The Other Side of Blue

by Valerie O. Patterson

  “I can’t remember how to start,” she says.

  “Really?” Mother would have told her when they went out.

  “Would you show me?”

  “What makes you think I know how to paint?”

  “I—I figured you’d know. You said—”

  “You figured I’d know by osmosis or something? Or it’s in my blood?” So many artist friends of Mother’s have said the same thing when they’ve met me at a gallery show. They assume I have inherited artistic skills. Funny how Mother has never thought so.

  Kammi shrugs. She looks very young. “You said you used to.”

  I did say that. “Okay.”

  She smiles.

  Saco and Mayur crest the top of the trail.

  “What are you painting?” Saco asks. He leans over Kammi’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know yet exactly.”

  Mayur says, “How about lizards? They sun themselves on rocks.”

  He’s talking about me. I stretch out my legs on the rock ledge.

  Kammi doesn’t take the bait. “I’m thinking more of a landscape. You know, like a photograph, to take home a good memory.”

  A good memory. I look away, out over the divi-divi trees to the whitecaps far below. The sea stretching to the edge of the earth.

  Mayur shrugs. “Trees? That’s boring. Hey, Saco, let’s get the Hackey Sack.”

  “You brought that?” Kammi asks.

  Saco shrugs and grins. “You brought art.”

  Saco loosens his pack and retrieves a small crocheted beanbag. He uses his foot to toss it in Mayur’s direction, and Mayur kicks it up in the air, then steps back to let Saco move in and keep it moving.

  “Don’t fall off a cliff,” I call after him. I don’t have my answer yet.

  The boys pass the Hackey Sack back and forth as they jog around the flat, rocky area.

  I get up and stand behind Kammi. “Hold still.” I put my hands on her shoulders, pulling them back and down. “Relax. You’re too tense. I thought all you skinny girls took yoga.”

  “I’m not skinny.” Holding her watercolor board, Kammi snaps her head to look back at me.

  “Yes, you are.” I nudge her head back toward the board in front of her. She looks at the blank paper clipped to it.

  “First, don’t look at the paper.” I point toward the horizon. “Out there, that’s where you should keep your gaze.” Where the sea and the sky become one. Artists call it the vanishing point. For me, it’s the place to start to focus, to find the line between what is and what isn’t yet.

  Dr. Bindas, who’s reached the top, nods and smiles as he passes by. He doesn’t say anything, though, as if artists deserve special reverence because they aren’t like other people. Maybe that’s why he still addresses my mother formally. Or maybe it’s because he knows something about what happened.

  “Hey,” Kammi says, bringing me back. “If I don’t look at the paper, how do I know what to paint?” Her voice rises. She shakes the brush she’s holding.

  “If you look at the paper, you’re looking at the wrong thing. You’re not seeing, not translating at all. You’re faking it. It won’t be as good. It won’t be real.”

  Kammi turns to look at me. “Your mother looks at her canvas. She draws a faint line across it before she even starts.”

  I nod. “She’s setting the Golden Mean, dividing her canvas.” Anchoring herself. Mother doesn’t trust that she will know where she is by instinct.

  “Maybe you should start with drawing,” I say. Mother’s mantra.

  Kammi shakes her head, her small mouth set. “No.”

  I smile, but she can’t see me.

  “Okay. Just remember, you wanted to paint landscape. Keep your eye on the horizon. Hold your brush against the dry paper.”

  “But the sea’s so far away.”

  “Why do you think this is about painting the sea?” I ask.

  Kammi looks at me and frowns.

  I stretch my arms. “What’s all that? In front of you?”

  “The whole park?”

  “Sky, stupid,” I say, and laugh, but not hard. Not laughing at her. “It’s all sky. There, just at the very edge of the earth, the sea even becomes the sky. That’s it.”

  Under her bangs, her eyes stare straight through me, as if she thinks I’ve played a long practical joke on her. As if I’ve somehow tricked her into lugging her supplies all the way up here to paint the sea from a great distance.

  Finally, when I don’t laugh and say the joke is on her, she turns to look where I pointed, out toward the horizon. She leans closer to the paper. She reaches out and splats the brush on the paper, misjudging where it is in relation to her hand, extended by the length of the brush. She steadies herself and holds the brush lightly against the paper this time, barely making contact. Touching it like a blind person.

  “Paint what you see,” I say.

  “There’s no paint on the brush.”

  “I know. It doesn’t matter yet. You’re seeing it.”

  Kammi drops her arms to her side, the brush limp in her fingers. “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “It’s silly.”

  I throw up my hands. “It isn’t. I won’t laugh. Some of my best paintings have been done this way.”

  “You are making fun of me. You said you don’t paint.”

  “I don’t. Doesn’t mean I haven’t. Come on, this way there’s no evidence.” I use that word again, “evidence.” I soak a small sponge in water, squeeze it almost dry. “Okay, before you start, we’ll do wet on wet.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a watercolor technique. Mother didn’t tell you this already?”

  Kammi shakes her head.

  “In watercolor, you can use dry paper and wet paint, dry paper and dry paint, and wet paper and wet paint. By dampening the paper and then painting, you soften the line, the tone. You’ll like it.” I move the sponge across the paper, quickly, but with long, even strokes. “Okay, now dip your brush in the water.”

  “Which one?”

  “The wide one first. Always.” Kammi follows directions.

  “Tap it on the edge. Get rid of the excess water.” I watch her flick water onto the dry earth. “Lightly dip your brush in the cerulean blue. See just there at the horizon, where the pink hasn’t burned off yet? Lightly dip the corner of the brush into the alizarin crimson. Now broadly lay in the sky from top to bottom.”

  Kammi’s hand moves to the paper.

  “Wait, don’t try to come at it like a mouse. You have to mean it when you lay the paint down. Mean it, but hold the brush loosely. Like a boy’s hand.” I tease her. And she laughs. When her brush touches the paper, her strokes flow.

  “So?” Kammi asks when she’s finished, still holding the broad brush in her hand, the paint drying on it.

  “What?” I take the brush and plop it into the cup of water. I know what’s she asking, but I refuse to admit it.

  “What now?”

  “Now let it dry a little, not completely. Then you can tackle the sea. If you don’t wait long enough, you’ll ruin it. The paints will run, muddying up everything.”

  Kammi waits, then takes a thinner brush and dips it into the same cerulean.

  I sigh. “Did you look at the sea?”

  She squints.

  “Is it the same blue?” I ask.

  “No,” she says, her voice low as she skims her palette for the right blue. “This one?” She points to the cobalt.

  “Darker, the water will be a shade darker, and patchier, like the waves.”

  She bends over her work, her shoulders tense around her ears.

  “Shoulders down,” I say in her ear.

  She obeys and keeps working. When she’s finished, she cleans her brush.

  “How’s the painting?” she asks me directly.

  “Do you need me to say it’s okay?”

  “Yes,” Kammi says.

  “It’s okay so far.”

&nb
sp; Her face wilts.

  “Really,” I say. “It’s good for a first attempt. You captured the mood, the bright morning, with a hint of darkness.” Like the day. I untie my backpack and shuffle my feet into flip-flops, leaving the hiking sandals to breathe. “But you know, an artist wouldn’t care what anyone else thought.”

  “Your mother does, and she’s an artist.”

  Kammi has me. To the world, Mother is an artist. She gauges herself by what the critics say. She can close herself off in a dark room just waiting for the critics to write reviews in the art magazines. Before they’ve sounded the first weak note of praise, she’s barricaded herself.

  Do I care what people say about my jewelry? I’ve shown it only to Zoe, and not even everything. I have my own version of the inner sanctum, of turning the canvas from others’ view. Maybe I’m no artist after all.

  “Lunch!” Dr. Bindas calls us to the small, shady area near a rock outcropping where some scraggly divi-divi trees struggle to grow. Roberto and Loco are already there. Mayur and Saco scoop up their Hackey Sack and come running. Why they brought it with them on the hike I have no idea. Except that they wanted to show off for Kammi; that’s clear. She was looking at Saco out of the corner of her eye when she was supposed to be painting. Maybe it worked.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “REMEMBER to ask him,” I tell Kammi as we join Dr. Bindas and the boys for lunch.

  She nods. Saco’s left half a blanket open next to him, and Kammi takes it, sitting delicately with her feet tucked to the side, arranging herself like a model posing for an artist. No one tells her how to do this, she just knows by instinct.

  I take a space at the edge of Dr. Bindas’s blanket, close enough to Mayur to catch his eye if he looks my way. The boys eat noisily, like feasting crows.

  After lunch, Dr. Bindas says he’s going to take a nap, he’s tired from a late night at the hospital. He finds a patch of shade and lies down. Once he’s been still for a while, Saco stands and nods toward a trail. We all, even Kammi, make our way over. When I look back, Dr. Bindas hasn’t moved.

  “There’s a short trail this way,” Saco says.

  “Where to?” Kammi asks.

  “A cave,” Mayur says, flapping his arms like a bat’s wings.

  Kammi shivers.

  “It’s not dangerous,” Saco says, frowning at his cousin.

  “I don’t see a cave on the map.” I hold the paper map Dr. Bindas gave us in front of me.

  “It’s not on the official map,” Saco says. “But I’ve been there before. It isn’t far. It’s about here.” Saco points to a blank space on my map. “We brought flashlights.”

  Kammi and I don’t have flashlights. Caves are one thing Martia didn’t prepare us for today.

  “Are there bats?” Kammi asks.

  “Not last time. It’s not like the sea caves,” Saco says.

  “Won’t Dr. Bindas get mad if he wakes up?” Kammi asks.

  “Not at you.” Loco grins.

  The thought of going to a secret cave that isn’t on the map excites the boys. I can feel their desire to sneak off fan out in hot, dry waves across my skin.

  “We can go quickly and come back. We’ll stay together,” Roberto says.

  Mayur looks at me. “If you come, it will be worth it.” Does he mean he’ll tell me?

  Saco looks at Kammi, who turns to me.

  “Okay.” I nod. If we’re with the boys, Dr. Bindas can’t say we were hiking alone.

  The cave is farther than I thought it would be. I’m still wearing my flip-flops, but the sports sandals are in my pack. I bring up the rear, easing my way around prickly pear cacti.

  If this is a trail, it’s a wild donkey path.

  I’m sweating, and the sun glares down on us. Did Dr. Bindas wake up yet and wonder where we are? We didn’t leave him any clues. Not even a stack of rocks pointing the way we walked. Just Kammi’s painting drying in the sun.

  “This is it,” Saco says, pointing. An overhang of rock hides the cave entrance. I’d never have seen it.

  The boys dig flashlights from their packs. Saco has two. He gives one to Kammi, who looks at me. I shrug.

  “I have an extra one, too,” Mayur says. “Maybe the batteries will last.” He hands me a skinny flashlight, the kind that uses double-A batteries. I press the button and hold my hand over the front to shield the sunlight. A faint glow shows it’s working, though how bright it will be inside, I don’t know.

  Roberto, the oldest, goes first. Mayur could have insisted he go first like he usually does, but I think he’s afraid.

  Loco goes second, then Saco, with Kammi right behind him. Saco reaches behind and puts his hand on Kammi’s head to make sure she crouches far enough not to hurt herself going through the entrance.

  “You go,” Mayur says.

  “No, you.” No way I’m letting him follow me into the darkness.

  “Afraid?”

  “Not of the cave,” I say.

  If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it. He just shrugs and ducks inside. I could turn back now. I know the trail back to the picnic area. I could find Dr. Bindas.

  I take a deep breath and step into the shadows. The cool air flows toward me from deeper inside the cave, and I can smell the darkness. I didn’t know before that darkness has a scent. I touch the wall. Rough limestone, it feels chalky, yet almost damp, like a tray of oil pastels. From somewhere, separate from the voices of boys, I hear the trickling of water.

  After a few steps, the outside world seems far away. Here, inside, the air feels heavy, pressing against me. The flashlight shines, but its narrow beam only illuminates the tiniest area in front of me.

  Suddenly, something screeches. Wings flutter around my ears. I duck.

  “It’s okay,” Roberto calls as the noise dies away. “It’s just an owl. They nest in caves sometimes.”

  My knees shake a little as I stand again and follow Mayur.

  “There’s a hole just here, be careful,” Roberto calls back, his voice distorted. Flashlight beams cut across the cave like airport spotlights.

  I stay close behind Mayur. Even though he’s short, he still has to stoop as we go farther into the cave. I run my hand along the ceiling so I won’t bump my head on any outcroppings.

  I follow him around the dark spot on the cave floor. The hole. I wonder how far down it goes, and my stomach flips.

  “So, tell me,” I say.

  “Wait.”

  “Why? The secret’s not in here, is it?”

  Mayur laughs. “Maybe. And there are things best talked about in the darkness. Secret things.”

  A chill goes through me, but I think it’s just the cool temperature inside the cave.

  His hand brushes my skirt. I imagine he’s reaching out to touch the wall.

  “Come see, it’s not much farther. At the back of the cave, you can stand up.” Roberto’s voice echoes. I can’t tell how far away he is. “And there’s a little hole in the top.”

  Someone shrieks. Just ahead of us. A girl?

  “Kammi?” My own voice rises. What if she falls? It’d be my fault. I told her it would be okay. My hand reaches out in the darkness, as if I might feel her in front of me. Someone or something brushes my fingers, and I’m not sure if it’s Mayur or someone else or a bat that Saco says doesn’t live here. I jerk my hand back.

  Saco answers, “It’s okay, she just slipped a little. Watch out—there’s water in a couple of places.”

  I slide my flip-flops along the cave bottom to avoid stumbling.

  Suddenly, we’re in the chamber and we can stand up straight. A thin light shines through a hole in the cave’s high ceiling.

  “Hey, see the drawings?” Loco shines his flashlight on the wall.

  “Are they native?” Kammi asks.

  Saco laughs. “The natives didn’t draw corazones, hearts.”

  I see graffiti with people’s initials.

  “There’s more,” Roberto says, and he and the others move to t
he far end of the chamber. Saco shadows Kammi, as if he’s protecting her.

  Mayur stands close to me. This is my chance, here in the cave. I touch his arm. “Now.”

  He whispers “Maybe” as he finds my hand, the one that touched his arm, and pulls me to kneel on the cave floor with him. My heart starts to pound. I can’t see his face. He turns off his flashlight.

  He runs his hand across the top of my skirt until he’s touching my T-shirt.

  I grab his hand and cut of my flashlight. I don’t want anyone to see me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You want to know what I know? Kiss me.” I smell his skin, its musky scent not that of a little boy’s. He takes shallow breaths, as if he’s afraid to inhale a deep swallow of cave air. Maybe he thinks it’s poisonous. Caves can be that way, with pockets of poison gas, and we’re close to the floor, where bad air settles.

  His other hand finds my shoulder. He runs a finger across my collarbone.

  The air is so heavy, like water. I can’t breathe. I wonder where the others are, whether they can see us in the darkness.

  “You don’t even like me,” I say. Not the way Saco likes Kammi.

  “You’re a girl. An American girl.” He says it as if that’s enough reason. I’m an American girl, so I’m easy. I want something from him. He wants something from me.

  He leans closer. I hold my breath. Behind my closed eyes, I see stars on a black canvas. He kisses my neck, letting his tongue explore that indented place below my throat. I hope he tastes salt.

  “There was a note,” he says, and then kisses more of my throat. His hands touch my shoulders now and inch downward toward my chest.

  I knew Dad wouldn’t have left me without telling me it wasn’t my fault. “Where?”

  “His book.” Mayur puts a hand under my shirt. I can’t move. I’m waiting for each word to drop out of his mouth like a jewel.

  “The note?” I ask. I’m confused. In what book? The one Dr. Bindas returned to us, The History of Language? Mayur’s hand brushes the top of my left breast over my sports bra. In the cold, his hand feels warm over my skin. I hate that it feels good, that I want his hand there so he’ll keep talking. “It—the note,” he whispers, his breath catching as his hand moves. “The note in his book. He left by the pool.”