The Other Side of Blue(58)

“You’ll exhibit this in New York?” Mrs. Bindas asks.

“Not right away,” Mother says. She needs time to let the paint dry.

The door opens, and Dr. Bindas appears.

“Oh, so sorry,” he says. “I thought the party was over.” He starts to back out, shooing boys behind him. I see Saco and then Mayur peer around him. Kammi smiles at Saco, who grins and lets himself be pulled back. Mayur smirks from behind his father’s shoulder, then looks to make sure the others haven’t noticed. He hasn’t told them, I’m sure. There is now another secret between us. But this one we share. I roll my eyes at him and he disappears behind his father.

“No, Dr. Bindas, please to come in and say goodbye to Mrs. Walters,” Mrs. Bindas calls after him. Dr. Bindas, stiff in his short-sleeved shirt and pressed slacks, enters and nods to my mother. Very proper. His physician’s eyes then take me in. He sees I’m no worse for wear, the bruises fading from blue to yellow.

“Glad to see you are feeling better,” he says.

“Thank you.”

Kammi raises an eyebrow, motioning toward the door. I shake my head at her. I’m not interested in Mayur. Absolutely not. Maybe.

“We are indebted to you,” Mother says.

Dr. Bindas raises a hand. “No, it was so little, and we are grateful. No permanent injuries. Here, let me help you. We shall drive you back.”

Dr. Bindas reaches to take Mother’s painting. Mother’s never let anyone else handle a fresh painting.

“No,” I say, suddenly not wanting anyone else to touch The Blue Boat.

“It’s all right, Cyan,” Mother says, touching my arm. “Dr. Bindas, wet canvases require special handling. I’d feel better carrying it myself.”

Dr. Bindas blushes, as if he’s done something improper, but he nods politely, as always. He holds the door for Mother.

Even when she moves away to allow Mrs. Bindas to hug her ever so gently before we leave, the warmth from Mother’s touch on my skin lingers.





“Do you want to go to the airport?” Mother asks me the next morning. As I did the day Kammi arrived, I shake my head. It’s only been a few weeks since then, and yet it seems like months. Time is like that. Fast and yet slow, like waves of light shimmering through glass. Goethe said that, in order to be seen, every color must have light within it or behind it. Blue is the first color that appears when darkness is penetrated by light.

Mother doesn’t ask a second time. She slips into the cab. From the window closest to me, Kammi waves. Excited like a kid going home from summer camp, she moves her arm back and forth in a wide arc. The top edge of her carefully wrapped painting peeks over the back seat.

I hold my hand up in the air, not waving. But I imagine my hand touching hers through the air, the glass. My yellow to her pink. I don’t think about Howard yet. He’s overeager, like the puppy he gave to Kammi’s mother. But he might be okay.

Jinco pulls away, bits of shell spitting from under his tires. If he’s watching Kammi through the rearview mirror, he’ll be subtle so Mother doesn’t see him. She wouldn’t like it. Kammi won’t notice, either. Later, I’ll tell her, warn her about guys.

Martia stands next to me, but she doesn’t put her arm around my waist or hug me. I don’t have to say I’m okay. Martia knows somehow, knows I don’t want to be too close. She steps inside, and the scent of food wafts through the open door. For once, I am not ravenous.

Tonight, before Mother and I finish packing, Martia will go home to her family. To her children and mother. They must already be thinking of the sweet kokada treats she’ll bring.

In my room, I open the box of sea glass and add the photo of Martia’s family to it. Then I get out the largest, bluest piece I have, the one I keep in the sock, and hold it to the light. Without my jeweler’s pliers, I use my hands to pull the wire I’ve hidden away straight. The sterling silver grows warm in my hand. It curves around my finger and over the glass. I wrap until the silver holds the glass fast, and I twist it to make a loop, securing the back of the glass. I file the rough edge before tucking it underneath. Hiding it.

In the bottom of the box, there’s still the sliver of sharp, clear glass from the blue boat. If I toss it back into the sea, years from now the ocean will have worn down the jagged edges. Someday, the sea will give up its smooth treasure along the shore for someone else to find.

Maybe my box is like the one Pandora decided to open. Maybe I was too curious, like she was. But with all the chaos and longing, everything Pandora released into the world, there was something else at the bottom of the box, a gift.