Beautiful Broken Things

by Sara Barnard

  ‘I think it would be a nice thing to do,’ I said.

  ‘Nice doesn’t always mean right,’ Rosie said infuriatingly.

  ‘Well, it should,’ I said.

  I didn’t manage to persuade Rosie to come with me, but she did help me find a florist that was stocking sunflowers in pots that didn’t look half dead. When I took it home, Mum watered it and set it on the kitchen counter.

  ‘Rosie thinks it’s weird,’ I said, looking at the yellow petals, even brighter against the cream kitchen tiles.

  ‘Taking Suzanne flowers?’ Mum asked.

  I nodded. ‘It would be better if we were both going.’

  ‘It’s a lovely thing to do,’ Mum said. ‘And I think it means even more that you’re prepared to go by yourself.’

  I was trying to remind myself of this as I walked to Suzanne’s the following afternoon, carrying the sunflower in one hand and the gift bag in the other. I kept imagining turning up on the doorstep and both Sarah and Suzanne craning their necks, looking for Rosie behind me. Twice I almost turned around and went home.

  It looked like the lights were all off in the flat, even though it was just starting to get dark. I was instantly seized by paranoia – what if they weren’t even there?

  Thankfully, Sarah opened the door almost as soon as I knocked. When she saw me, her eyes widened in surprise. And then an odd expression passed over her face, a strange kind of smile, almost like she was about to cry.

  ‘Caddy,’ she said. ‘Caddy and a sunflower.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said. I could feel my face going red. ‘Um . . . I just wanted to bring Suzanne her presents. And say happy birthday.’

  She smiled properly then. A big, friendly smile. ‘How lovely. That’s really lovely.’ She took a step back and gestured for me to come in. ‘I can’t promise you’ll be able to see Suzanne though,’ she added, closing the door.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said quickly. ‘I can just leave this here. But I thought it was . . . worth a try, you know?’

  ‘If you want to come into the kitchen, I’ll go and see how she’s feeling. Do you want something to drink?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ I set the sunflower down on the kitchen counter.

  Sarah hesitated in the doorway, as if about to say something else, then smiled again and left the room. I glanced at some of the papers on the counter – all recipes for chocolate truffle cake – and then the small pile of cards that had been left, undisplayed, on the windowsill. I managed to contain my nosiness for about thirty seconds.

  There were six cards in total. A standard niece card from Sarah; a dogs-dressed-like-the-Beatles card from Brian; three general sixteenth-birthday cards from names I didn’t recognize. The final card said daughter on the front. I really did hesitate this time, knowing I shouldn’t look, but my hand reached out anyway and flipped the card open. ‘To Suzanne’, the handwriting read, ‘from Mum and Dad’. The card’s text said ‘Happy Birthday’. The card didn’t even have a ‘16’ on it.

  My stomach felt queasy. I turned the card over, as if I was expecting to see a proper message on the back. Was that really it? The most basic of daughter birthday cards? It was almost worse than nothing at all.

  I heard footsteps in the hall and I turned quickly, pushing the cards back into place, hoping to see Suzanne. But it wasn’t her, and by Sarah’s face I knew it wouldn’t be later either.

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Does she know I’m here?’ I asked, just to check.

  ‘She’s asleep,’ Sarah said. ‘And I don’t really want to wake her up. It’s been a tough couple of days.’

  I hesitated, then reached out my hand to touch the cards. ‘Was it . . . ?’ I let the sentence linger.

  ‘You saw the card?’ Sarah sighed and came over, reaching straight for the daughter card. ‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ She looked angry, and she was shaking her head. ‘I’d have ripped it up before she saw it, if I’d got to it first.’

  She turned the card over in her hands, exhaled again and put it back. ‘She took it hard,’ she said quietly. ‘I think she’d got her hopes up for more than this.’

  ‘Was there any present?’ I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  ‘Yes,’ Sarah said, her expression grim. ‘A bank transfer.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, that’s something.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s something.’ She paused, looking at me. Then, gently, she asked, ‘What did your parents give you for your sixteenth?’

  I thought about the comically oversized card shaped like a cupcake, my beloved laptop, the silver bracelet, the whole bunch of new clothes. My mother had stuck a photo of me as a baby in the card and written underneath: ‘16 years of joy!’

  After a silence, Sarah reached for the gift bag I realized I was still holding. ‘I’ll tell her you came by as soon as she wakes up.’

  ‘I could come right back if she wants me to,’ I heard myself say.

  A smile spread across her face. ‘You’re very sweet.’

  ‘I just want to make it better,’ I said, feeling helpless.

  Sarah didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. I knew what she was thinking, because I was thinking it too. It looped in my head as I walked back home.

  You can’t.

  Later that evening, my laptop pinged. Suzanne Watts has tagged you in a post.

  I clicked on the notification and a photo of the sunflower filled my screen. It was sitting on her bedside cabinet, beside the elephant toy. She’d written: ‘Sunshine in a pot. Thank you SO much, Caddy.’

  Not long after, my phone lit up with a text.

  19.33: Thank you thank you thank you xxxx

  19.35: You are welcome! xxx

  19.36: Means the world. Can’t even tell you x

  19.37: :) Happy birthday!

  19.38: Haha, thanks. Happier now :)

  After school on Thursday, Mum picked me up and we went to the supermarket together. I was in the haircare aisle, trying to find the most expensive shampoo for coloured hair I could get away with, when I felt a pair of cool hands sweep around my face and settle over my eyes.

  I jumped about a foot in the air, dropping the John Frieda bottle I was holding and letting out a noise that was somewhere been a shriek and a laugh. Trying to regain my composure, I picked up the shampoo and stood to face my attacker.

  ‘Sorry.’ Suzanne was laughing, almost doubled over with it. ‘Oh my God, Caddy, I didn’t think you’d react like that.’

  My heart was still racing, but I was laughing too, the two of us in pieces in the middle of the aisle. An old woman with nothing but washing-up liquid and a pineapple in her basket eyed us warily.

  ‘You can’t sneak up behind someone in a supermarket,’ I said between gasps. ‘What did you think would happen?’

  When we’d calmed down, she reached for the bottle I was holding and looked at it. ‘You should go for the honey one,’ she said. ‘This is for platinum blondes. Yours is warmer.’ She turned to the rows of bottles and located the one she was looking for, holding it out to me.

  I was so happy to see her.

  ‘This might be a stupid question, but what are you doing here?’ I asked, taking the bottle and tucking it under my arm.

  ‘Shopping. Obvs. Sarah’s here somewhere. Are you here with your parents?’

  As she said this my mother came around the corner, pushing the trolley in front of her. When she saw me, she let out a tut of annoyance and came to a stop next to me. ‘There you are. Didn’t I ask you to get lemons?’

  ‘I’ll get them in a minute,’ I said, wondering for a second why she was ignoring Suzanne, before realizing they’d never actually met. ‘Mum, this is Suzanne.’

  Mum’s face lit up, which was embarrassing. ‘Oh! Hello!’ She reached out her hand and Suzanne shook it, looking surprised but polite. ‘I’m Carol.’

  Sarah walked past the entrance to the aisle at that moment, then did a double ta
ke and turned her trolley towards us.

  ‘Hello, Caddy!’ she said enthusiastically as she approached. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

  It took barely a minute for Mum and Sarah to turn their enthusiasm on to each other, shaking hands and introducing themselves while Suzanne and I inched closer together in bemused solidarity.

  ‘Isn’t it weird how happy they both were to see each of us?’ she muttered to me. ‘Sarah never looks as happy to see me as she did to see you.’

  Even if this was true, they both seemed to forget about us, barely noticing as we sidled off to wander the aisles together. Trust my mother to strike up a friendship among the shampoo bottles.

  ‘Do you think they’re talking about us?’ I asked.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Suzanne replied. She picked up a lemon from the box and sniffed it. ‘Waxed or unwaxed?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Isn’t the clue in the name?’ She held out two bags for me, one in each hand. I selected the unwaxed ones. ‘Have you spoken to Roz today? Did she tell you what happened in PE?’

  When I said no, she launched into a complicated story I couldn’t really follow that involved trampolines and an overenthusiastic somersault attempt. I watched her face as she spoke, searching for a trace of the previous weekend’s sadness. There was none.

  We meandered companionably around the supermarket for a while longer before finding my mother and Sarah in the frozen section. They were pushing their trolleys side by side, still deep in conversation. When they saw us, they stopped talking abruptly. Sarah looked a little guilty, while Mum wore a look of earnest sympathy. I knew this face. I called it her Samaritans Face.

  Suzanne’s cheerful expression faltered a little, clearly having spotted The Face and being all too familiar with what it meant. She shot Sarah a brief, sullen look and dropped the bags of pasta and rice she’d been holding into the trolley, which was much emptier than Mum’s.

  ‘Ready to go, love?’ Mum asked me, seemingly oblivious. She took the lemons from me and placed them on top of a packet of dishtowels.

  I nodded, watching Suzanne paste a smile back on to her face as she turned to me. ‘See you later?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe this weekend?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll text you.’ She leaned over and hugged me, which was new, but nice.

  Mum didn’t say much until we were out of the supermarket and heading towards the car. Then it began.

  ‘I had a lovely chat with Sarah,’ she said, manoeuvring the trolley around an ineptly parked car. ‘She seems like a lovely person.’ The double use of lovely meant she must really be impressed. ‘And I must say, what a saint – taking on Suzanne.’ She stopped at the car, keys already in hand, and opened the boot.

  I felt my forehead crease. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I mean, teenagers are hard enough work as it is –’ Mum shot me a pointed look at this, beginning to load the bags into the car – ‘but factor in the situation here and . . . well, it’s a lot to take on, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s probably worse for Suzanne,’ I said flatly.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mum said, only fanning my growing annoyance. ‘Take the trolley back will you, love?’

  When I returned to the car and slid into the passenger seat, clicking the seat belt into place, Mum continued where she’d left off.

  ‘I hope she’s getting regular counselling.’ She adjusted her seat and tapped her keys gently against the steering wheel. She looked at me. ‘Is she getting regular counselling?’

  ‘How would I know?’ I pulled my elbow up against the window frame and slouched a little in my seat.

  ‘There’s no need to take that tone.’ Mum reached over and straightened my seat belt, which had twisted near my shoulder. ‘I could recommend some fantastic therapists who work with teenagers. You should find out for sure.’

  Like I was really going to ask my friend if she was having counselling, for God’s sake.

  ‘OK, I’ll try,’ I said.

  ‘How does she seem to you?’ Mum asked, oblivious to my sarcasm. ‘Does she seem like she’s coping well?’

  ‘She’s fine, Mum,’ I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. ‘Can we go home now?’

  ‘I’d be surprised if that were the case,’ Mum said, making no move to put the keys in the ignition. ‘Growing up in that kind of environment, it has a profound effect. Children rarely pass through their teenage years unscathed.’

  Are you a therapist now? I wanted to say. I so wanted to say it.

  ‘And this can have a negative impact on their relationships,’ she continued. ‘I did wonder if there was something strained about how she and Sarah were with each other.’

  As opposed to what? How relaxed and open Mum and I were right this moment?

  ‘Can we please go home?’

  Mum ignored me. She was sat back in her seat, fiddling with her keys, her head tilted slightly upward, eyes on the ceiling. She seemed like she was thinking hard, and she didn’t say anything for at least a minute.

  ‘I hope you’ll be careful in your friendship with her,’ she said finally, delicately.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Damaged people—’

  ‘Mum! You can’t say things like that!’

  ‘I’m trying to be frank with you,’ Mum said, raising her hand to indicate she had more to say. ‘And yes, it is upsetting and unfair, and I certainly don’t want you using the term in front of her, but it’s important that you recognize what damage has been done to her. And what effect that could have on your friendship and the way you interact.’

  My face felt hot, and a big part of me wanted to get out of the car and bolt, just to get away from her. There was something horrible about what she was saying, and she either didn’t recognize it or just didn’t care.

  ‘My priority is you,’ Mum said. ‘I worry about what effect this will have on you. People in pain can be very self-destructive. And sometimes they pull in the people who are close to them, often without realizing.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to be on the lookout for destruction,’ I said, this time letting the sarcasm soak into my words. Mum looked at me for a moment like she didn’t know me.

  It worked though. She put the key into the ignition and turned it, finally letting the matter drop.

  By the time December rolled around, I was up to my neck in exam revision and barely had time to see my family, let alone Rosie or Suzanne. I kept in touch with both of them by text, getting so used to their respective styles that I didn’t even need to check the name any more. Rosie was full of her special brand of snarky cheer in her messages; Suzanne far more random and quick to joke. When I told her that I was revising for my Religious Studies exam, she went through a phase of messaging me with Deep And Important questions.

  Caddy, is the green grass you see the same green grass as the green grass I see?

  Caddy, would you be able to fly if you really believed you could?

  Caddy, what is life?

  Caddy, what if you’re dreaming right now? WAKE UP CADDY.

  And so on.

  On a Wednesday evening in early December I was taking a break from revising, playing an unfeasibly addictive game on my laptop, when my phone began buzzing beside me. I reached distractedly over for it, keeping one hand tapping on my keyboard. I was about a minute from a new high score.

  Fingers scrabbling, I found the answer button.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, it’s me.’

  ‘Who’s me?’ I asked. In my attempt to pick up without interrupting my game, I hadn’t even looked at the name flashing on the screen.

  There was a slight pause. ‘Me as in Suzanne?’

  ‘Oh!’ My eyes flicked automatically towards the time on my laptop – 21.57 – and that was all it took. There was a trumpet horn of doom and an unnecessarily large GAME OVER sign started pinging all over the screen. ‘Oh, dammit.’

  ‘Is this a bad time?’ Her voice was bemuse
d. ‘Was that a trumpet?’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, ignoring the second question. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’m outside.’

  ‘What do you mean, outside?’ I asked, not following this.

  ‘I mean, outside your house. Outside your window.’

  I moved my laptop off my lap and on to the floor and scrambled across the bed to look outside. Sure enough, there was Suzanne. When she saw me, she waved.

  ‘Can I come up?’

  ‘Why don’t you just use the front door?’ I asked, confused.

  ‘It’s late. I don’t want your parents to know I’m here.’

  ‘OK, but how are you going to get up here?’

  In answer, Suzanne ended the call, made a couple of pointing gestures I couldn’t decipher and then disappeared from sight. Seconds later her head appeared over the garage roof, and then the rest of her.

  I opened the window and she crawled through it, pausing to take off her shoes before sliding down on to my bed. She grinned at me. ‘Hi!’

  ‘Hello,’ I replied, trying not to laugh. ‘Nice acrobatics.’

  ‘It’s a handy skill,’ Suzanne said.

  ‘So . . . not that I’m not thrilled to see you . . .’ I began.

  ‘Obviously!’ she interrupted brightly.

  ‘Obviously,’ I affirmed. ‘But . . . why are you here?’

  ‘I had a fight with Sarah, so I just wanted some space. Just for a bit. Is it OK if I hang out here? What have you been up to tonight?’ She glanced around my room as she spoke, her eyes settling on my photo montage.

  ‘Not much,’ I started to say, but she interrupted me again, her eyes widening.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, actually saying the word. ‘That’s me!’

  She seemed so genuinely surprised and pleased that I laughed. ‘Why so surprised?’

  There was just one picture with Suzanne in it in the whole bunch; the three of us on the pier, balanced on one of the benches, posing as the no-evil monkeys. I was see, Rosie was hear, Suzanne was speak. I loved the picture so much that I’d put it up weeks ago, back when it still bothered me to share even photograph space with her.