The Colour of Broken

by Amelia Grace

  I looked over at Darcy. He gave me a wink and a killer smile. Everything was in motion, working smoothly as it should. I went to the sales desk in the centre of the store and took my place as the chief florist’s assistant in magical blooms that changed the perception of the giver, and the mood of the receiver. Giving flowers made anyone look good from the outside. Unless you knew their true heart. And then the flowers could become a source of bitterness ...

  ‘Flowers, tea, coffee or books?’ The words rolled off my tongue with a melodic sound like it was inborn, and like Gram had insisted upon. Perhaps I even muttered the words in my sleep by now. The middle-aged woman was dressed in black. Was she in mourning? Doubt it. She had black fingernails, lipstick, hair and thick black eyeliner, like a Goth. The colour I saw above and behind her head was purple. She was seeking the meaning of life in the future, or perhaps a reconnection.

  ‘Lavender, actually.’ Her voice sounded casual.

  I raised my eyebrows at her, surprised she didn't ask for black roses, or black tulips, black petunias, black pansies or the black iris, “Before the Storm”.

  ‘It’s for my cat,’ she elaborated.

  ‘For your cat?’

  ‘Yes. He loves it ... or ... I mean, he used to love it. He would smell it and rub his face in it ... until he ... you know ...’

  I lowered my head and frowned as my heart grew sad. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  The woman shrugged and shook her head. ‘I buried him in the garden in alkaline soil. I didn’t want an acidic soil to decompose him entirely. The lavender’s for on top of his grave.’

  ‘He’ll love that,’ I said, and gave her a small smile.

  She nodded and smiled back. ‘I’m looking forward to six months’ time when the decomposition process has ended. I’m going to dig him up. I have a plan for his skeleton ...’

  My stomach churned. ‘You do?’ I said with wide eyes.

  ‘Yes. I’m going to clean his bones, dry him out and paint his skeleton all sorts of colourful. Because that’s how he made me feel. He’ll be on display in my study.’

  I blinked three times. Then I blinked more than freaking three times again. Don’t judge ... ‘Ahhh, yes. The unconditional love of pets. Have you ever owned a dog?’ I kept my voice smooth to conceal my shock.

  ‘Once. Twice. But I prefer the independence of cats. My cat was so affectionate. He loved me. I know he did.’ The woman closed her eyes and held her breath.

  It was time to change the subject. ‘Purple lavender, pink lavender or white lavender?’

  ‘Purple. French lavender ... if you have it.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll fetch a fresh bundle of lavender from the cold room. While I do that, I need to know what you think of our fresh catnip, if you don’t mind. It’s over with the animal friendly flowers.’ I pointed to the right corner of the store where terracotta pots of cat grass, lemon grass, catnip and valerian sat on a white washed table with wooden cat art.

  ‘Sure,’ she said and wandered off.

  I scooted to the cold room and collected three bundles of fresh lavender, then returned to the sales counter. Three is a magic number. Three would look better than one. I placed them on the desk and stilled, remembering the time when Mia and I kept lavender in our pockets, stolen from my grandmother's store. We went to a party and had planned on getting kissed by a boy or two. We held the lavender over their heads and told them it was mistletoe. A small smile started to uncurl on my lips—

  ‘Beautiful. I will take all three lavenders, plus the catnip please,’ she said.

  I blinked away my memory of Mia. ‘Are you sure you want all three bundles of lavender?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing ... it’s a gift for your cat. Enjoy.’

  She wiped a tear away. ‘You’re too kind. Thank you.’ She picked up her bag of cat gifts and left. She would be back. When you showed heart, they always came back. Compassion was the key.

  I tidied the top of the desk and took the opportunity to step out of the store to check the flowers at the storefront. I lifted my face to the sun and closed my eyes. The warmth energized me at once ...

  Mia and I loved sunshiny days. We would head to the beach in our summer break. Boys. It was always about boys for her. And there were plenty of them at the beach—with their shirts off, making Mia drool. She would lay beside me and tell me which boy she wanted to marry. I would look at him, peeking over the top of my book, behind my dark sunglass disguise, while she proceeded to tell me how he would propose. Then I would give her my version of the events and add an ugly twist of fate.

  I sighed.

  I missed her. Terribly. There was no way she would marry now. And I didn’t see marriage in my future. We would never be each other’s bridesmaids, like we had promised when we were fourteen.

  Fractured dreams. Irreparable dreams...

  I gave the flowers a quick misting spray before I returned to the sales desk and jotted down the time of misting in the flower care book.

  I saw polished black shoes in my peripheral vision before a man stopped before me.

  I looked up. ‘Flowers, tea ... coffee ... or ...’ The words started to roll off my tongue with a melodic sound from the word flowers, and it was downhill all the way from there. He was not a book type of person. The man standing before me made me feel uneasy. I tensed. His colour was black—oppressive black, and sounded like someone had just hit the piano with a clenched fist.

  ‘Flowers ... to make me look good,’ he said, and threw me a mega-watt smile that reeked of deceit.

  I cringed inwardly but stood straighter, only because I had my steel-capped safety boots on. I tapped my right boot twice on the floor. ‘What’s your definition of “good”?’ I punctuated the air with inverted commas with the word good.

  ‘Oh ... you know ... kind, considerate, puts others first...’

  ‘And you don’t do those “good” things?’

  ‘Two of them sometimes, the other ... never.’

  ‘Do you prefer to be known as bad?’

  ‘Yes. I can have more fun if I’m a bad boy!’ He puffed up his chest and crossed his muscular arms.

  ‘Then ... why do you want to look good? It’s a girl, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ He unfolded his arms and put his hands into his pockets.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re being a phony by pretending to look good? What if she loves the flowers and this “good” act, but discovers the real you underneath?’

  He scowled. I had hit a sore spot. I needed to tone down the truth.

  ‘Listen, babe.’ His voice was lowered. Threatening.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. He was a monster. Just like the men on that terrible day of my scars, except, I could see his true colours from the outset.

  ‘I don’t want a lesson on morals. I want flowers. Get me a handful that will make me look good.’

  I tapped my work boot on the floor, again. Twice. He would have to choose his own “make me look good” flowers. I started to walk to a pre-made bunch of blooms, then stopped. Gram would be experienced in creating a “special” bouquet for his type.

  I turned to him. ‘I’ll organise a unique bouquet of “make me look good” flowers. It’ll work a treat ... please have a drink on us while you wait for me to make a bouquet from scratch for you. Just tell Darcy, our barista, that Andi sent you. I’ll let you know when your flowers are ready, Mr ...’

  ‘John’s the name.’

  ‘Go and enjoy, John,’ I said, and walked off the to workbench.

  I stopped beside Gram, on her right side. ‘He’s a nasty piece. He wants to look “good”. He’s such a fake. He deserves the golden rule.’

  Gram looked at me and smiled. ‘Hmm. Treat others as you shall be treated ... fake for a fake. I have the perfect bunch of flowers in mind—the white candytuft—known for its unpleasant experience if you put your nose close to it. Hmmm ... the girl would have an unappreciative reaction—�
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  ‘And his true self will come out in response. Intuition tells me he’s violent and abusive when he doesn’t get his own way, or if he’s exposed to what he really is. It’s best that we save his target now ... no woman, or man for that matter, deserves to be treated with disrespect.’ Anger boiled inside of me. I wanted to call him out for what he was.

  I sighed. A bouquet of revengeful flowers wouldn’t be good for business. Better to go about it in a clever way.

  I closed my eyes and put my palm to my forehead. ‘Gram, what if it ends badly for the girlfriend, or us? What if she gets hurt, or he returns fuelled with anger?’

  Gram stopped. ‘You’re right, Landi. Let’s play nice.’ Gram went to the cold room and returned with a variety of flowers in various shades of pink. She added sprigs of green and bound them with twine before she wrapped them in natural coloured paper and added a bow of lace.

  ‘Perfect.’ I took the bouquet of flowers to present to John.

  ‘Winning,’ he said when he saw the blooms, then stood and followed me to the counter. He threw money on the desk, took the flowers and left.

  I waited until he had walked out the door then followed him. He got into a black sports car. I memorised his number plate, just in case it ended badly for the woman.

  When I turned to enter the store the bicycle flowers caught my eye. There was a new note. Damn. He really was a persistent, annoying, pig-headed, obstinate human being who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  I removed the note and opened it up.

  Dear Andi,

  What if I become an unstranger?

  Unstranger?

  Is that like being strange and then becoming less strange, though you are still a little strange? Or does he mean known instead of unknown. Because technically he is known via the notes, but not known as we don’t have a face to the name. He sounds like a middle-aged business man trying to make an acquisition.

  I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket. I looked down at my work boots. I’m sure people thought I was strange. A girl wearing floral work dresses and steel-capped boots in a flower store ...

  I returned to the sales desk and wrote down the license plate of the car before it disappeared from my memory, IMGR8, then turned and looked at Gram. She was deep in her creative zone—imagining, designing, creating. The bicycle belonged to her. She would have the final say about whether Xander could hire her Raleigh Cruiser bicycle for the day. And I knew for a fact that she would never lend it out to anyone. She would sell the flower store and everything else before she sold her precious bicycle, and then it would only be on her deathbed.

  I opened word on the laptop computer and typed the new note. I put the floral note paper into the printer and pressed print:

  Dear Xander,

  Then you must meet Grandmother Fleur.

  Chapter Eight

  I TURNED ON THE TAP.

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—and breathe.

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—and breathe.

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—

  I knew there was no blood. I wasn’t even bleeding, but I couldn’t get the image out of my head of my blood dribbling down onto my hand before it trailed along my fingers and dropped to the rocks below, where Mia lay, twisted.

  I turned off the tap and lifted my right hand in front of my face. I turned it over and back, over and back, time and time again, checking to see that there was no blood. It was insane. I clenched my teeth together and turned on the tap again.

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—and breathe.

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—and breathe.

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—

  ‘There you are, Landi.’ My saving grace stopped beside me. Gram. I could clearly see her flowing colour of pink this morning, like cotton candy at the fair, reminding me of warm summer nights, love, laughter and fireworks. She turned off the tap and dried my hands then grabbed my left hand and led me out of the powder room. She pulled me to a table by the window and called to Darcy, ‘Two cups of tea, please.’

  Darcy gave Gram a nod. He knew the routine when I was like this, lost in a scene of reality that happened three years ago, one that I couldn’t climb out of.

  Gram sat opposite me at the reclaimed hardwood timber table. I stared at the fresh flowers that sat between us. We were in a florist store with a café attached, so of course there had to be fresh flowers adorning each of the tables. It was like an advertisement for Flowers for Fleur. I blinked. The white hydrangeas reminded me of a snowball. Anxiety swirled inside me as I remembered when I was fifteen ...

  ‘I will win today, Mia!’ I had said.

  ‘No you won’t. You never beat me in the snowball vertical tower challenge!’ she had said.

  I crouched in the snow and made twelve snowballs, then stood. I held one snowball in my hand and balanced another on top. Mia handed me the snowballs, one at a time, while I carefully added them on top of the other, trying to make a snowball tower. I was killing it today. My placement of the balanced freezing spheres was perfect, probably from all those ballet lessons I had from when I was eight. I placed the seventh snowball on top, and was about to add one more to break the record set by Mia—

  ‘Seven snowballs ...’ Mia had sung in the tune of the chef who fell down the stairs on Sesame Street, and doubled over in laughter.

  I held my breath to stop the onslaught of giggling from being set free from inside me. But it was no use, the giggle monster had been unleashed. I closed my eyes and laughed so hard I fell over, losing my tower of snowballs in the process, all except one.

  ‘Cheat!’ I said, and walloped her with my remaining snowball. I always lost, only because Mia always cheated with the Sesame Street song.

  Mia fell into the snow beside me. I looked at my best friend. ‘One day I will win. Let’s make a bet!’

  Mia looked into my eyes, her face lit with excitement. ‘Okay!’

  ‘If I win ... you will have to hi-five everyone you see at school at lunch time—no matter who it is.’

  Mia raised a single eyebrow at me. ‘You’re on ...’

  A warm hand covered mine and pulled me back to the present. ‘Close your eyes, Landi ... breathe in for a count of three ... and out for a count of five. You know how to deal with intrusive thoughts. What do you need to say?’

  I closed my eyes. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. Not here.

  ‘Stop,’ I said.

  ‘Then what?’ Gram pressed. She knew the cognitive behaviour therapy cheats as well as me.

  ‘Distraction.’ I opened my eyes as Darcy placed teacups and a teapot between Gram and me.

  ‘Go on, Landi,’ Gram said.

  I turned the teapot three times to the left, then three times to the right. It was a ritual I had watched Gram and my mother do forever. I poured Gram a cup of tea, then myself, and added milk.

  There. My intrusive thought was gone. For now. I shook my head. I knew the repetitive behaviour of trying to wash the imagined blood off my hand was completely stupid and irrational. But it always seemed so real at the time.

  ‘Sorry, Gram,’ I whispered.

  ‘It’s not me you need to apologise to.’

  ‘I know.’ I sipped my tea and looked out the window. The rain poured down casting a muted light outside. A young girl sat on a bench seat and slipped on her yellow rain boots. She beamed up at her mother. The first time I saw Mia she was on a seat just like that, 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 the mud. And so I hated the mud. The girl stopped jumping and looked at me. I held my breath, frozen.

  She walked towards me, her hand outstretched. ‘Come and play,’ she had said.

  I looked down at my pink rain boots, my clean, pink rain boots, and took her hand. 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 splattered my face, touching my poked-out tongue. I felt free. For the first time in my life.

  I closed my eyes and fell over, dizzy, straight into the mud puddle. The world kept on spinning around me. The girl fell beside me and giggled. I looked at her and giggled too. The type of giggle only eight-year-olds can have.

  ‘Yolande!’ My mother’s angry voice threaded between the raindrops. I was in trouble.

  ‘I’m Mia,’ she said when I stood, and rubbed the mud from her eyes.

  ‘Mia,’ I repeated, and ran off.

  ‘Yolande,’ Gram said, bringing me back to the present. ‘You know you can’t change it.’

  I put my teacup down. What I would give to go back in time and never to have jumped in the puddles with Mia. To never have met her. To never have become best friends.

  ‘Gram ... do you think we have control of our lives, or has it already been laid out before us, and we’re just going through the motions?’ I asked. Gram was wise and knowing.

  She raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Look out the window at the people, Landi. Are they deciding what to do next. Or are they like robots, and have no choice in the matter?’

  I looked out the window and watched. Gram was right. We chose what to do, and you dealt with the consequences of your own choices, or another’s choices. Good or bad.

  I looked back at Gram. ‘If Mia and I weren’t friends, do you think it still would have happened to her?’

  Gram didn't answer me. Her silence sparked a wave of anxiety inside me and my body tensed.

  ‘Yes,’ she finally said. But her words didn’t make it any better for me. ‘Look forward, Landi, not backward. You ca—’

  ‘Can’t change the past,’ I finished. I’d heard it a million times.

  ‘Imagine if we could choose one thing to change in the past ...’ Gram said.

  I gave Gram a sad smile. I knew exactly what I would change. Somehow my heart felt lighter. ‘Would the world be better for everyone then, Gram? Or would we keep making the same mistakes?’