The Other Side of Blue(42)

“Are you going to do Mrs. Bindas’s show?” Kammi asks, breaking the silence.

Mother shrugs. “I’d rather not. But I feel obligated. The Bindases have been nice to us for the last couple of years.”

“I think it would be fun.” Kammi dips a straw into her lime-colored drink.

“That’s because you’re just getting started.” Mother gives Kammi hope with that sentence, that she thinks Kammi may have artistic abilities. Kammi grins.

“What was it Philippa said? About workshops?” I ask, knowing the answer.

Mother has to acknowledge I’ve said something. “Workshops provide income but no inspiration.”

“I’d think it would be inspiring, helping people learn how to paint,” Kammi says.

“Some people teach and then they have nothing left for their own art,” Mother says, her voice harder than I bet she intends.

“Philippa’s managing to do both.” At least, that’s what the postcard suggested—Philippa with her work for hire, but also with inspiration as large as Venice.

Mother’s head jerks. “Ah, yes, Philippa.” She says her name as if it is a sour fruit.

“Philippa. She was your favorite, wasn’t she?” Kammi asks. I know she wants to be Mother’s next protégé. How convenient that she will live with us. Philippa practically did toward the end.

The waiter brings our food, and Mother doesn’t answer while he’s jostling around us. When he finally leaves, I’m expecting her to change the subject.

But she twists a piece of bread in half and says, “Her passion. That’s why she was my favorite.”

Kammi wrinkles her forehead.

“She was willing to sacrifice anything for her art,” Mother says. “Almost anything.”

“Like what?” I ask. Philippa didn’t seem like the sacrificing kind. She sometimes went to Italy to paint during the summers. She spoke Italian with Dad when she and Mother painted; I could hear them in the studio. She wore vintage clothes from an expensive boutique near campus.

Mother looks over as if she forgot I’m sitting here.

“Friendship.” Mother butters her bread. “Happiness, even.”

“How can art make you do that?” Kammi says.

“It makes you think of things you shouldn’t,” Mother answers. An honest answer, I can hear it in her voice. Something I haven’t heard from her in a long time. I wonder what she means.

The waiter comes back to check on us. The moment is over, and we talk about things like the fish, how artful it looks on the plate, trimmed with bright fruits. I squeeze lemon over mine and devour the taste.

We skip dessert. Mother and Kammi say they’re too full.





Outside, Mother speaks to the taxi driver. He agrees to meet us at the pottery store, a few blocks away, close to the import shoe shop. Tourists and locals alike crowd the sidewalk—I hear Dutch, Spanish, and Papiamentu. English, too.

At the shoe store, the assistant makes a beeline for Mother. She enters a business that way, demanding to be served without saying a word.

“Hiking shoes?” she asks.

The man, his face a question, repeats what Mother has said, as if he’s sure he misheard.

“Hiking shoes, for the girls.” Mother waves toward us.

“Claro,” the man says, beaming. Somehow he knew the hiking shoes couldn’t be for my mother.

He carefully measures Kammi’s feet, produces a perfect hiking shoe with the first pair he brings out from the back room. She walks around on the carpet, flexing and pointing her feet one by one. She smiles.

“Now,” he says, looking at my feet.

“Sports sandals, that’s what I want,” I say. “Not boots.” I hate the idea of my feet being closed in. Even the thought of pebbles getting under my feet doesn’t bother me as much.

Mother walks over, picks up a hiking boot off a shelf. “Are you sure—”

“Yes.” I don’t give in.

The man waits a second, but Mother doesn’t respond.

“I have just the thing,” he says, and he disappears into the back again.

The sandals fit. I pull the webbed straps close and secure them with Velcro. The rugged bottoms are ridged to grip the trail.

The taxi driver is parked right outside the pottery store when we walk up. He takes our packages and gets back in the car to wait for us.

Tourists cram the pottery store. A cruise ship has had engine problems, a clerk tells Mother, so the tourists have extra time for shopping. The clerk tucks a stray hair behind her ear, then dashes off to help a woman with a nasal Midwestern accent select local pottery. Mother rolls her eyes, but Kammi doesn’t seem to notice. She holds her flower purse tight and marches up and down each aisle, every once in a while picking up a small bowl or plate, then putting it back on the shelf. Just before Mother starts to look at her watch, Kammi heads straight back to the first aisle and chooses two small bowls, which will be easy to pack and won’t take up much room in her perfect suitcase. Each bowl is a rich brown with streaks of red bursting from the center outward. The sign says the design is called “Carnival.”