With her free hand, Kammi squeezes my arm. She thinks I mean a suicide note. “It’s not that, not what you think.” I’ll tell her the rest later—some of it, anyway.
Mother’s waiting when Dr. Bindas drives up to the house in the SUV. All the boys sit in the back, quiet as shadows. I don’t remember Dr. Bindas calling her, but he must have. She doesn’t react when he explains to her in a low voice what happened, or when I wince getting out of the vehicle. She stands there stiff, her face stone. No hysterical mother blaming the boys. She doesn’t even speak to Kammi, though I know she’s relieved Kammi isn’t the one hurt. Mother just wants to get us all back to the U.S. safely. When she looks at me, can she see that I know about Philippa? I wonder how much she knows. Or whether she can see that a boy has touched me.
As soon as the Bindases drive away, Martia takes charge, helping me to my room. She spoils me. All the coconut treats I can eat, until I feel sick. Then she flutters around, checking my eyes again to make sure I don’t have a concussion.
“Your mother, she worry about mala cabeza. Your head ache.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” I lie. But it’s not that bad, just a dull ache.
Kammi hangs out on my bed, thumbing through art magazines.
“Why don’t you show Mother your painting?” Since the day Kammi arrived, she’s wanted to win Mother’s approval.
“Maybe later.” She says she stuck it in her closet, to hide it.
In the evening, Martia brings me chicken soup. Kammi spoons rice into the bowl to thicken the broth. She shakes her head, though, when Martia offers her a bowl. She holds up a piece of bread. “Not really hungry.” As if she’s the one who fell, not me.
After Martia leaves, Kammi leans closer. “What about the note?”
I inhale the warm scent of soup, its hint of lime. I remember the way the darkness smelled, and I think of the note on the cave bottom, where no one will find it before the fragile paper disintegrates.
“It wasn’t a suicide note,” I say.
Kammi waits, her head cocked, expecting me to say more. Maybe I will someday, but not now. I don’t want to tell her about my father and Mother’s student. “It was a love note.” That’s all I say, not who it was from or for. I let her think what she will.
Mother knocks on the door, and Kammi backs away from me, blushing, as if she’s been caught in a lie.
“Come in,” I say.
“I didn’t know you were here,” she says to Kammi.
“Just visiting.” Kammi sits very straight on the bed. I imagine her trapped between us like a rabbit between two cats, hoping that by freezing she’ll escape notice.
“Martia says you’re feeling better,” Mother says. “I wanted to see for myself.” She doesn’t come any closer to the bed.
I make myself answer. “Yes. Better.”
We haven’t talked about how we feel in a long time.
“You frightened me. Both of you. Taking a risk like that,” she says. “Following those boys into the cave. After what’s happened.”
After Dad happened, she means. But she still can’t say it. After he slid under the dark water and didn’t resurface. For a second, I can’t breathe for remembering the cave, the blackness.
“We shouldn’t have.” Kammi uses “we” and speaks for both of us. She takes the blame when I’m the one who talked her into going. Kammi is like that.
“You’re both all right. That’s what matters.” Mother says “both” but she looks right at me, looks at me in a way she hasn’t for the past year. It’s the most she’s said since Dr. Bindas delivered us back to Blauwe Huis.
I open my mouth to say yes or something, but nothing comes out. Instead, I nod.
“I’ll let you rest,” she says. “Maybe, Kammi, you’ll come with me. I see you’re reading the article on color theory. I can show you more about that.”
Before Mother even finishes speaking, Kammi has scooted of the bed and out the door. Mother closes the door behind her, and I hear it click softly. I close my eyes and let my bones sink into sleep.
The next day, I’m up again.
When I hear Mother in the kitchen with Martia, I dare to sneak upstairs into the inner sanctum. Bolder than ever, I have to see the painting. It’s still there, protected from view, but this time I can tell it’s closer to being finished. It’s not just the blue boat now; there are figures seated in it. Two people, I’m not sure who, but one is a man and one a woman. The faces are turned away at an angle, as if the artist can’t quite make them out herself. Could it be Mother in the boat with Dad? Is she painting herself into the scene a year too late? Is she trying to get it right? To forgive and be forgiven? The strokes of paint depicting each person are choppy and layered, standing out almost in relief. I could reach out and touch the people, feel them in three dimensions. I could leave a fingerprint. Evidence.