Martia turns and smiles at Kammi. “Bon bini,” she says. Good morning, as if yesterday afternoon were only a bad memory. She wipes her floury hands on her apron and reaches out to guide Kammi to a chair, then places a glass of pink guava juice in front of her.
“You missed the pancakes with coconut syrup,” I say, licking the last of the syrup off my fork. I feel overfull. Maybe the rich coconut will make me sick. But in an hour or two, I’ll be hungry again. Martia will sneak food into my room later.
Mother hasn’t looked in my room here on the island. Back home in Maine this past year, she searched my dresser drawers, trying to root out the candy wrappers and the chip bags as if they were weeds in a garden. Leaving ads for one-hundred-calorie snacks pinned to the corkboard on my bedroom door. That and notes on the kitchen counter. Working late. Lean De-Lite entrée in freezer. That’s how we communicated most of the time.
Since we arrived here this year, she uses Martia to give me messages instead of leaving notes. She gets Martia to say “The colas are no good for you.” Yet Martia still ladles extra servings for me at meals and bakes coconut candies for dessert.
Kammi shrugs, not making a fuss about the pancakes. But I see in her eyes just a hint of disappointment.
“Oh, chookie, don’t you worry. I make you something good,” Martia says. Martia called me chookie, too, when I was younger. In Papiamentu, it means “chick.” I feel as if I have always been Martia’s chick, taking shelter under her arms when she clucks.
“So what are you going to do today?” Martia asks me while she’s whipping up something light and fluffy. The thin batter spreads across the heated pan like foam from a wave. Finer than pancakes, crepes are Kammi’s reward. “You show Miss Kammi around, yes?”
I shrug. No, that’s what I want to say. I want to sit on the beach and stare at the sea and do nothing. Martia’s so eager, though, that for once I can’t say what I want.
Kammi answers for me. “I want to paint.” She smiles. I bet she’s pleased with herself for speaking up, especially after yesterday. “I have to practice. Dad expects me to learn something while I’m here. I started a scene in my head last night. The boathouse.”
The sweet taste on my tongue goes sour.
Martia doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m sure Mrs. Walters will be happy to show you some hints, but today is not so good. Mrs. Walters, she is very busy. She has a big commission to finish.”
Martia is capable of lying. For the first time, I know for certain she’s told a lie. Mother has no commission. She isn’t busy. As of yesterday, the canvases stood empty. Some pencil lines suggested Mother might be starting something, but it’s hard to tell.
Kammi’s face falls. She hasn’t learned yet to hide the things that matter most.
“I have just the good idea, what you should do,” Martia said, serving Kammi her crepes. “I make you a picnic lunch, and you can take it to Boca Roja Beach. Miss Cyan, she knows the way.” Martia bustles around the kitchen. She lines a cooler with blue plastic ice packs, the ones Mother brought from home years ago, handling them as if they possess magic. She packs waxed-paper packets of food inside, along with a bottle of water and two lemon-lime sodas.
Kammi cuts into her crepes and looks at me. Maybe she’s judging whether the beach with me is a good alternative to art lessons. Or maybe she’s thinking about what happened and whether being with me will cost her another chance to talk to Mother.
I don’t want to go, either, but I’d rather be away from the house. I don’t want to listen to Mother’s pacing in her studio, or catch the smell of paint thinner creeping downstairs like a poisonous gas.
“A hat, too.” Martia has found a straw hat somewhere. As we stand in the shade of the porch, she places the hat on Kammi’s head, frames her face with it, and pushes the brim down. That way the sun can’t find Kammi’s fair skin so easily, but then she can’t see very far ahead, either.
All I can see of her face is a nose dabbed with zinc oxide. She walks with the brim angled low, so she can see the ground just in front of her. A pad of heavy paper sticks out of her beach bag. From the rattling sound, I know there’s a tin of drawing pencils in there, too.
I’m weighted down with the ice chest, the sun tent, and my own towel.
Kammi trudges behind me, the wind snatching away the sound of her sandals flapping against the soles of her feet. When we pass the boathouse, I know without looking that she has stopped in front of it. I keep going. If I don’t look back, I can count on her following me like a puppy.