When Mrs. Bindas says Saco’s name, Kammi smiles. At Loco’s name, she looks at me from under her lashes.
Mother frowns. “Any girls?”
Mrs. Bindas shakes her head. “Only boys in our family.” She spreads her arms, her bangle bracelets tinkling together like glass wind chimes. She shrugs. “What are we to do?”
“It’ll be hot.”
“Oh, that is no worry. The boys will carry plenty of cold water. And Dr. Bindas, he is a medical doctor, you know.” Mrs. Bindas smiles, as if being a doctor is the answer to every problem. Mrs. Bindas doesn’t betray whether she remembers that Dr. Bindas met the boat when they brought my father in from the sea. He did not bring Dad back to life. He only confirmed that Dad was dead before the officials drove his body of to the morgue.
Mother finally looks toward Kammi. “You’re sure you want to go?”
“Yes,” Kammi says, looking at me.
“Cyan?” Mother asks.
“I’ll go.” I’ve never been to the top of Mount Christoffel. By the time I was old enough to hike it, Dad had stopped coming with us, spending his Junes in Italy or somewhere with his language students or on a research trip instead. Last summer, when he finally came with us again, he and I planned to hike the mountain the last weekend in June.
“Mayur will be so pleased,” Mrs. Bindas says.
Pleased he can show off.
“Also, I am so hoping that before you leave us this year, you will honor us. Dr. Bindas and I say for shame we have had no exhibition of your artwork.”
Mother shakes her head. “You are very kind. But I come here to paint. And relax.”
Mrs. Bindas’s smile droops, then revives. “You are too modest. Yes, it is decided. We will host a reception—that is what you call it, yes?—for your artwork. Before you leave.”
Mother stands. “Really, that’s impossible. My paintings are in galleries in New York. In Atlanta. Nothing I have here is suitable.” She doesn’t admit that there are no paintings here, except the untouched canvases upstairs.
“I’m sure you could have something ready by then,” I say, knowing the canvases stand empty.
Mother’s eyes flash at me. “Don’t be silly.” She faces Mrs. Bindas, who has risen. “I’m sure you understand. An exhibition takes a lot of lead time. All those paintings to wrap and ship. It would take months to get ready. My agent would have to be consulted. The insurance.” She explains as if there would never be enough time to prepare for an exhibition here in Curaçao.
Mrs. Bindas straightens her sari. Her smile does not fade. “Of course, it is too much to ask. But perhaps a small reception, just a few friends of mine. Influential women who are liking art. They dabble a little, too. Maybe we each bring a single painting from this summer. It would be enough, yes?”
“I—I’ll have to see.” Mother concedes this much, at least, enough to keep Mrs. Bindas happy. Mother will hate reviewing the amateur works of Mrs. Bindas’s friends. But it might be better than a reception in her honor alone.
“Excellent. Girls,” Mrs. Bindas says, turning to Kammi and me. “Next Saturday, we will pick you up. Seven o’clock in the morning.”
“Seven?” Mother asks.
Mrs. Bindas shakes her head as she starts toward the door. “I know. So early. But best to hike before the heat. No one to have sunstroke, Dr. Bindas says. We’ll stop for breakfast on the way. A café near Savonet.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bindas,” Kammi says.
“And always, of course, you are welcome to swim at our pool. Always welcome.”
I follow Mrs. Bindas and Kammi to the door, as much to avoid being on the deck alone with Mother as to say goodbye to Mrs. Bindas.
Chapter Nineteen
MARTIA NO LONGER says anything when I leave the house at first light to look for sea glass. No words of warning about undertow—she knows I won’t go into the water. Nothing about the wild donkeys that sometimes wander through, munching prized vegetation. Instead, without speaking, she leaves a guava pastry on a waxed-paper square and a water bottle on the counter for me. I’ve devoured the pastry by the time I reach the waterline.
This morning the sea is glass itself, like a green bottle, and the surf overnight has yielded few treasures. Some broken shells, a washed-up jellyfish. I don’t even find any prized blues near the outwash. The boring brown pieces seem too sharp, too raw, like beer bottles recently tossed overboard from some party boat or washed down from the hills. I leave them to the sea, to have their edges ground smooth.
When I reach the point, I hike my way to the top of the small rise. I sit on a piece of driftwood that someone’s dragged this far and left as the perfect seat from which to watch the morning sea.