The Colour of Broken

by Amelia Grace

  I went to the storeroom and grabbed a bucket then hightailed it back to Gram, closed the door behind me and approached her from the side. I placed it on the desk in front of her, remembering her fury when I stood in her line of vision the last time she had a vertigo episode.

  Gram blinked slowly, shaking, then vomited. Violently. Relentlessly.

  I covered my mouth with my hand. No one should ever see their grandparent like that. She eased herself back into her sitting position, her eyes still focussed on a spot on the wall.

  ‘Damn this vertigo to hell!’ Her voice was angry, low and rough. I had never heard her speak that way.

  A chill travelled down my spine and I wanted to look for a place to hide. I started to tremble. ‘I’m calling Gramps. You need to go home.’

  ‘No! I can’t move! It makes it wor—’ She vomited again. Almost choking. ‘I can’t do this anymore ... I can’t do this ... anymore.’ Her repeated words were whispered, but they bellowed through me like a freight train and hit me in the stomach, winding me.

  ‘I’ll get another bucket,’ I said, and swallowed the bile in my throat.

  ‘Do that, Yolande, but don’t you dare call Gramps! He doesn’t need to know about this.’ A tear ran down her face.

  I held my breath to stop a sob from escaping from me, and left her office. I went to the storeroom and sat on the floor and pulled my knees to my chest and rocked to and fro for a moment, then pulled my phone from my pocket and dialled a number. ‘Gramps ... it’s Gram—’

  The call went dead. He had hung up on me.

  I looked at my phone then placed it back into my pocket. I hated defying Gram. But the situation was desperate. I slowly stood, pulled myself together and found another bucket. I returned to the office where I replaced her used bucket with a clean one. Gram didn’t look at me. She didn’t talk.

  ‘Do you want me to hold your hand?’ I asked. That is what she wanted the last time she was spinning ...

  She took a deep, slow breath. ‘Not today. I just want to be alone with this beast in this damn nightmare.’

  I raised my chin and looked at her, stopping myself from ugly crying. ‘Okay ... I’ll come and check on you in ten minutes.’ I held in my sob, once again.

  ‘Make it thirty.’

  I nodded my head, not that she could see me. ‘I’ll be here.’ I took one last look at Gram staring at the wall, then left her office, with burning skin and a churning stomach. I closed the door with a faint click. In my mind, I saw Gram as the victim of the colour of black, which was like a panther, stalking its prey while it built up its appetite to devour its meal, taunting until the victim was on its knees, begging for mercy.

  I released a heavy sigh. Why couldn’t the vertigo be stopped? Surely there was a magic pill she could swallow to return her to her normal self? I looked down at my steel-capped boots—my personal protection from a physical attack. But what was there to protect a person from an attack from the inside—from your own body, or your own mind?

  I walked to Gram’s workbench. I couldn’t look at Darcy or Charlotte. That would be my undoing. I opened Gram’s order book. There was one more order to create. A bouquet for “Get Well”. Apt.

  I fumbled as I searched for a foam holder and knocked over a vase. It splintered as it hit the floorboards. I reached for the dust pan and brush and swept up the glass. But not without cutting myself. I stood and wrapped my fingers around the cut to stop the blood, feeling faint. But I didn't hold my finger tight enough. Blood ran down my finger and dripped onto the work bench. The same hand that once held another’s.

  I should never have let go of Mia’s’ hand ...

  In a mad panic to starve off a major anxiety attack that would send me running to the powder room, I searched for the adhesive bandages in a container. I reached for one and applied it to my finger, tightly—wound covered. Blood stopped. Good.

  Nausea swam in my stomach. ‘Breathe ...’ I whispered, ‘... in for a count of three, and out for a count of five ... stop,’ I said, ‘distraction.’ I finished clearing the glass on the floor and wiped the blood from the work bench. I shook my head to stop it swirling with light-headedness. This was not a good day.

  Distraction. I flicked through a florist magazine and searched for a recipe of flowers for “Get Well”. I found a pink floral arrangement that would be perfect. I headed to the cold room and collected two pink roses that had a strong fruity raspberry scent, two pink lilies that smelled of honey, two pink gerberas and three pink daisies, plus some decorative greenery. I worked with diligence cutting and placing the floral elements into the rounded foam. Then lowered them into a white ceramic container. It was ready to go. I photographed it and called a delivery service.

  I startled as Gramps flew in the back door. He stopped and glanced around the store, then he made his way to the office in haste. I followed behind, my heart trying to thump through my chest.

  He turned the door knob and pushed the door open with care while I held my breath.

  ‘Where is she, Yolande?’ Grampapa’s voice was frantic, accusing.

  My eyes widened. She was sitting in her office chair when I left her. I looked over Grampapa’s shoulder and gasped. Gram was gone. ‘She was ... I ... I—’

  Gramps turned and walked with large steps towards the powder room. I stepped in front of him and entered first, in case there were any women attending to their needs. All the doors were open except one. I looked down from the door and gasped at the sight of Gram’s legs protruding from under it.

  ‘Gram,’ I said, my voice trembling. My heart raced.

  Gramps was behind me then. ‘How long has she been here—on the toilet floor—of all places!’ He was angry, like the colour of dark red, ready to infiltrate everything around it.

  ‘Leave me be. I don’t want to move,’ Gram said. Her voice was weak.

  ‘Go get the screw driver set, Andi,’ Gramps ordered.

  I left the powder room and went to the sales desk. I pulled open the draw and picked up the screw driver set. ‘Don’t ask,’ I whispered to Charlotte, then returned to Gram and Gramps.

  I held on to the toilet door while Gramps removed the screws of the hinges. He then lifted the door off and placed it to the side. Gram was sprawled on the tiled floor, staring at one place on the tiled wall.

  Gramps ran his hand over his contorted face. ‘Fleur ... my darling ...’ His voice was tender. He grabbed her hand and kissed it.

  ‘It’s nearly finished. I can tell. The spinning’s not so furious now. If you leave me alone here for a little while longer ...’

  Gramps sat on the floor beside her, still holding her hand. ‘Yeah, well ... you’re stuck with me now. Yolande has everything under control with the store.’ Gramps gestured for two glasses of water.

  When I returned with the glasses he took them, then waved me off. I hung a “cleaning in progress” sign on the door to stop people entering. Gram most definitely would not want people seeing her this way.

  I put my hand to my chest. My heart was breaking. Not only for Gram, but for Gramps as well. I hated seeing him distressed. How could my safe, comforting grandparents, who were my pillars of strength, become shattered messes of ruins that left me standing, grappling for something to hang on to that was no longer there?

  I held in a sob and touched my scar through the top of my dress, then walked out the front of the store for some much needed fresh air. The rain had stopped and the sun had broken through the clouds. I shook my head in disbelief. What was this monster attacking Gram?

  I lifted my face to the golden sun to absorb every beam of its life-giving energy. I needed it to keep going. I felt so useless. There was nothing I could do to help Gram when she was spinning.

  When I turned to enter Flowers for Fleur, a new note in the flowers of the bicycle caught my eye. I detoured from the store entry, picked it up and opened it.

  Dear Andi,

  It’s for a loved one.

  Xander

  I closed my
eyes. Maybe this Xander did have a heart?

  Chapter Six

  Dear Xander,

  It’s from a loved one.

  Andi

  I folded the note I had just written. I didn’t get time to reply to Xander’s note yesterday after Gram’s episode. I glanced over at her. She was back at her workbench of flower imagination with collections of blooms under strict orders to take it easy. A new chair had been placed nearby so she could sit when she needed to, as well “V” buckets under the work bench, in her office and in the powder room.

  Happy that Gram was doing okay, I delivered Xander’s note to the flowers in the bicycle basket outside. Today it was an arrangement of pink carnations. My nose twitched at the spicy clove-like fragrance. I returned inside the store and stood next to Gram, on her right side, so she could hear me.

  ‘Why is Charlotte here today?’ Gram asked.

  ‘To help get on top of the mountain load of work,’ I lied. I was scrupulous with my work ethic and never left the store until I had completed every set task, and then some more. Gramps and I had decided Charlotte should be here, so I could float around the shop to keep a closer eye on Gram.

  Darcy placed two cups of tea on the work bench, his woody and spicy scent lingering, offering a feeling of protection.

  Gram covered her ears at the sound of the bone china teacups clinking, then she stilled. ‘Thank you, Darcy. Just what I need. Perfect timing, as always,’ Gram said, and gave him a small smile.

  Gram was back. She was the colour pink again, like the dark pink lipstick kiss of family—warmth, acceptance and unconditional love. My heart warmed.

  ‘You’re welcome, Mrs Lawrence,’ Darcy said, before he turned and walked back to the florist café, his woody, spicy scent leaving us.

  I picked up my teacup and wrapped my hands around it, inhaling the biscuity smell.

  ‘The storm did wonders for business yesterday,’ I said to Gram, watching as she picked up her teacup and sipped it. ‘Twelve customers asked me if we sold umbrellas.’

  ‘A valid request considering the unpredicted weather,’ Gram commented.

  ‘Yes. I found some lovely floral umbrellas on the Internet and was wond—’

  ‘Great idea, Andi. Floral ones would be a perfect addition to the store.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I ordered a few to check the quality.’

  ‘Wise. I hope they are made here and not overseas.’

  ‘That’s one of my conditions.’ I finished my cup of tea at a slow pace, savouring the taste and enjoying Gram’s light mood. ‘Let me know if you need a hand with anything,’ I said.

  ‘Shall do, my sweet!’ Gram beamed me an infectious smile. She was back. Gram was back.

  *~*~*~*~*

  The rear door buzzed. Deliveries were here. Once they were inside I placed the fresh flowers into the cold room and the other items into the storeroom.

  With eagerness, I found the carton of umbrellas and opened it. Seven floral umbrellas were there, plus two plain oatmeal -cookie-coloured ones with a wooden crook handle.

  I gathered them in my arms and took them to Gram. We looked over the floral ones for quality, then decided on a suitable price for them.

  ‘What are these ones for, dear?’ Gram asked, turning the oatmeal-cookie-coloured ones around in her hands.

  ‘I pictured a hanging unopened umbrella with flowers showing at the top of them—pink tulips actually. A bit like a door wreath I guess. I wanted to have a fiddle with a flower and ribbon design with it—if that’s okay with you.’

  Gram looked at the umbrella and closed her eyes. ‘I think I can see it too. Get those work boots moving and fetch us some tulips from the cold room!’ Gram smiled, and I disappeared from her.

  When I returned to the workbench, there was nothing but the two umbrellas laying there. I looked around and saw Gram walking about the store talking to people. I took the opportunity and worked on my flower vision. After an intense fifteen minutes I held up my umbrella wreath, pleased with the final product.

  I walked over to Gram and held them up for her to cast her scrupulous florist eye over. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Ah ... beautiful. Hang it on the French door. When it sells, you can make another one.’

  ‘Thanks, Gram.’

  I hung the door wreath on the white French door and stood back to admire my handiwork. Pleased with myself, I went back to my list of jobs and added gift tags to the floral umbrellas and took them outside to display. When I walked by Gram’s bicycle, there was another note. I removed it from the flowers and opened it.

  Dear Andi,

  Can I hire the bicycle for a day?

  Xander

  Hmmm. Persistent wasn’t he. I went inside and wrote another message to him.

  Dear Xander,

  How do I know you’ll return it?

  Andi

  I went outside and placed the note in the flowers. I looked up. Storm clouds were gathering again. I had a funny feeling those umbrellas were going to be a hot selling item.

  When I entered the store, a middle-aged woman was considering a bunch of red roses, turning them this way and that, undecided. She was the colour of viridian—a green of mixed emotions, melancholy.

  ‘They’re beautiful aren’t they. For yourself?’

  She sighed. ‘My daughter.’

  ‘Lovely. How old is she?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Birthday?’

  ‘No. It’s her menarche—the first day of her first period. The flowers are for commiserations. She’s got possibly forty frigging years of blood and pain and inconvenience. That’s 480 periods if she doesn’t have kids ... that’s 3, 360 days, or nine years and two months of leaking blood out of her vagina. No wonder we get cranky!’

  I burst out laughing. I placed my hand over my mouth, embarrassed by my reaction.

  ‘It’s also because I’m sad about it. She’s growing up. She won’t be my little girl anymore. She’ll be all secretive and boys and girlfriends and cranky instead of sugar and spice and all things nice.’

  ‘But that’s how you want her to be. She needs to find out who she is and how strong she can be, right?’

  ‘I know. But I wish she could stay my sweet girl for a little while longer ...’

  ‘With uncomplicated lives ...’ I sighed. I wished I could go back in time and change my life path. Then Mia and I would still be best friends. ‘I think you should celebrate it with a positive bent.’

  ‘I agree, hence the flowers.’

  ‘And most girls love flowers ... although, if it were me, I wouldn’t want red flowers.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Red ... blood ... it’s a reminder.’ A shiver travelled down my spine. Or perhaps it’s just a reminder for me. A reminder of the blood that dripped to the rocks below on that terrible day of the scars. I pulled the top of my dress higher over my already covered chest scar.

  ‘She loves red.’

  I winced. Memories are powerful. Associations of colour with memories are powerful.

  ‘Red roses are a declaration of love. I wouldn’t give a bouquet of red roses—just in case a future boyfriend gives her red roses and it reminds her of her first period ...’ I shrugged. ‘How about you bring her in and create whatever takes her fancy, together. It will be fun that way.’

  The woman looked at me and tilted her head to the side while she considered my words. ‘That sounds like a wonderful idea. Thank you.’

  ‘See you at 4pm then?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you will.’

  I watched as she left the store. I wondered if she would return with her daughter this afternoon. What if the daughter wanted nothing to do with celebrating becoming a woman.

  I should have just sold her the flowers.

  Red. Like blood.

  Chapter Seven

  I HIGHLIGHTED DAY TWO ON MY CALENDAR. Day two of Gram being okay. She didn’t know I was keeping a record of her health, and she didn’t need to. I was looking for
a pattern. There must have been some sort of trigger for her vertigo. Or perhaps, maybe it was viral and had run its course. I hoped it was the latter.

  I pulled Xander’s note out of my pocket. I had found it in the bicycle flowers yesterday afternoon at closing time.

  Dear Andi

  Cross my heart

  Xander

  How do I know he has a heart? And, he had no punctuation!!! Uneducated douche! His persistence was starting to irritate me. And I don’t do irritated—well ...

  I Googled persistent:

  persistent

  adjective

  1. continuing firmly or obstinately in an opinion or course

  of action in spite of difficulty or opposition.

  He was also annoying:

  annoying

  adjective

  1. causing irritation or annoyance.

  And pig headed:

  pig-headed

  adjective

  1. stupidly obstinate.

  The word obstinate came to mind:

  obstinate

  adjective

  1. stubbornly refusing to change one’s opinion or chosen

  course of action, despite attempts to persuade one to do so.

  Yes. He was all of those. He was a persistent, annoying, pig-headed, obstinate human being who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I raised an eyebrow. Had I actually said no? Literally? Guys are literal creatures, aren’t they?

  I found the floral writing paper I had been using and replied to his note.

  Dear Xander,

  No.

  I am not in the habit of hiring out

  my grandmother’s bicycle to strangers.

  Andi

  There. I had said it. No. Now he would stop. That would be the last of the note exchanges. I folded the piece of paper and took it outside to the flowers in the bicycle basket. Gram had graced the bicycle with mild earthy smelling daisies today. Pure white with a yellow centre. Simple. Like my no.

  I returned to the buzz of the flower store and a sense of relief washed over me with no more hassling about Gram’s bicycle. I looked over at Gram. She was content at the helm of her workbench, creating blooms of beauty.