The Other Side of Blue(34)

Slivers of light filter through the closed window shades. Bright lines cut across the wooden floor. Palm-tree linens cover the bed. The puffy pillows—the kind Mother likes—are plumped, just waiting to cradle a head.

I nod at Kammi, who tiptoes over and creaks open drawers in the bedside table. I check the tall dresser. I peek into the dark spaces behind the drawers, looking for a corner of torn paper that’s gotten stuck. But there are no letters tucked away, no forgotten receipts. Everything’s clean.

As she stands over an open drawer, Kammi whispers, “What are you looking for?”

“Anything interesting.” I want to say “clues” but I’m not sure she’d understand. She doesn’t know everything. She doesn’t know that my mother might have known Howard when my Dad was still alive. That might be a clue.

The wind starts to slap the window and the branches outside, zigzagging the morning light across the floor. With sunrise, the island heats, and the breezes start to blow landward again.

“It’s time,” I say.

I turn the handle as carefully as when we entered the room. I peek to make sure the hallway is empty. Kammi goes first, tiptoeing back to her room. As soon as she’s safely inside, I tug the door closed behind me. In the stillness, the click sounds loud.

In my room I fall onto the bed and stretch out. A successful foray, even though nothing turned up. I finish breakfast, then bus my tray back to the kitchen, this time slapping my flip-flops along the floor, making as much noise as I can. Before I empty the dishes into the sink—Martia always says to leave them for her—I replace the key on its hook.

As I’m leaving the room, the coffeepot gurgles into action, and a bitter aroma seeps into the air.





Chapter Eighteen


KAMMI AND I escape the house before Mother comes downstairs for her coffee. After Kammi takes a quick dip in the sea, we find shady spots on the upper deck, just off the living room. Kammi scoots her art bin next to her lounge chair, as if she believes she might learn how to paint by instinct, just by being close to the tools of the trade. She runs her hands over the smooth wooden handles of the paintbrushes. I imagine the tickle of the coarse bristles over the tender inside of her arm.

I hold Kammi’s horse series paperback, the spine now hopelessly bent, in front of me. It’s so boring I can’t make myself read the second chapter. Instead, I squint over the top of the page. In the distance, the sea seems to bend along the horizon and the sky pivots to counterbalance. Near the shoreline, the water is pure turquoise. I wonder which colored pencils in the back of my closet at home I would have to blend to match the exact hue.

The French doors open. Mother holds a coffee cup in one hand and closes the door with the other, a newspaper tucked under her arm. It’s the local paper, I can tell from the banner. The articles are written in Dutch or English, sometimes Spanish, and even Papiamentu, as if whoever writes the article decides which language best suits the particular story. I imagine an article about the trade deficit in formal Dutch, reviews about the best shops on the cruise-ship circuit in English, a crime report in Papiamentu.

“You’re both up early.” Mother says it as if she doesn’t trust us together in Martia’s absence. Maybe she thinks we sneaked out last night and went back to the Bindases’ beach party, swimming until dawn. Kammi’s hair is damp from her morning dip. Mother’s gaze takes in that fact.

I think Kammi misses the look. She’s already staring down at her lap, her face beginning to turn pink. Maybe she thinks Mother can read guilt in her face about the master bedroom—for no reason, as we found nothing. Or guilt about being friendly to me, who let her swim at night at the Bindases’ house in the first place, when she’s here to make Mother her ally and to learn how to paint to make Howard happy.

“Dad always said the early bird catches the worm,” I say.

Mother sits down under the umbrella chair. Her coffee sloshes over the brim of her cup.

Kammi jumps up and wipes the arm of Mother’s chair with her beach towel.

“Thank you, Kammi.” Mother picks up her saucer so Kammi can wipe underneath.

“You’re welcome.” Kammi shifts her weight from foot to foot, still holding the coffee-stained towel.

“Just go rinse that in cold water, save Martia having to bleach that stain.” Mother dismisses Kammi. Mother has never said anything before about how to reduce Martia’s workload.

Kammi scrambles into the house.

“About last night,” Mother says, slapping the folded newspaper onto the table.

I raise the book back to eye level and try to focus on reading each word, seeing each individual letter.