The Colour of Broken Read online

  ‘There’s blood?’ Gram’s eyebrows furrowed. She had always noticed everything.

  ‘Yes ... and glass ... you’re not well are you, Gr—’

  ‘I’m fine!’ Her words were curt and thumped me in the chest. This woman before me was not my grandmother! Gram was always kind and considerate. Beautiful. Inside and out. She was always the colour of pink, overflowing with love. But she had suddenly changed. She was now red. Dark irritated red.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Should we call the police about the blood, and perhaps a possible attempted break and enter?’ I cleared my throat again to stop myself from melting into another panic attack at the thought of blood.

  ‘I need to lie down. Do whatever you like?’ she said, her voice lacking its usually vibrant energy.

  Do whatever I like? No—no—no! My heart ached. Where did my grandmother go? Normally she would have fired off instructions left, right and centre and the entire saga would be dealt with in an instant and forgotten.

  Gram kept her head still and turned, slowly, her hands splayed out in the air like she was walking on a tight rope. I watched her as she took slow steps across the store, past the sales desk, and turned left into her office.

  My heart cried. How can an active, deliriously happy, loving and flamboyant woman change into a flat, emotionless person in an instant? Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  My throat choked up. I looked over at Darcy. He was behind the coffee machine, polishing it. He made eye contact with me, then pressed his lips in a hard line and shook his head. My eyes burned.

  ‘I’ll have an Irish Coffee thanks, Darcy,’ I called.

  ‘At six in the morning?’ He raised a sardonic eyebrow at me.

  ‘You’re right. Just give me the whiskey! I’ll have the coffee later.’ I sighed. I walked over to him and leaned on the counter. He smelled woody and spicy at once, making me feel safe.

  ‘She only speaks to you like that. She puts on a brave performance for the rest of us.’ Darcy looked up at me and raised his eyebrows as he poured a whiskey.

  ‘Lucky me,’ I said, my voice monotone. I lifted the glass to my lips. I felt the whiskey heat the back of my throat as I swallowed it, then it bloomed in my chest.

  I closed my eyes and let out a deep breath. None of this situation was fair. Firstly, Gram was unwell, and secondly, I had to take leave from my career to help keep the blooming flowers alive! Perhaps I should give them the kiss of death with my blood, just like ...

  I brushed my hand over my forehead. ‘Hold the fort while I clean up the evidence to who knows what happened out the front.’ The liquid courage of the whiskey was warmly welcomed by my highly anxious self. Self-medication.

  ‘Sure,’ Darcy said, watching me with cautious eyes.

  I turned on the heel on my steel-capped work boots and went to collect the hydrogen peroxide, detergent and a broom.

  *~*~*~*~*

  The blood led off in a trail. I followed it, looking but not looking, until it stopped at the curb. I pursed my lips and breathed through the nausea, then followed it back to the entrance of the store, looking but not looking. I peered at the closed sign on the door. It was red, like blood. And like the blood that once ran down my body and pooled at my feet. The blood that once dripped off my hand and landed on the side of my best friend’s face.

  I shuddered and looked through the glass windows at the flowers to distract my mind to stop another anxiety meltdown. There, on Gram’s workbench, were long-stemmed roses. Red. Like blood. Except ... someone was in love. Why did red roses signify love?

  I cleared my throat and poured the mixture of cleaning fluids onto the trail of blood, looking but not looking. At least that way I couldn’t see the red colour anymore. I leaned into the broomstick and scrubbed. Hard.

  After fifteen minutes I stopped and wiped the perspiration from my forehead. Not a trace of life-giving bodily fluid remained on the pavement, nor any glass. I hoped no one had died from their injury. I shuddered as the image of my best friend’s hand flickered through my mind. It was covered in blood. My blood. I grimaced, picked up the cleaning products and entered the store.

  I slowed my step when I saw Darcy standing outside Gram’s office door. ‘Can I get you anything, Mrs Lawrence?’

  The sound of muffled retching slithered under the door of her office. Darcy hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

  ‘Please ... call ... Mr Lawrence.’ Gram’s broken words came between sobs.

  I rushed to the storeroom, off-loaded the cleaning implements, and ran to Gram’s office. I touched Darcy’s arm, ‘Call Grampapa, please. And I’ve got this now. Thanks.’

  Darcy ran his hand through his hair and frowned, then turned and walked to the café serving counter and picked up the phone.

  I hesitated before I pushed on the door and entered with caution, leaving it slightly ajar. My heart dropped. Gram was on the floor, lying on her side. Vomit was pooled in front of her.

  She stared straight ahead, keeping her body still. Like death. A memory flash tore through me and I held my breath, then I remembered Mia moving her arm, and I breathed again.

  I hurried towards Gram and kneeled in front of her. ‘Gram,’ I whispered, panic seizing me.

  ‘Get out of my line of sight ... NOW!’ she yelled.

  I gasped and moved as fast as I could.

  Gram vomited. Violently.

  I put my trembling hand over my mouth. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered.

  ‘Please ... just hold my hand ... take my hand,’ Gram said, her voice barely audible.

  ‘But I need to clean up the floo—’

  ‘I don’t care about the floor! Please ... just ... take my hand.’ Gram started sobbing. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. ‘Are you spinning, Gram? Is that what’s making you sick?’

  ‘Yes ... the room is spinning around me and it won’t stop ... it’s so fast, Landi, anti-clockwise ... so very fast ...’ Gram’s lips turned pale and she started to perspire. I shut my eyes at the sound she made before she vomited hard, once again.

  The door swung open and I looked up. Grampapa stood there, his mouth open. He moved quickly and kneeled behind Gram with a gentleness. ‘Fleur, my darling. How long have you been on the floor this time?’

  This time? How many times had Grampapa found her like this?

  ‘It feels like forever ... please ... make it stop! I can’t do this anymore! I don’t want to keep spinning for three hours.’ Gram’s voice was low and rough, not at all the gentle and warm voice we knew.

  I looked at Gramps. He caught his own convulsive cry with his hand over his mouth.

  I shook my head. This ... this scene ... was heartbreaking. Grampapa was always incredibly strong and calm. Nothing made him cry. Ever. I held my breath while I watched him. He was beyond anguished.

  I watched as he took a shaky, deep breath, then started to sing. Perhaps it was his way to soothe Gram when she was in the midst of a vertigo attack. And, I suspected, to soothe his breaking heart. His glorious tenor voice filled the room, and the flower store. I looked down as Gram sobbed—loud, ugly sobs that made the world a dark place.

  And I ran. I weaved my way through the flower store, my heavy steel-capped work boots protesting against the floor, waking the flower buds from their intense sleep of peace.

  I rushed out the back door, leaned against the brick wall and squeezed my eyes shut. Watching Gram suffer was unbearable. And I hated it with every fibre of my being. If she was an animal, I thought, they would’ve euthanised her by now.

  The back door squeaked and Grampapa’s singing oozed outside. Ave Maria.

  I glanced at Darcy as he walked towards me. He stopped before me and winced. ‘I’m sorry, Andi, but customers will be here soon. We must keep going ... for your gram.’ He reached up and pulled the top of my dress over the scar on my chest.

  I sucked in a short breath and pressed my hand over my long, ugly scar. My scar of violence. My forever
reminder.

  Damn this dress style Gram had chosen as a uniform! I hated it!

  I swallowed hard. ‘Sure. Just give me a moment.’ I turned my face away from him. I hated that he knew I had a scar on my chest. Did he know how it came to be? Had Gram told him anything about it? Did he know where it stopped on my chest?

  Darcy placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘She’s lucky to have you.’ He turned, opened the back door and walked into the store. The sound of Grampapa’s voice flowed out, reminding me of the trauma happening behind the closed office door.

  I straightened my back and caught the tear on my eye lashes. I had a mountain of jobs to do, and thanks to the blood on the pavement and my panic attack, I was way behind.

  I opened the back door to the sound of Grampapa’s classically trained operatic voice, walked to Gram’s workbench of flower imagination and called out to Darcy, ‘Tea, if I may ...’

  Darcy gave me a crooked smile and a nod. He was a good man. He was now the colour of brown instead of sky blue; brown like warm chocolate: delicious, welcoming, calming and satisfying. He was reliability and comfort personified.

  I have, what some people would call a peculiarity, except, I don’t call it that—I call it a gift. I see people as colours. Metaphorically. I have the uncanny ability to assign a colour to a person based on my intuition, or observation of their behaviour or words. When I look at a person, I don’t just see a body; I see a body with a colour, like a mist above and behind their head. That colour is never set; it can change, depending on their emotion and mood.

  My gift has been my beacon of safety since I was seven. Except once, just once, I was fooled by it, or rather by the effect of alcohol that changed their colour, and my life ...

  I opened Gram’s order book. There were nine orders due to be created and delivered this morning before I processed and cut the new flower arrivals, and arranged fragrant floral bouquets to display outside the store.

  I pulled the top of my dress up to cover my chest scar, irritated and unsure of my ability to become an insightful and successful “florist”. For Gram.

  Darcy placed a teacup and saucer onto the recycled timber workbench. He had added a heart-shaped chocolate. I choked-up, then walked around the workspace and pulled him into a hug. ‘Thank you. Your kindness is beautiful.’

  He stepped back from me and nodded. He was one of those quiet observative types. A good problem solver. He’d kick the arse of any psych doctor.

  With the sound of Grampapa’s voice filling the flower store, I smoothed down my apron, checked that my scar was covered, and got on with the pre-opening duties.

  *~*~*~*~*

  At least she had put the flowers into the bicycle basket this morning, I thought, when I placed the final bucket of flowers onto the white-washed ladder outside the store. She was fanatical about it. The day wasn’t right unless there were flowers in the bicycle basket!

  “This is our florist signature, Andi. It’s not

  Flowers for Fleur without flowers in the bicycle basket!”

  I had heard those words one hundred and one times. Probably more. I smiled and looked at her flower choice for today. The new rose colours were exquisite—pale pink with a tinge of light orange. I touched my nose to a rose bud and inhaled with high expectation, but was sorely disappointed. No fragrance. I pulled a sad face, then frowned when I saw a torn-off, folded, brown piece of paper that had been pushed in between the floral arrangement, barely noticeable. I pulled it out and opened it.

  Dear Flowers for Fleur,

  How much is the bicycle?

  I would like to acquire it.

  The name and phone number was washed out. I raised my eyebrows. Fat chance the person had of “acquiring” Gram’s bicycle. It was a family heirloom. And I was seventh in line to get it. Fat chance I had of “acquiring” Gram’s bicycle as well! I tucked the note into my pocket. I would write a reply, on a nice piece of floral paper, and leave it in the basket for the person tomorrow.

  Grampapa’s singing continued. And when the doors opened at 8.30am, he was still singing. My chest ached. For Gram.

  I watched the customers as they entered the store. They slowed their walk when they heard Grampapa’s operatic voice, listened and then smiled, before they continued. The café was buzzing with people, drawn in from the streets of Tarrin. Pre-made flower bouquets were a hot item, as well as tea and coffee. Was it because of Grampapa’s well known tenor voice?

  At 10am, the singing stopped. It was a sign that Gram’s vertigo had stopped. Gramps poked his head out the door. ‘Any customers, Andi?’ he asked quietly.

  I looked around. There was the lull in customers after the morning rush.

  ‘Only five, in the café,’ I said.

  ‘I’m taking Gram home ... I don’t want anyone to see her this way.’

  I looked around again. ‘You’re good to go.’ I frowned as my throat tightened. I didn’t want Gram to suffer anymore.

  Within a minute, Grampapa opened the door wide. He disappeared and returned with Gram in his arms. Her hand was over her eyes and she looked washed out and ragged, like she had run a marathon. I held my breath while Gramps walked to the rear exit of the store, then rushed over and pushed the door open and followed him to the car.

  I opened the passenger door and Gramps placed Gram onto the seat carefully, like she was a piece of fine china—precious and breakable. He secured her seat belt before he took quick steps around to the driver’s side of the car.

  Gram kept her hand over her eyes. She didn’t even acknowledge me. She was crying, softly, and my heart broke at the tragic sound.

  Gramps hesitated before sitting in the car. He looked at me. ‘I’ve cleaned Gram’s office. Everything is in a rubbish bag. Put it in the bin and place some peonies in the room for when she returns.’

  I placed my hand over my weeping heart and watched as Gramps drove off. Life sucks. Why do bad things happen to good people?

  I twisted my fingers together and held back my tears, then returned to the store with my happy-face mask. No one would see the sadness underneath. I had perfected it in the months after that day of the terrible scars.

  I stopped mid-step when I saw Charlotte standing behind the sales desk. She always came in at short notice if we needed extra hands on deck. She reached up and retrieved her apron then turned to me. ‘Mr Lawrence called me in.’ She shook her head and sadness fell over her beautiful face. ‘I’m sorry your gram isn’t well.’

  ‘Me too. Whatever it is, she’ll recover soon. I’d say it’s just an ear thing. Antibiotics will help.’

  I walked over to the workbench. I ran my hand over the smooth timber. It was handmade by Gramps from recycled timber forty years ago. This is where Gram collected her creativity and put amazing bouquets of flowers together. Flowers for Fleur was the store to go to for blooms. Gram had worked hard to build a remarkable reputation over the last fifty years.

  Hmmm ... the township of Tarrin. It was an interesting place. It was also where I was born, twenty-five years ago. It had a country town feel to it, but was a hive of activity like you would find in a metropolitan area. There was nothing but locally owned shops, plus one tallish building that was fifteen storeys high: a grand hotel. Weird.

  The township was designed in the shape of a square with a splendid park in the middle, and was central to places that branched out from it—a hospital, a large university, two massive housing estates, a police station, two schools, a creative arts precinct with a massive performance theatre, as well as a community hall. Each of those places were fifteen minutes’ drive from the town centre. And it was always bursting with visitors.

  Tarrin was strange in an indefinable way. It seemed to be a little bit “more” of everything—more sunny, more rainy, more hot, more cold. The sky was more blue and the plants were more green, the flowers more colourful. It was like you had stepped inside a bubble of heightened awareness of the space around you.

  And it was never dull in Flowers for Fleur.
All types of people came in for flowers, frequently, which is odd. Perhaps Gram imbued the flowers with a magical alluring potion ...

  I opened Gram’s “Orders and Deliveries” book and ran my finger down the list.

  Darcy placed a café latte on the workbench for me.

  I looked up from the book. ‘Grazie,’ I said, inhaling the heavenly aroma of the coffee beans. ‘But whiskey would’ve been better ...’ I was going to be busy for the entire day. But first, I had to do a crash course in flower arranging.

  ‘Perhaps, but you don’t want to look like Gram when she’s having one of her attacks.’ Darcy inclined his head to me.

  I stilled. He was right. Gram did look somewhat drunk if she tried to walk while she was spinning, which, most of the time, she could not.

  *~*~*~*~*

  My fingertips touched the switch to turn off the lights for the day. I remembered the reply note I had to write to the unknown hopeful purchaser of Gram’s bicycle.

  I returned to the workbench and cut off a piece of delicate floral paper to write on. I would put the note in the fresh flowers of the bicycle basket early tomorrow morning.

  Dear ?

  The bicycle is not for sale.

  Regards,

  Andi

  Chapter Four

  THE MULBERRY-COLOURED 1950s Raleigh Cruiser bicycle leaned against the antique white storefront of Flowers for Fleur. The peonies in the front basket beamed their colourful happiness at everyone who ventured past. I leaned towards them to smell their scent—spicy and citrusy. The bicycle was a good sign. Gram was back. Whatever had made her ill must have gone. Maybe she had a bad case of food poisoning?

  I pushed on the French doors and entered. Grampapa’s singing filled the shop. I’m certain his voice made the plants grow better!

  ‘Landi, good morning!’ Gram said, her voice as bright as the new day. ‘Did you see the Anna’s Hummingbird flitting around the blue sage? Such a delightful creation.’

  I took quick steps over to her, my work boots thumping on the floor with each step. I gave her a hug. ‘Yes. I saw and heard the hummingbirds. Plural. Amazing! How are you feeling today?’ Gram was the colour of fuscia this morning, like helium filled balloons at a pink birthday party infused with wishes, then released to freedom with happiness and expectation, rising above the hollow dramas of the earth.