. Brain fog.

  ME: Brain fog?

  GRAM: Yes. I can’t think. I can’t make decisions.

  I can’t find the right words at times. Just Google it.

  It’s so hard to explain. It’s like being lost in a fog ...

  searching but not finding.

  ME: I’m sorry to hear. I’ll Google it.

  GRAM: And I feel like I have a bobble-head ...

  and I have head lag. It’s like I’ve turned my head,

  but my head doesn’t know it yet ... and then it

  catches up to my body. Makes me so nauseous.

  It’s just not a good day.

  ME: Oh Gram. Sending masses of hugs and love.

  I hope you feel better soon.

  My heart sank. How often had Gram come into the store feeling like that? She always looked well, except when she was having a vertigo attack spewing up her insides for hours and hours on end. I sighed. Invisible illnesses were the worst. People could never understand what the person was going through. Even I was grappling at what brain fog must feel like ... and I hoped I never knew. A shot of guilt hit me. Was I being selfish?

  I needed a dose of sunshine. So I looked up at Charlotte. She stilled and looked at me, then her mouth curved into a contagious smile and her eyes twinkled. I smiled back. Gram was right. A smile had power. Just like flowers. It touches your heart and soul and makes you think the world is perfect. Even when it’s not.

  At lunchtime I disappeared from the shop.

  I walked through the white gate of 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. The door opened smoothly and silently. Dr Jones was dressed in a black suit today. Her shoes were a smooth, orange and brown, coloured like a giraffe’s coat.

  ‘Yolande.’ Dr Jones’s voice was comforting, like sleeping with my childhood teddy bear.

  I stood and followed her into the office. The familiar office. Dr Jones put a light hand on my shoulder. ‘Would you like to sit on the sofa or lie on the couch today?’

  ‘The sofa ... thanks.’ I made myself comfortable and hugged my usual cushion. Dr Jones went to make of pot of tea. I heard the boiling water and the chink of the china teacups and saucers. I closed my eyes and knitted my fingers together like I always did before I placed them on my stomach. I had chosen to be present today. I needed to talk to her.

  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 when I sipped it and I relaxed a little. Aah ... tea ... a bath refreshes the body, and tea refreshes the mind—a Japanese proverb.

  ‘What brings you here today, Andi?’

  ‘Xander knows about my chest scar.’

  ‘How does that make you feel?’

  ‘Scared ... ashamed ... damaged ... undeserving of his attention ... deceitful.’

  ‘Which of those feelings is the worst for you?’

  ‘The deceit.’

  ‘How have you deceived him?’

  ‘By allowing him to think there was nothing wrong with me. Xander is perfect—skin, body shape, manners, kindness, beauty, dance—he is luminous, so luminous, and I feel like I don’t measure up to what he thought I could be.’

  ‘How did he react when he saw your scar?’

  ‘He was angry. He wanted to know who did it. He wanted to know the details of how it came to be.’

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘No. I couldn’t. I didn’t want him to see me as a damaged person. But I fear it’s too late.’

  ‘Is it making you feel anxious?’

  ‘Yes. I want to be someone more than the story of my past. I want a new beginning. But now I can’t do that because he knows about the scar.’

  ‘Did he have any other reaction to it?’

  ‘Yes. He touched it and told me the type of scar it was, and how it could be fixed, but I already knew how it could be minimized.’

  ‘Do you think you would feel better if no one could see your scar if it was uncovered?’

  ‘Like a secret hidden inside of me, tucked deep into the darkness, never to see the light of day, the truth?’

  ‘Nobody needs to know what happened to you. It’s none of their business.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I think if you have cosmetic surgery on the scar, you won’t have to worry about others seeing it and asking questions. It’s definitely worth consideration, Yolande, particularly where your emotional and psychological healing is concerned, and moving forward with your life.’

  I nodded. She was probably right.

  ‘What are you hoping for with Xander, in terms of your relationship?’

  ‘I just don’t want him to dislike me because of something that happened to me. I don’t want to lose our friendship.’

  ‘There are people who can see past the scars of life. You will see whether he is one of those by how he treats you from now on.’

  I lowered my head. She was most definitely right. I nodded.

  ‘If he distances himself from you, he’s not worth having around. It’s as simple as that.’

  I nodded once again.

  ‘Was there anything else you needed to talk about, Yolande?’

  ‘I think not. I just needed to hear your advice. It will stop me from over-thinking and adding a negative slant on the situation, as I always do.’

  ‘I’m always here to talk things through with you.’

  ‘Can I ask you something, Dr Jones?’

  ‘Anything ...’

  ‘Will you come to watch me dance with Xander at the Ballroom Dancing Competition?’

  ‘I would love that. Email me the details.’

  I smiled at Dr Jones. I wanted her to see something I loved.

  ‘I
will,’ I said and stood, as did Dr Jones after me. We walked to her door and I left her room that held the secrets of many in its walls, and returned to Flowers for Fleur.

  As I walked past Gram’s bicycle there was a note in the flowers. My stomach churned.

  Xander had left me a note instead of talking to me in person?

  It could only be bad news. I took the note out of the flowers and pushed it into my pocket. I couldn’t deal with a rejection right now when I had to put on a happy face for the sake of the customers. I returned to the workbench, donned my apron and got on with the work of a florist.

  After an hour, I went to the powder room and opened the carefully folded paper. I had to know what he had written. It was eating away at me, and I had to get it over and done with, to move on.

  Dear Yolande,

  I’m so sorry for last night and the way I reacted.

  I was overcome with the intense need to protect you,

  and to make everything right for you.

  Please forgive me.

  I’m looking forward to dancing with you tonight.

  X Xander

  I looked up to the heavens that was the powder room ceiling, and breathed a sigh of relief. I pushed the letter back into my pocket and returned to the work bench with a smile.

  Darcy was right. Good things did come.

  *~*~*~*~*

  Xander stood in the middle of the hall for our eighth dance session. He was the colour of blue, like the light blue sky during the blue hour of sunset. It reminded me of deep and trustworthy heart to heart talks while walking along a beach as the sun sank below the horizon.

  He raised his left hand and I placed my right hand into his. He put his right hand just under my shoulder blade while I rested my left hand on his shoulder, and we waited for the music to begin.

  ‘Why didn’t you fight back?’ Xander asked.

  What? I took a deep breath. It was best to be honest with him.

  ‘Xander, being ... knifed ... stopped my best friend from being raped ... that’s why I didn’t fight back ...’ I kept my eyes on him. Would he run from me now?

  Xander stilled, then stepped back from me. I watched as he bent over, putting his hands on his knees. It was like I had punched him in the stomach. Hard.

  When he stood up and looked at me, he had tears in his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. I cannot even begin to think what you’ve been through.’

  ‘I don’t want you to think about what I went through. It’s in the past, and that’s where it needs to stay.’

  He brushed the side of his face with the palm of his hand then ran his fingers over his chin, his eyes connected to mine.

  ‘And don’t feel sorry for me ... okay?’

  He took slow steps and stopped before me, and we resumed our foxtrot stance. ‘Okay,’ he said, and then the music began, as did our steps to the song.

  When I gazed into his eyes as we danced, I saw something new in the windows of his soul.

  It wasn’t pity.

  It wasn’t sorrow.

  It wasn’t sadness.

  It was understanding, and dare I say, some sort of adoration.

  He was closer somehow.

  He was a good man; a man I could trust implicitly, and who I knew cared unconditionally.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I OPENED THE DOORS TO FLOWERS FOR FLEUR. I took one step inside and instantly knew something was wrong. It wasn’t that Gram’s bicycle was still in her office. I had passed it on my way in, adorned with pink roses that infused the air with a bold, fruity fragrance with hints of fresh lemon and raspberry. It wasn’t that Darcy was late: the smell of coffee and baking cupcakes consumed the store. It was the trail of flowers knocked over and water pooled on the floor. I followed the path of destruction through the store to the door of the powder room.

  I paused and closed my eyes before I entered, then took a slow, tentative step, through to the sound of Gram vomiting. Violently. And crying.

  It was gut-wrenching, and my heart broke. Nobody should see their grandmother like this. Grandmothers were supposed to be warm and happy and smiling and oozing with love that flowed around you and hugged you tight, squeezing every bit of sadness from you.

  I texted Gramps.

  ME: COME AT ONCE. IT’S GRAM.

  I didn’t need to add any more details. Gramps would be here, like the knight in shining armour that he was.

  I pushed my phone back into my pocket and my muscles tensed. Gram was sprawled on the floor lying in a pool of vomit. Her lips flattened, and she heaved again, screaming as she did.

  This was torture. Absolute torture.

  ‘Gram!’ I cried, a deep sadness rising from within me. At first, I was confused. I didn’t know whether to grab toilet paper to soak up the vomit she was laying in, or to just be present for her.

  She let out a soul-destroying sob and held up her hand towards me. She wanted me to hold her hand. I looked at her fingers stretched out to me, and in a mind flash, I saw Mia’s hand, covered in blood. My blood. Mia’s desperate hand that was filled with terror, and hope. Terror from what could happen next, and hope that I could save her.

  Anxiety reared its ugly head with its grip of tingles in my chest and fingers and head. I focussed on Gram and while my stomach quivered. I was filled with the most insane feeling of incompetency as time seemed to slow down. I wanted to save Gram from this hideous vertigo that was robbing her of quality of life. I wanted to reach inside her body with a bright white healing light to incinerate the Meniere’s monster that was ravaging her, destroying her very essence.

  But I felt empty. Numb ...

  I wrapped my fingers around Gram’s hand and she cried. Deeply. Staring at one constant place on the wall. I closed my eyes and knelt behind her, and cried with her. Deep, painful soul cries. Ones that were beyond words and feeling and actions. Ones that tried to reach out to our Creator, pleading and begging for mercy.

  I lay down behind Gram and put my arm around her, without moving her, as I knew it would make the spinning worse, and she would vomit, again. I placed my head on the floor behind her, my hair in the vomit. I closed my eyes and sent a silent prayer to our heavenly Father. “He always hears,” Gram had said. He always hears...

  I heard the creak of the door opening, followed by Gramps anguished cry.

  I sobbed again. Deeply.

  ‘My darling Fleur.’ Grampapa’s voice broke. I listened as he pulled out his phone and called an ambulance. He sat beside Gram then, and held her hand and started to sing. His tenor voice filled the powder room with a heartbreaking tune and my heart shattered. Could Gram even hear him?

  I held on to my beloved grandmother, lying in her vomit with her, even as the paramedics entered the powder room. One of them lifted my arm from her and told me that it would be okay now. I wanted to believe him, but I knew it wouldn’t be true. As they rolled Gram onto her back to move her to the gurney she vomited once again, yelling as she did so. Then she stared at the ceiling.

  In my numbness I looked into her eyes. The forever light of life and love that she gave freely to others was gone. My beautiful Gram’s soul light had gone. She was there in body only, breathing to remain alive.

  She was the colour of broken. Like me.

  Anger flared inside me. I flicked the vomit from my clothes, then stood and ran.

  I ran out the back door and along the streets in my work boots, my hair dripping with Gram’s vomit. I ran until I could run no more. Then I collapsed in a field of wild flowers and I didn’t want to get up.

  Ever.

  I just wanted to stay there. Alone. Sinking into the eternal hate of life that I tried to bury inside of myself since that terrible day of the scars. The day I let go of Mia’s hand ...

  I rolled my eyes when I heard the slow, heavy, footsteps crunching the living flowers. Death of beauty. Like what Meniere’s disease was doing to my gram. I could see it was Darcy as I stared up at the clouds. But I didn’t look at him.

  He lay besi
de me but didn’t speak.

  Good. I had no words. I lifted my right hand to my hair. Gram’s vomit had dried and hardened, sticking strands of hair together. Vomit hair artistry. It was a real thing ...

  After a while, Darcy held onto my left hand. I wanted to yank my hand away from his. I was sick to death of hand holding and all its connotations: of saving, of comfort, of love, of support, of safety, of friendship.

  But I left it there. Not for me. For him.

  He pulled out his phone and texted, then put his phone away and stared up at the clouds, like me.

  ‘Gramps said Gram is sedated. She’s sleeping and not suffering at the moment. He was worried about you. I told him you were safe, and I was with you.’

  I swallowed. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I put Gram’s bicycle back into her office.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  We said no more. Even while Darcy walked me home and left once I entered the house.

  *~*~*~*~*

  The closed sign hung at the front of Flowers for Fleur when I arrived at 6pm. For the first time since its opening, fifty years ago, it was closed all day on a week day. I sat on the steps of the store and waited for Xander, for our ninth dance session, my heart completely devastated for Gram.

  I stood as soon as I heard his car approaching, I moved towards the car. I didn’t want him to open the door for me today. It didn’t feel right.

  I slumped into the passenger seat and stared out the windscreen. ‘What do we get if we win this comp?’ I asked.

  ‘Money.’

  ‘I’m donating my half to medical research.’

  ‘You can have it all. I don’t need it,’ he said.

  I looked at Xander. How can someone not need money? Then I remembered that he came from a wealthy family.

  ‘I’m sorry about your Gram,’ he said.

  ‘What? You know?’ Anger bubbled inside me.

  ‘Everyone knows, Andi.’ He winced.

  ‘So, everyone in this whole freaking town knows everything about everyone?’ I was furious.

  ‘No. It’s not like that. Your grandmother is dearly loved. When an ambulance arrives, and the store is closed for an entire day, people need to know that your gram is okay.’

  ‘Well she’s not okay!’

  ‘I can drive you home if you don’t want to practise tonight.’