The Other Side of Blue(7)

Philippa was Mother’s last student. She was around the longest and was the most like Mother. She trashed more canvases than all the other students combined. I’d find a canvas by the curb on garbage day, and I couldn’t see why it had been tossed away. Even Dad, who didn’t “involve himself” with Mother’s art, rescued a couple of Philippa’s paintings and hung them where the light showed them off.

“She’s a perfectionist,” Mother explained as she straightened one of Philippa’s rescued paintings. She said it as if that was a good thing. I thought of the tangled skein of yarn in the back of my closet.

I am tracing the outline of a broken whelk with my finger when Kammi’s shadow falls over me and blocks the light. I hold the shell up for her to see. The inside is still shiny lavender.

“Do you go shelling?” she asks, picking up an open coquina, still connected at the center so it looks like wings.

“I go out early.” Not to collect shells but to scavenge for sea glass. “It’s best in the morning, just after high tide. Before anyone else gets there.” I hate it when I find fresh footprints there before me. I always wonder what treasure others have stolen.

“These are all over Florida. We stay at Sanibel Island every summer. Mom once made a soup out of coquinas I gathered. I wouldn’t eat it.”

I reach down and scoop up a still-whole scallop shell. I hold it out to Kammi, who takes it in both hands.

Kammi’s parents are both still alive. Every time Mother tried to tell me about Howard saying “Kammi did this” or how “Howard and Kammi did that,” I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t want to hear about her or her father, especially not about them together.

“Come on.” I want away from the sight of the house. I start running.

“Wait up!” Kammi’s voice is broken by the wind in my ears.





Chapter Four


I JOG ALMOST all the way to the beginning of the Bindases’ property, but I stop before crossing over onto it. I don’t want Mayur to see me. He might think I’ve come to talk to him, that I’m eager to hear his secret. Last year, when he claimed he knew something about what happened, I thought he was lying. What could he know? When he tracked me down by e-mail, I blocked his messages. Back here on the island, I still think he’s lying, but I need to know what he thinks he knows.

Walking back toward Blauwe Huis, I meet Kammi, who apparently followed me. She isn’t running, just walking, as if she knew she’d find me.

“Where’d you go?” she asks.

I shrug.

She waits a moment for me to answer. When I don’t, she asks, “Is that a canal?” She points to a dry ravine coming from the hillside all the way to the shore.

“When it rains hard—not all that often—the water runs off down the hills and out to sea. Once, we found a dead goat on the beach there.” Last year, Dad and I took a walk every morning down to this area where, if there wasn’t any haze, we could see another island.

“Yuck,” she says.

I ask, “Do you swim?”

She beams. “Sure. I took lessons. Last year I swam at the country club where we belong. What about you?”

“I know how.” I don’t swim, though. Not anymore. “Watch for undertow here.”

Kammi’s smile fades.

My lips turn up. “We better go back. Martia’s making a special dinner. For you.”

For Martia’s sake, I don’t want to be late.





We walk in silence, listening to the surf. Kammi’s steps start to match mine, even though my stride is longer. I wonder if it really is true, that women who live together start to have periods at the same time, and they aren’t even aware of it happening. Does Kammi have periods? Is she too young? Mother and I don’t discuss periods anymore. I buy extra supplies so I don’t run out and have to ask her.

“Hey, look.” Kammi points to a wooden building tucked into the manchineel. “Is there a sailboat? Can we take it out?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She runs to the boathouse and pulls on the door. Padlocked. I could have told her that. She stands on tiptoe and peers through a cloudy window, cupping her hands around her eyes so she can see inside.

“We don’t have a sailboat.” I know what she’ll see, even though I haven’t looked myself this summer. Fishnets nailed to the wall, as if they’re still drying after a long day in the water. A fishing boat, yes, but the motor’s gone, and the blue paint’s chipping off.

Mother painted The Nautilus two summers ago as a favor to the Dutch owner. He’d named the boat after the submarine in Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, his favorite book. Dad took the boat out twice last summer to fish in deep water when he heard the fish were running.