The Other Side of Blue (15 page)

Mother dares to speak of last year.

“They have fish and chips,” I say, pointing to the children's menu. Dad liked to go to fancy restaurants and order fried food. It was something he and Mother argued about.

“Fried food should be outlawed.” Mother slips off her reading glasses, the rectangular ones, and folds them next to her plate.

After the waiter returns with our drinks, paper umbrellas propped against the glass rims for show, he takes our order. Mother and Kammi choose the mango fish. I ask for grilled fish with lemon, but with French fries.

Mother's smile stays tight, but she doesn't change my order for me.

While we wait for the food to arrive, I stare at the candelabras on the bar across the room. They are huge, ornate, as if someone stole them out of a cathedral. They look out of place here, in a restaurant with simple pale blue walls, cobalt trim, and white curtains.

“Are you going to do Mrs. Bindas's show?” Kammi asks, breaking the silence.

Mother shrugs. “I'd rather not. But I feel obligated. The Bindases have been nice to us for the last couple of years.”

“I think it would be fun.” Kammi dips a straw into her lime-colored drink.

“That's because you're just getting started.” Mother gives Kammi hope with that sentence, that she thinks Kammi may have artistic abilities. Kammi grins.

“What was it Philippa said? About workshops?” I ask, knowing the answer.

Mother has to acknowledge I've said something. “Workshops provide income but no inspiration.”

“I'd think it would be inspiring, helping people learn how to paint,” Kammi says.

“Some people teach and then they have nothing left for their own art,” Mother says, her voice harder than I bet she intends.

“Philippa's managing to do both.” At least, that's what the postcard suggested—Philippa with her work for hire, but also with inspiration as large as Venice.

Mother's head jerks. “Ah, yes, Philippa.” She says her name as if it is a sour fruit.

“Philippa. She was your favorite, wasn't she?” Kammi asks. I know she wants to be Mother's next protégé. How convenient that she will live with us. Philippa practically did toward the end.

The waiter brings our food, and Mother doesn't answer while he's jostling around us. When he finally leaves, I'm expecting her to change the subject.

But she twists a piece of bread in half and says, “Her passion. That's why she was my favorite.”

Kammi wrinkles her forehead.

“She was willing to sacrifice anything for her art,” Mother says. “Almost anything.”

“Like what?” I ask. Philippa didn't seem like the sacrificing kind. She sometimes went to Italy to paint during the summers. She spoke Italian with Dad when she and Mother painted; I could hear them in the studio. She wore vintage clothes from an expensive boutique near campus.

Mother looks over as if she forgot I'm sitting here.

“Friendship.” Mother butters her bread. “Happiness, even.”

“How can art make you do that?” Kammi says.

“It makes you think of things you shouldn't,” Mother answers. An honest answer, I can hear it in her voice. Something I haven't heard from her in a long time. I wonder what she means.

The waiter comes back to check on us. The moment is over, and we talk about things like the fish, how artful it looks on the plate, trimmed with bright fruits. I squeeze lemon over mine and devour the taste.

We skip dessert. Mother and Kammi say they're too full.

 

Outside, Mother speaks to the taxi driver. He agrees to meet us at the pottery store, a few blocks away, close to the import shoe shop. Tourists and locals alike crowd the sidewalk—I hear Dutch, Spanish, and Papiamentu. English, too.

At the shoe store, the assistant makes a beeline for Mother. She enters a business that way, demanding to be served without saying a word.

“Hiking shoes?” she asks.

The man, his face a question, repeats what Mother has said, as if he's sure he misheard.

“Hiking shoes, for the girls.” Mother waves toward us.

“
Claro,
” the man says, beaming. Somehow he knew the hiking shoes couldn't be for my mother.

He carefully measures Kammi's feet, produces a perfect hiking shoe with the first pair he brings out from the back room. She walks around on the carpet, flexing and pointing her feet one by one. She smiles.

“Now,” he says, looking at my feet.

“Sports sandals, that's what I want,” I say. “Not boots.” I hate the idea of my feet being closed in. Even the thought of pebbles getting under my feet doesn't bother me as much.

Mother walks over, picks up a hiking boot off a shelf. “Are you sure—”

“Yes.” I don't give in.

The man waits a second, but Mother doesn't respond.

“I have just the thing,” he says, and he disappears into the back again.

The sandals fit. I pull the webbed straps close and secure them with Velcro. The rugged bottoms are ridged to grip the trail.

The taxi driver is parked right outside the pottery store when we walk up. He takes our packages and gets back in the car to wait for us.

Tourists cram the pottery store. A cruise ship has had engine problems, a clerk tells Mother, so the tourists have extra time for shopping. The clerk tucks a stray hair behind her ear, then dashes off to help a woman with a nasal Midwestern accent select local pottery. Mother rolls her eyes, but Kammi doesn't seem to notice. She holds her flower purse tight and marches up and down each aisle, every once in a while picking up a small bowl or plate, then putting it back on the shelf. Just before Mother starts to look at her watch, Kammi heads straight back to the first aisle and chooses two small bowls, which will be easy to pack and won't take up much room in her perfect suitcase. Each bowl is a rich brown with streaks of red bursting from the center outward. The sign says the design is called “Carnival.”

“My mom likes brown and red together,” Kammi says.

Blood and earth, I'm thinking. That's what those colors mean. Not chocolates and cherries.

On the ride back, Kammi holds the pottery package close on her lap. Mother doesn't speak, and neither do I. The air between us feels so heavy, not even Kammi speaks again, and the taxi driver turns up the jazz station on the radio as if to stir the air inside the car.

 

June 23 comes and goes, with no answers. Aside from the quiet moments in the boathouse, we didn't talk about the anniversary. We stalked the topic all day, never closing in. Mother and I were just like the lizards that circle each other sometimes on the wall of the house.

After Mother retreats upstairs and Kammi goes to her room, I open the French doors and sit on the deck. I almost believe that if I walked out onto the beach, I'd see the
bonfires they lit that night, brighter than those from the Bindases' cookout. The sea beyond the white curve of phosphorescence along the shore is solid darkness.

The door to the widow's walk creaks open. That's all I hear, but I know Mother is there above me, alone in the dark. After I go inside, I close the door to my room, which is nestled against the back wall of the house, farthest from the sea. From here I can't even hear the waves.

A year, and I'm still hoping for clues.

What can Mayur know?

E
XACTLY
at seven on Saturday morning, Dr. and Mrs. Bindas arrive to pick up Kammi and me. Martia gives us each a backpack stuffed with snacks and a bottle of water. “Just in case,” she says. Kammi struggles to fit in a portable watercolor board and her small case of paints.

The sun is already glaring at us when we step outside. The air smells dry and hot, as if we're not close to the sea.

Mother follows us to the SUV. She glances at my feet. I'm wearing the sports sandals, though I was tempted not to. I stashed a pair of flip-flops in my backpack for later.

Mrs. Bindas sits in the passenger seat. She presses the button to lower the window. From the driver's seat, Dr. Bindas holds his hand up to greet Mother. Very formal. “Good morning, Mrs. Walters,” he says clearly, without
emotion. Like he was at the beach party, he's proper, distant. Is that a trait of doctors in general or only of this doctor, because of who he is—or because of whom he declared dead on the beach? Whenever he sees Mother, he must see himself standing on the beach, still dressed in his fine clothes from a party, touching the white, white skin of a dead man he'd invited for cocktails or a dip in the pool that same week.

“No worries,” he says as he unlocks the back, and I open the door. Kammi pulls herself in, lugging her pack behind her. I swing in after her and slam the door shut.

“The girls, they will be very safe,” Mrs. Bindas says.

Mother looks past Mrs. Bindas to her husband, perhaps to confirm. Mother must have visions of Kammi sliding off a steep trail and landing in a ravine, where no one can reach her. She must worry that Howard will think she's been negligent and killed his only daughter. Maybe he'll think she's a dangerous widow, a woman who kills those closest to her. Maybe he'll break of the engagement.

“I've been on the trail many times before. At all times it is well marked,” Dr. Bindas says.

“Where are the others?” Kammi asks. She means the boys—one boy, especially.

“The boys are still getting organized. They stayed up very late.” Dr. Bindas frowns.

Mrs. Bindas turns in her seat and smiles at us, a big swept-up smile, just like her hair, though today she has tucked her
hair under a red and gold scarf. She looks like a bright bird. “You will see. They are very interested to be going. After breakfast, I'll leave them to hike with Dr. Bindas.”

Kammi smiles.

Kammi and I wave at Mother as we pull out. That is what families do.

Dr. Bindas swings the car wide into the shell driveway at their house, spewing shells onto the green lawn for the gardeners to pick out. Mayur and the other boys spill from the house, jostling each other, racing to see who will be last out. Mayur, since it's his parents' vehicle, steps to the SUV first, then flips the seat so that the others—Saco and Loco and Roberto—can climb into the far back. Mayur claims his spot by the window, slams the heavy door. The houseboy closes the gate behind the SUV, but he continues to stare after us. I look back at him until he sees me and turns away.

“Kammi, Cyan, you remember Saco?” Mrs. Bindas twists in her seat, waves toward the back of the SUV. Kammi smiles and flashes a glance backwards, too, then faces the front again. She barely seems to have looked, but I see from her face that she knows exactly where Saco's sitting. If she looks in the rearview mirror, she'll be able to stare right into Saco's eyes. Mayur isn't paying attention, not even to Kammi. He unknots and reties a climbing rope, even though no one mentioned climbing. We're supposed to be hiking only. Mayur is just showing off, as usual.

 

Dr. Bindas pulls off the road to Christoffel National Park, stopping at a restaurant tucked in a grove of divi-divi trees bent seaward. The boys run ahead and stake out two tables on the porch. They jockey for position, fighting over who will have the outer seats.

“Boys,” Dr. Bindas calls after them as he walks ahead of Mrs. Bindas, Kammi, and me. Either they don't hear him or they're ignoring him. Kammi and I follow Mrs. Bindas, who doesn't seem to notice the boys, or the frown from the café owner, who pops outside at the noise.

“Girls, please to sit here?” Mrs. Bindas smiles as a waiter comes over and wipes off a table and chairs with a towel.

“Yes, ma'am,” Kammi says, though I notice her look over to see where Saco is sitting.

I join her, though I want to get closer to the table where the boys are, too; closer to Mayur and his promise of information, whatever it is. He has his back to us, and I wonder if he did that on purpose, sat facing away. He knows I'm curious, that I can't help myself. He isn't going to make it easy. Typical Mayur.

The waiter comes with extra help and they quickly feed us a hearty meal of eggs and confetti rice. Mrs. Bindas's driver comes to pick her up, and then the boys, Kammi, and I pile back into the SUV. Dr. Bindas puts it into drive, and we head toward the mountain in the distance.

 

Inside the park, Dr. Bindas drives past the first trailhead parking lot.

“The longer hike,” he says.

“Yes, not the girls' hike,” Mayur says, and the other boys laugh.

“Boys,” Dr. Bindas says, drawing the word out. “The hike we're going on is even more scenic. We go right to the top.”

Saco taps Kammi's pack. “What's in here?”

“My art supplies,” she says quietly.

“What for?” Mayur asks. This is his hike. He wants everyone's undivided attention.

“I want to paint something for my dad,” she says.

My chest twinges when she says that, it's so unexpected. I thought she'd say she's practicing for Mother. Somehow, that would be less painful than the answer she gives to Saco.

“And you?” Loco asks.

“No, I'm here to hike.” And to talk to Mayur. I don't bother to explain that I don't paint. I stare at the scenery.

“But your mother expects you to paint?”

“No, she doesn't.” She prefers that I not. She wants to keep the art for herself, to tell me what art is and isn't.

“Do you know how tall Mount Christoffel is?” Dr. Bindas asks, his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.

The boys guess among themselves.

“More than three hundred meters,” Roberto finally says.

Dr. Bindas laughs. “But how much more?”

“Three hundred and seventy-four,” Kammi pipes up.

“Excellent!” Dr. Bindas smiles into the rearview mirror.

I grin. The information must have been on the cruise-ship tourist map.

“Three hundred is close enough,” Mayur mumbles.