The Other Side of Blue (19 page)

Mayur groans. “Can we just say she slipped on the trail?” He refers to me as if I'm not standing there, as if we didn't touch in the cave.

“You mean not tell Dr. Bindas what happened?” Kammi's mouth drops open.

“It might be best,” I say as I look down at my dirty arms and scraped skin. I don't want to disappoint Dr. and Mrs. Bindas. I don't want to tell Mother what happened. “Except I'm covered in mud.”

“There's a stream back there. We can say you fell near it,” Loco says.

“And that you slid, and we had to pull you up with the rope.” Mayur's into his story. I wonder if he knows my fantasy earlier of pushing him off the trail.

I
N THE END
, we tell Dr. Bindas everything. Well, not everything. Just about the forbidden cave and my fall. As soon as Kammi mentions my accident, Dr. Bindas goes into medical mode. Making me lie down, he even forgets to be angry, forgets that he yelled at us, shaking his cell phone in his hand as if he tried to call us. He checks my pulse and my eyes to see if I have a concussion. He feels both arms and legs, searching for breaks. These are injuries he can do something about.

Satisfied I'm mostly okay, he stands and helps me up.

“We're walking down now. Boys, single file. In front of me, so I can see you.” Dr. Bindas is starting to act angry again; I can hear it in the way his voice darkens now that the panic is over.

We walk slowly, stopping every fifteen minutes to make sure I'm okay. I don't mind. My whole body is becoming so sore, I can't walk any faster. Dr. Bindas makes Mayur carry my ruined pack. Martia won't be able to get it clean again.

Mayur and I don't talk about why I ran and fell. Some secrets are best kept.

Once when we stop, Kammi asks me what happened, what Mayur told me. She holds her watercolor in front of her so it doesn't smudge.

“There was a note.”

With her free hand, Kammi squeezes my arm. She thinks I mean a suicide note. “It's not that, not what you think.” I'll tell her the rest later—some of it, anyway.

 

Mother's waiting when Dr. Bindas drives up to the house in the SUV. All the boys sit in the back, quiet as shadows. I don't remember Dr. Bindas calling her, but he must have. She doesn't react when he explains to her in a low voice what happened, or when I wince getting out of the vehicle. She stands there stiff, her face stone. No hysterical mother blaming the boys. She doesn't even speak to Kammi, though I know she's relieved Kammi isn't the one hurt. Mother just wants to get us all back to the U.S. safely. When she looks at me, can she see that I know about Philippa? I wonder how much she knows. Or whether she can see that a boy has touched me.

As soon as the Bindases drive away, Martia takes charge, helping me to my room. She spoils me. All the coconut treats
I can eat, until I feel sick. Then she flutters around, checking my eyes again to make sure I don't have a concussion.

“Your mother, she worry about
mala cabeza.
Your head ache.”

“It doesn't hurt,” I lie. But it's not that bad, just a dull ache.

Kammi hangs out on my bed, thumbing through art magazines.

“Why don't you show Mother your painting?” Since the day Kammi arrived, she's wanted to win Mother's approval.

“Maybe later.” She says she stuck it in her closet, to hide it.

 

In the evening, Martia brings me chicken soup. Kammi spoons rice into the bowl to thicken the broth. She shakes her head, though, when Martia offers her a bowl. She holds up a piece of bread. “Not really hungry.” As if she's the one who fell, not me.

After Martia leaves, Kammi leans closer. “What about the note?”

I inhale the warm scent of soup, its hint of lime. I remember the way the darkness smelled, and I think of the note on the cave bottom, where no one will find it before the fragile paper disintegrates.

“It wasn't a suicide note,” I say.

Kammi waits, her head cocked, expecting me to say more. Maybe I will someday, but not now. I don't want to
tell her about my father and Mother's student. “It was a love note.” That's all I say, not who it was from or for. I let her think what she will.

Mother knocks on the door, and Kammi backs away from me, blushing, as if she's been caught in a lie.

“Come in,” I say.

“I didn't know you were here,” she says to Kammi.

“Just visiting.” Kammi sits very straight on the bed. I imagine her trapped between us like a rabbit between two cats, hoping that by freezing she'll escape notice.

“Martia says you're feeling better,” Mother says. “I wanted to see for myself.” She doesn't come any closer to the bed.

I make myself answer. “Yes. Better.”

We haven't talked about how we feel in a long time.

“You frightened me. Both of you. Taking a risk like that,” she says. “Following those boys into the cave. After what's happened.”

After Dad happened, she means. But she still can't say it. After he slid under the dark water and didn't resurface. For a second, I can't breathe for remembering the cave, the blackness.

“We shouldn't have.” Kammi uses “we” and speaks for both of us. She takes the blame when I'm the one who talked her into going. Kammi is like that.

“You're both all right. That's what matters.” Mother says “both” but she looks right at me, looks at me in a way she hasn't for the past year. It's the most she's said since Dr. Bindas delivered us back to
Blauwe Huis.

I open my mouth to say yes or something, but nothing comes out. Instead, I nod.

“I'll let you rest,” she says. “Maybe, Kammi, you'll come with me. I see you're reading the article on color theory. I can show you more about that.”

Before Mother even finishes speaking, Kammi has scooted of the bed and out the door. Mother closes the door behind her, and I hear it click softly. I close my eyes and let my bones sink into sleep.

 

The next day, I'm up again.

When I hear Mother in the kitchen with Martia, I dare to sneak upstairs into the inner sanctum. Bolder than ever, I have to see the painting. It's still there, protected from view, but this time I can tell it's closer to being finished. It's not just the blue boat now; there are figures seated in it. Two people, I'm not sure who, but one is a man and one a woman. The faces are turned away at an angle, as if the artist can't quite make them out herself. Could it be Mother in the boat with Dad? Is she painting herself into the scene a year too late? Is she trying to get it right? To forgive and be forgiven? The strokes of paint depicting each person are choppy and layered, standing out almost in relief. I could reach out and touch the people, feel them in three dimensions. I could leave a fingerprint. Evidence.

The teakettle whistles, and I hear voices. Downstairs but close. Mother and Mrs. Bindas. Mrs. Bindas is apologizing for Mayur's behavior, for all the boys. I hear the pain in her voice.

“Mayur, he is most embarrassed,” Mrs. Bindas says. “For not taking better care of his guests.”

Is he embarrassed about what he did with me? What I let him do?

Teacups clink on a tray. Through the slit in the slightly open door, I peek down the metal staircase. I catch the glitter of a bangled wrist. Mrs. Bindas. Martia moves in front of her, pours tea for her and Mother. They start talking, with Mrs. Bindas speaking first, asking about how I am after the “accident.” She shakes her head as Mother tells her I'm fine. Mrs. Bindas says, “Oh, that is good. After all that has happened, she is getting better.” Mrs. Bindas doesn't mean my fall. “And Kammi is a delight. She is good for Cyan.”

Kammi good for me? I slip out the French doors onto the widow's walk. I can't be seen from where they sit below. They'd have to walk out onto the deck and look up to know I'm here.

A creak sounds behind me. I spin around.

Not Mother. Kammi. Mother's voice still murmurs below, saying all the right things to Mrs. Bindas. How she appreciates the picnic, how it was not the Bindases' fault, what happened at the cave.

“What are you doing up here?” I say in a whisper.

“Same as you.” Kammi tiptoes closer, peers over my arm to see below. She grins. Living dangerously. “I knew you came up here,” she says when I don't answer.

I shrug.

Kammi tiptoes over to the painting. She turns to face it. I watch her eyes. They widen when she sees the figures in the boat. She looks at me.

I nod. I know.

I turn back to look downstairs. Martia offers refills and a plate of her cookies. As she stirs sugar into her tea, Mrs. Bindas says, “I would love to see some of your paintings.”

Mother sits on the couch, just out of sight. She laughs a little. “As I said before, I come here mostly to relax.” Another lie. Mother has practice.

“You are too modest,” Mrs. Bindas says. “I read about your exhibits in New York, Atlanta.”

At the mention of Atlanta, Kammi and I share a look. Atlanta is the tie between us.

“It must be very nice to be so talented. To have so much freedom.” Mrs. Bindas sips tea.

Mother doesn't answer. Mrs. Bindas hasn't asked a question. What do freedom and talent have to do with each other?

“Perhaps just a little one, to see,” Mrs. Bindas says. “To say I have seen the famous artist's work. The one you will bring to our party.”

“Not yet,” Mother says. “I don't like to show my work before it's finished.”

Mrs. Bindas sighs. “I was afraid you would say no. How about to see your studio? I would like that very much.”

“Oh,” Mother laughs. “It's messy. In the middle of things. Paints and brushes everywhere.”

“Is okay. I should like to see. Very much.”

Will Mother bring Mrs. Bindas up to her studio? She's never let anyone up here.

“Well,” Mother says. She stands and walks toward the spiral staircase. Her footstep sounds on the first step, her heel striking the metal like a gong.

I grab Kammi's arm and point to the roof. She nods, her eyes large. I motion for her to take off her slides. The soles will make too much noise.

I can't help myself, though. Even as I hear Mrs. Bindas following Mother up the thirteen steps, I want to stay and listen.

“Dr. Bindas said he might make a studio for me,” she says.

The sea and the wind whip Mother's response away. But even as Mrs. Bindas talks, I can feel Mother tightening inside. “When people ask about artists,” Mother said once to Philippa, not to me, though I overheard as they worked in Mother's studio at home, “it isn't about the artist, it's about the person asking the question. It's about that person's hopes and dreams and the creation of their other self.” Mother hates that, people's false interest.

Holding Kammi's hand, I lead her around the narrow ledge. I learned this escape route one summer. It was dangerous then, the metal balustrades rusty in the salt air. Now I'm sore from the fall. As we slip out of view from the widow's walk, I hear Mother at the French doors, blaming Martia for leaving the door unlatched, complaining to Mrs. Bindas about how hard it is to get help who understands an artist's needs, who doesn't insert herself in family matters, and who knows her place. But, she says, Martia is comfortable, like an old aunt.

“We have to slide along here ... there's a small ledge,” I say to Kammi. “Just grip the edge of the roof and slide.”

Kammi stares at me.

“Don't worry. I've done it before. Just don't look down.” It's funny. After the fall in the cave, I should be afraid. I'm not, though. Here I can see. I can breathe.

I ease my way along the ledge, sliding my hands along the overhanging cupola roofline above me. In another ten feet, the house is closer to the ground, seemingly carved into the earth, like a ship run aground into a beachhead. I jump, landing on the shell drive in my flip-flops. Every muscle shrieks.

When I can speak again, I say, “Your turn.” I motion Kammi down. She balances herself, slipping into her shoes. She pauses, suspended, and then jumps. She gasps when she lands.

The kitchen curtain flickers. Martia pulls it back to see what's happening.

“Come on,” I say, and we head off down the beach. Martia won't have to lie to Mother and say she hasn't seen us.

T
HE DAY
before Kammi leaves, Mother allows herself to be the center of attention at Mrs. Bindas's party. Instead of accepting Mrs. Bindas's offer to send a driver, Mother hires Jinco to take us the short distance in his taxi. Mother holds her canvas, still mounted to the easel, not trusting it to Jinco since it's painted in oils and still wet. For once, he doesn't spit shells out from under his tires as we leave. Kammi carries a canvas, too. It's smaller and completely covered. Since it's a watercolor, unlike Mother's, it's safely dry.

Mrs. Bindas opens the door herself, before we knock.

“Ah, we are so happy. Please to come in,” she says.

I wonder about Mayur, whether he will attend.

“Is Dr. Bindas coming?” I ask instead.

“No, no, only women are allowed to stay today,” Mrs. Bindas says, smiling. “All the boys, they are out of the house.”

Kammi's face droops—she was hoping to see Saco. I thought I'd be relieved not to see Mayur, but I'm not sure. I wonder if he's told the other boys he touched me, if they've laughed about the easy American girl.

Mrs. Bindas is all happiness as we follow her inside. “Come, come. Bring your work.” She motions Mother in with her easel. “You, too, Kammi,” she adds as Kammi offers her own watercolor.

“The oil paint is still wet.” Mother maneuvers her canvas carefully. She sets up her easel in the center of the room, a place of honor. Other empty easels stand around the perimeter of the room to hold guests' work. Nothing, though, will be allowed to overshadow Mother's.