The Other Side of Blue(8)

Once, he came back with fish.

The second time, he did not come back.

Unlike the blue boat, a real nautilus shell has dozens of chambers filled with air. The animal inside lets out air to maneuver itself into the depths of the sea, taking oxygen with it to the bottom. Is there enough air for a person to breathe? If you could cup the shell to your mouth under water and inhale, could you get enough air to get to the surface if you were drowning?





“Come on, we’ll be late,” I tell Kammi, picking up my pace. Not looking at the boathouse. It’s not that I care about being late, it’s more that I don’t want Martia to think I don’t love her.

Mother’s waiting for us at the French doors. Did she notice Kammi at the boathouse?

“Nice to see you two getting acquainted,” Mother says. She sweeps her arm out, motioning us toward the house like a stage director. “Miss Kammi, please lead us in to dinner.” She acts as if we’re at a royal court in some play. Martia will serve us golden trays of figs, pomegranates, and other delicacies while we lean back against soft floor pillows.

For this we need an entrance. “Bring on the trumpets,” I say.

“What?” Mother asks.

“Crumpets. I wonder. Shall we have crumpets with our tea?” I imitate the British accent of Philippa. She’d been studying in Italy last year, but she was in Maine when we got home. And she was the only one of Mother’s art students to attend the memorial service. Mother didn’t talk to her. Philippa sat a row behind Mother and me, and I heard her tell someone she couldn’t believe how the sky could be so blue, so clear and cloudless, on such a sad day.

Kammi giggles. She’s probably thinking that we’re joking, like all families do. I curtsey, the damp edges of my skirt sweeping the wooden planks as I trail Kammi inside, leaving Mother to follow us both.

Kammi folds her sunglasses and tucks them beside her plate, just so. She bows her head for a moment. I can’t believe she’s praying.

When she opens her eyes, I say, “Are you okay?”

Mother laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous, Cy. Kammi’s fine.”

Kammi blushes, and I pass her the shrimp platter.

Except for my friend Zoe, I don’t know anyone who says grace. Suddenly, I want to ask Kammi about God and how she knows God exists. Is God more than a feeling inside? Does she believe because her parents told her to, or does she believe because nothing else makes sense? When even a simple flower is so perfect, it can’t have been due to chance.

Maybe I will pray, too, at our next meal, if only because Mother won’t be able to say anything. But whatever Mother thinks about God or church, she wouldn’t question Kammi. So how could she question me? Not like when Mother wouldn’t let me attend Zoe’s church, not even after Dad died.

“What church do you go to?” I ask. Maybe it’s something exotic—a group of snake-handling fanatics. But it can’t be. Not for a girl who attends boarding school in Atlanta.

“Episcopal.”

Of course. A church for rich people. “Don’t they have priests?” I ask.

Kammi tilts her head to one side, as if she’s thinking about my question.

“Yes,” she says. “But they’re not like Catholic priests. They can marry.”

She blushes, and I bet it’s because she was talking about marriage and thinking about sex, and those are subjects we’re not ready to talk about. Not even Mother, who uses the tongs to serve herself salad. She passes the bowl to Kammi, who arranges salad on her plate as if it’s an art display. Maximizing texture and color, minimizing blank space. They both do it, seemingly without thinking. With a pang, I realize Kammi is an artist.

“Is your dad Episcopal, too?” Howard hasn’t mentioned religion in the times we’ve been together, but with me he’s stiff and formal. He stands in doorways, as if he isn’t sure whether to enter or retreat. Whether he can calculate the business of stepdaughters the way he does a profit margin. Suddenly, I want to know what his beliefs are. What if he believes in purgatory or converts dead people from his family tree?

Mother and Kammi both say no at the same time.

Kammi pierces her salad with her fork. “He says he can’t prove God exists.” She speaks as if she’s not sure he’s right, but she’s still young enough to believe fathers are infallible and will live forever.

Martia hovers by the dining table. She pats Kammi’s thin wrist. “Kome, kome,” she says. “Eat, eat.” After she circles us, and sees that our plates are full, she retreats. I hear the soft crackle of the radio turning on in the kitchen.