The Other Side of Blue(13)

Chapter Six


MOTHER’S WAITING for Kammi and me in the living room when we slip through the door.

“Come on out here.” She waves us through the open French doors and onto the deck.

Kammi obeys immediately, not even stopping by her room to drop off her straw tote. Maybe she thinks she’ll get Mother’s attention now, and that she’ll have the chance to talk about painting.

I follow, a few beats behind. It might be worth it to hear the conversation. I wonder how Mother will frame the words, how she’ll make everything she says sound like she has only Kammi’s interests in mind.

Mother has arranged herself on the lounge chair facing the sea. A still-life composition. This late in the afternoon, the sun is behind the house, and we’re in the shadows, where it isn’t too hot.

“Sit, sit. I want to hear all about it,” Mother says, too cheerful.

In the kitchen, Martia bangs the pans and dishes she’s clearing away. Her rhythm sounds off. Did Mother find food hidden in my room? Did she scold Martia for it? How many times has she told Martia that coconut is not good for me? The kokada she makes is too fattening.

Even though the kitchen doesn’t sound like it’s supposed to, the smells of fish with lemon and funchi—fried cornbread—tease me. Despite the gelato I’ve eaten, my stomach whines.

Kammi sits in the chair closest to Mother. “Mrs. Bindas is really nice.” She doesn’t bring up right away that Mrs. Bindas wants Mother to hold an art workshop for her and her friends. Maybe she senses that Mother won’t be thrilled. Or maybe she wants Mother all for herself. “She told us about her garden.” Kammi describes the birds of paradise and the vines that cascade over the low stone wall. Mother nods as Kammi talks. I close my eyes and I can see everything just as she says.

Mother sips a Blue Bay drink while she listens to Kammi. Curaçao tastes so sweet it makes my throat ache. Last summer Dad and I toured the distillery. The tour guide said that the Spaniards brought the original orange trees from Valencia. In the dry soil of Curaçao, though, the oranges produced only tart fruit. People later found a way to turn the bitter fruit into something sweet. At the end of the tour, Dad bought a crate of liqueur in all its colors—blue, red, green, and mandarin. Last year he poured me a thimble-sized drink for toasting when we celebrated Mother’s upcoming one-woman show, what she called a retrospective, at a gallery in Atlanta. The retrospective wasn’t opening until October. After Dad died, the gallery asked Mother if she wanted to cancel. Mother said no, the art could be a tribute. Except that the art was never about Dad.

I sit on the rattan hassock. Taking my feet out of my flip-flops, I cross my legs under my skirt.

“What did you think of the Bindases’ house?” Mother asks Kammi, and then answers her own question in the same breath. “It’s grand, isn’t it.”

Kammi freezes for a second. “We didn’t go inside. But if the inside is like the pool and patio, it must be beautiful, too,” she says a moment later. “Mrs. Bindas served us gelato.”

Mother’s gaze flickers my way. “I hope it doesn’t spoil your appetites. Martia’s grilled red snapper.”

I stare straight back at her.

Kammi says quickly, “Mayur says they’re having a cookout on the beach next week.”

Mother smiles. “The Bindases’ house is on the prettiest stretch of beach on this part of the island. The view is unsurpassed.” She means the view from the Bindases’ house is better than the view from here.

“Did you swim?” Mother asks me.

“No,” I say. “Mayur took up the whole pool with his butterfly stroke.”

Mother raises her eyebrows.

“I barely got wet,” Kammi says, as if she’s apologizing to Mother for my not having gone in. She doesn’t make a big deal of her own lap.

“Mayur is exuberant.” Mother raises the back of the lounge chair so she sits straighter.

“He does seem to like the pool,” I say, thinking back on last summer.

Mother frowns and starts to say something, but Martia appears at the French doors, and the moment passes. She’s holding an envelope in front of her, away from her body, as if it contains bad news.

She reaches out to Mother. “The postman just came. I signed for a letter.”

Signing for a letter is not always good, not even here, where every aspect of life is more formal than at home. After Dad died, Mother complained about all the letters she had to sign for. How she had to get dozens of copies of the death certificate. I still have a copy in my room, hidden inside The History of Language. The original document was written in Dutch, with a certified English translation attached. I read and reread the English version so many times I memorized it.