The Other Side of Blue by Valerie O. Patterson Read Free Book Online Page A

and up the stairs to her studio. Even from out here, I can hear her footsteps clang on the metal staircase.
    Martia flutters between the kitchen and the dining table, where I go to sit, alone. Dinner is ruined. The fish, cooked too long, has turned to rubber. The fried cornbread congeals in my mouth. It doesn’t want to go down, but I swallow it anyway, piece after piece, until it’s all gone. Every crumb.

Chapter Seven
    J UST AFTER DAWN the next morning, when I slip in from the beach, my pockets weighted down with shells and sea glass, I hear Mother’s footsteps going up the metal staircase. I catch her glance as she’s closing the door to her studio. I can’t tell what she’s thinking and I don’t care. The damp hem of my skirt drags on the floor and my flip-flops squish as I walk through the kitchen, leaving a trail of sand. Martia doesn’t scold, though. She lets me squeeze past her and into Mother’s still-warm chair. Without speaking, she hands me a plate of pancakes topped with coconut syrup. My favorite breakfast.
    Mother paces upstairs. No matter how softly she walks, I always know when she’s up there. If she’s aware of my ventures into her studio, she hasn’t let on. She hasn’t mentioned the missing tubes of oil paint. Maybe she hasn’t noticed yet.
    Kammi tiptoes into the kitchen in her bare feet, her pink toenails like small shells, ever so quiet on the woven rug. She must not realize Mother is already awake and she’s afraid to disturb her.
    Martia turns and smiles at Kammi. “
Bon bini,
” she says. Good morning, as if yesterday afternoon were only a bad memory. She wipes her floury hands on her apron and reaches out to guide Kammi to a chair, then places a glass of pink guava juice in front of her.
    â€œYou missed the pancakes with coconut syrup,” I say, licking the last of the syrup off my fork. I feel overfull. Maybe the rich coconut will make me sick. But in an hour or two, I’ll be hungry again. Martia will sneak food into my room later.
    Mother hasn’t looked in my room here on the island. Back home in Maine this past year, she searched my dresser drawers, trying to root out the candy wrappers and the chip bags as if they were weeds in a garden. Leaving ads for one-hundred-calorie snacks pinned to the corkboard on my bedroom door. That and notes on the kitchen counter.
Working late. Lean De-Lite entrée in freezer.
That’s how we communicated most of the time.
    Since we arrived here this year, she uses Martia to give me messages instead of leaving notes. She gets Martia to say “The colas are no good for you.” Yet Martia still ladles extra servings for me at meals and bakes coconut candies for dessert.
    Kammi shrugs, not making a fuss about the pancakes. But I see in her eyes just a hint of disappointment.
    â€œOh,
chookie,
don’t you worry. I make you something good,” Martia says. Martia called me
chookie,
too, when I was younger. In Papiamentu, it means “chick.” I feel as if I have always been Martia’s chick, taking shelter under her arms when she clucks.
    â€œSo what are you going to do today?” Martia asks me while she’s whipping up something light and fluffy. The thin batter spreads across the heated pan like foam from a wave. Finer than pancakes, crepes are Kammi’s reward. “You show Miss Kammi around, yes?”
    I shrug. No, that’s what I want to say. I want to sit on the beach and stare at the sea and do nothing. Martia’s so eager, though, that for once I can’t say what I want.
    Kammi answers for me. “I want to paint.” She smiles. I bet she’s pleased with herself for speaking up, especially after yesterday. “I have to practice. Dad expects me to learn something while I’m here. I started a scene in my head last night. The boathouse.”
    The sweet taste on my tongue goes sour.
    Martia doesn’t miss a beat.