The Other Side of Blue by Valerie O. Patterson Page B

that Mother had read on the plane ride down, and
En Huis.
Martia scours
the Dutch magazine cover to cover, admiring the neatly tiled houses of Holland but not the Europeans who come to Curaçao to spend their money and make fun of the locals. After Dr. Bindas returned the book, I kept thinking it might contain clues about what happened to Dad. There was an inscription inside, dated two years ago now, in Rome: “The history of language is the history of love.” No signature. No initials, even. Maybe Dad had bought it used. As a professor, he often ordered secondhand books for research. This book seemed new, though, the spine barely creased, despite water damage to the cover.
    â€œWhat’s in there?” Kammi asks, nodding at the box.
    â€œSea glass. Mermaids’ tears,” I blurt out without thinking.
    â€œMermaids’ tears?” Her eyes go big, as if perhaps she thinks I really believe in mermaids.
    â€œIt’s just trash. Glass that’s been tossed into the sea. I collect it.”
    â€œTo do what with?”
    I snap the lid shut. I’m not ready to tell Kammi how I make jewelry with it. I’m not ready to trust her with anything.
    â€œOkay,” she says, not asking me again. She looks around the room, maybe looking for clues about me. But there’s not much here to see.
    Finally, Kammi says: “Your mother’s going to take me painting with her tomorrow.” She says it casually, but I hear an edge to her voice.
    â€œShe asked you?”
    â€œYes, well, not exactly,” Kammi says. She sits on her hands on my bed. “I was talking to her about the pencils, telling her I liked them. How I wanted to try watercolor. Dad thinks watercolor is the best.”
    â€œShe didn’t say draw first?”
Draw first
is Mother’s mantra. Even Mother’s star student, Philippa, had to prove her range of drawing skills before she graduated to paints.
    â€œNo. She’s taking me to paint en plein air.”
    I know better. It’s an old trick. Kammi doesn’t realize that this trip with Mother isn’t really about her going. It’s about Mother getting someone to carry her supplies and trail at her feet like a servant. Maybe Mother wants a student, even if relationships with her students usually end after a couple of years, for different reasons.
    Kammi will sit in the sun and burn if she forgets her sunscreen. The backs of her thighs will stick with sweat to the plastic webbed lawn chair that she’ll have to carry. She’ll sit there and Mother won’t want Kammi to look at what she’s doing because it’s a work in progress. Even if there’s nothing on the canvas. Mother might reach over once or twice and dab some paint on Kammi’s paper to make it look like she’s helping her.
    I don’t warn Kammi. She wouldn’t believe me. She’d think I’m just feeling sour grapes, that I hate her because she’s here, because my mother sent her watercolor pencils before I knew she even existed. Because Howard’s coming to take Dad’s place. I don’t hate her for all those reasons. I hate her because of the same gift of Caran d’Ache watercolor pencils stuffed into the back of my closet at home.
    â€œWhy don’t you go with us?” Kammi asks me.
    â€œAre you kidding?”
    â€œYou could.”
    â€œWhy would I want to?”
    Her shoulders relax and she smiles, her even white teeth showing. She wants Mother all for herself, but she can’t help being polite enough to ask me to come along.
    â€œDon’t you paint?” she asks. Now that it’s safe, now that I have told her I don’t want to compete with her for Mother’s attention, she asks the important question.
    â€œNo. I used to.” The same way that I no longer swim, I don’t paint or draw.
    Kammi waits a minute. Maybe she thinks I’ll say more, but I stand silent, holding the glass box, with