The Other Side of Blue(39)

Nothing on the motor or under the anchor, the rope coiled on top. Nothing. Wait—a shard of broken glass under the seat. It’s so sharp, and my hands so damp, maybe I cut myself. I grasp the sliver of glass anyway.

My eyes sting with salt. If he had drowned himself on purpose, he would have left a note for me, telling me not to worry. A note that said whatever happened had nothing to do with me. Wouldn’t he? Isn’t that what fathers are supposed to do?

Maybe the police found something after all and destroyed it. Maybe Mayur’s cousin pocketed a note and started rumors about it on the island. Maybe everybody knows but Mother and me. What if even Martia knows? Or what if Mother came the first night after they brought the boat in, and she was looking for the same thing, a note, some sort of evidence. Perhaps she found a note and burned it in one of the bonfires they lit on the beach for the returning search party. While everyone else seemed to care more about the body they were bringing in than she did. The flicker of scorched paper would have carried high on the wind like a prayer offering.

I lie in the bottom of the boat. The wooden ribs dig into my back as I press myself down. The planks still smell of the sea, even though the netting hangs long and dry along the walls. When I close my eyes, the boat seems to move up and down in rhythm with the waves pounding against the shore outside.

It seems to move, and I feel myself moving, too, as if I’m being tugged out to sea by the tide. I trace my fingers along the bottom, feeling for more clues.

That day, I stayed under the deck, my favorite hiding place away from the sun. Yet I was close to home, so I could sneak in to see what Martia was doing. Close enough to hear Mother and Dad above me, talking. That morning, Martia had packed a hamper for him and filled an ice bucket. I heard him ask Mother to come with him, to paint at sea.

She said no. She couldn’t concentrate on art when the boat bobbed in the water. Having all that blue around her— the sky, the sea, the boat itself—it was too intense, she said. I almost laughed and gave myself away. Too much blue? How could that be, when Mother surrounded herself with it? She couldn’t even look at me without thinking of blue.

Dad’s voice softened. He said it would be something she could do for him. Since he’d come all that way, after he’d stayed away for several summers, maybe this once she could go with him. He’d given up something, he said. What, I couldn’t hear. Mother didn’t answer him, but she didn’t get up, either. Dad’s footsteps echoed across the wooden flooring and steps. When he made it to the sand, his footsteps stopped making any sound at all. If he’d turned and looked down while he was on the deck, he would have seen me there. But he didn’t. Above me, I heard Mother’s steps, too. Only hers headed inside and stopped when the French doors closed.

From my hiding spot, I watched Dad moving toward the water. I didn’t do anything that day but watch him go. Now, in my mind, I revise how it happened. I see myself scooting out from under the deck and running to catch him.

“Wait, Dad.” I wave my arms. “I can go.”

He turns, but it’s almost as if he doesn’t see me. He’s looking up toward the widow’s walk, looking for someone else.

“Not this time,” he says, smiling. “You hate fishing.”

I watch him push the boat into the water, wade out knee-deep, until the blue boat clears the sandy sea bottom. He hauls himself over the side, water spilling down his tanned legs. He lowers the motor into the water and turns away from shore, toward the open sea.

Even in my revision, he does not take me with him.





From outside, I hear something at the door. Something more than ghost crabs this time. I can’t move. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. There’s only one way out. The window is bolted shut. Maybe it’s just someone walking past the boathouse to fish in the surf. Maybe one of Mayur’s cousins. Even from here, I can tell the sky is changing outside, lightening with the dawn. I close my eyes and cover my face with my scarf. It’s still dark inside and there’s no electricity. Maybe I’ll look like an abandoned tarp.

The door squeaks.

“Cyan?”

Mother. If I don’t speak, will she go away?

“I know you’re here.” Her voice is soft. I can barely hear her over the waves beyond. She must have watched me, then waited, certain there was nothing here for me to find.

“Couldn’t you sleep?” she asks. I don’t trust her voice. It’s too soft. I wait for the snap. Part of me wants to say something. It wants to say no, I can’t sleep. No, I can’t get full.

“It hurts me, too. Don’t you know that?” she asks.