The Indigo Notebook

by Laura Resau

  They smile and keep walking. She turns back to me.

  “Listen, Zeeta, I’d say put that bear back right away. And get Wendell far away from that devil.”

  “What about the police?”

  “Ha! The police are as corrupt as the rest of them. They’re probably already in the pocket of the smugglers. And they might end up pinning something on Wendell to lay the blame elsewhere.”

  “That’s what I figured.” I tuck the pouch of emeralds back inside the bear. “Can I borrow a needle and thread, Gaby?”

  She insists on sewing it up herself. She’s done in about two minutes, although her stitches are smaller and neater than the original ones. Close enough, though.

  I stuff the bear back in my bag and stand up. My legs feel wobbly. “Thanks, Gaby.”

  “And Zeeta?”

  “Yes?”

  “Bring someone with you. Your mother. Go, drop off the bear, and come straight back, you hear?” She pauses. She hardly ever looks worried, but now her eyebrows have furrows deep as canyons. “These guys kill with no more remorse than stepping on a bug.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Que Dios te bendiga,” she says, moving her hands in invisible crosses. “God bless you.”

  As soon as I start to leave, the hippie travelers return. Gaby says, “Ah, you came back, guapo. You couldn’t resist my treasures! Here, this blue, for your girlfriend’s eyes! Three for ten dollars, guapo!”

  I head home. I want Layla. I want to spill everything out to her. I want her to spritz lavender around the room to calm me. I want her cloud of patchouli to make me feel like everything will be okay. I want her to come with me and charm those thugs and bring Wendell back.

  Maybe, all along, she’s been looking out for me, too. Yin and yang. Maybe I’ve taken care of the practical things and she’s taken care of the spiritual things—negotiating with spirits and angels to watch our backs.

  When I get home, she isn’t there. Just a note saying,

  Jeff and I are

  looking for you,

  love. Please call

  Jeff’s cell. We need

  to talk.

  You are the light of

  my existence,

  Layla

  I brush my fingertips over the letters, a hodgepodge of upper and lowercase, cursive and print, random flourishes and swirls added to letters for no apparent reason. It pays no attention to the lines, crosses them in diagonal waves, curving upward. The words, light and wispy, are butterfly wings, about to fly off the page. I turn over the paper and write a note in my compact, even script.

  Layla, I’m at Faustino’s dropping

  something off. It’s important.

  I hesitate.

  If I’m not back by tonight, call

  Gaby. She’ll explain.

  I hesitate again. I have the urge to write something sappy, something along the lines of You’re the light of my existence, too. Instead I write,

  Sorry I yelled at you in the pig shit.

  Love,

  Zeeta

  Love. A word I never use with her. She gushes love, but when it comes time for me to reciprocate, the words stop in my throat. Somewhere along the line, I’ve decided to express my love through cooking and washing dishes. After all, she’s gushed enough you are the light of my existences for the both of us. She hasn’t seemed to mind. She’s always said I have the most beautiful aura she’s ever seen and that my heart chakra’s pink oozes out everywhere. “Like a big billowing ball of cotton candy!” she said once when I was little.

  Sunlight streams through the window, hits the crystal sun catchers, casting spots of rainbows everywhere, even bands of indigo nestled between the blue and violet. Layla’s a sun catcher. But settling down with Jeff, she’d be in the shade, just a clear piece of cut glass, nothing special. I miss her spray of rainbows. It isn’t flamboyant. It’s her.

  I walk into her room. Her altar is crowded with pictures of goddesses and Virgins and gods, along with special stones she’s found, dried flowers, pieces of driftwood, incense, and a picture I painted as a little kid of me and her together, flying between the earth and the moon and the sun and the stars, holding hands. We’re wearing halter tops and long skirts and you can see our belly buttons. Our smiles are perfectly matched half circles. Back then I thought all girls lived with their mothers and traveled the world and found new grandmothers and cousins in every country.

  Was I happy then? When did I trick myself into thinking I wasn’t happy? When did I get an idea of what happy was? And when did I convince myself that being normal would make me happy?

  I take some protective stones from her altar—green jade, red jasper, and a few crystals—what she’d want me to carry.

  A few blocks from the bus stop, I pause in front of the phone booths, wondering whether I should call her. I think of Wendell’s parents, who haven’t heard from him for days. I think of what I’ve promised Sarah: to call her if Wendell needed her. If I were in Wendell’s situation, would I want my mom’s help?

  I would.

  Not that Layla could do anything—in fact, she might create more problems. But I would want her to know. I stare at the orange neon Internet café sign, at my reflection in the window, a girl with her mouth half open, unsure what to do.

  Before I can change my mind, I open my indigo notebook to the page with Sarah’s phone number and run inside and give the number to the phone girl. I check how much money I have on me. Two dollars. I put it on the counter. Two dollars’ worth of a conversation. About two minutes. Hopefully that will be enough time to explain this mess.

  With polished crimson nails, the girl dials quickly. “Booth number two.”

  The phone rings five times. I clutch the cord, winding it around my fingers. Just when I’m thinking I’ll have to either hang up fast or come up with a message, Sarah’s voice answers, breathless.

  “Hello?”

  I try to make my voice breezy, as though I’m just calling about homework. “Hey, Sarah, this is Wendell’s friend, Zeeta.”

  “Zeeta! Thank God! Where’s our son? We haven’t heard from him for days. We’ve called the hotel, but they say he isn’t there and Dalia isn’t there either and we don’t have another number for him, and oh God, is he okay?”

  “Yes, he’s okay.”

  Silence, little gasps. She’s trying to stop crying. But I only have about ninety seconds left, so I cut to the chase. “Actually, Sarah, I’m, uh, a little worried that he’s about to make a decision that’s maybe … not so good.”

  “What kind of decision?” This is the voice of someone trying desperately to stay calm but secretly hyperventilating.

  “Uh, not that it’s life or death, not exactly, but—well, financial. I think he might be about to, uh, throw away his art abroad money.” I sound like a rambling, incoherent idiot. “Don’t freak out or anything, Sarah. I don’t know what he told you about his birth father …” I’m guessing I have about sixty seconds left.

  “He said he was a nice, regular old guy.” Sarah’s voice is actually shaking. “Nothing else, no matter how hard we pushed.”

  “He’s—he’s a jerk. And I think he’s using Wendell. I think—”

  “Oh God. We should never have let him go alone. Listen, we’re taking the next plane there. I’ve been wanting to do this all along.”

  Wendell will kill me. Here and now I am ruining the remotest chance of any future relationship with him. This is like tattling or something, only worse. This is breaking some kind of universal code of conduct, calling someone’s mom to come get them. And on a whole different continent.

  Thirty seconds left and I don’t know what to say. “Sarah, Wendell’s gonna kill me—”

  “You did the right thing, Zeeta. I won’t tell him you called. I’ll go online to transfer the money from his account. Then I’ll get the plane tickets. For today if I can. I’ll tell him it was all my idea.”

  The gears in my brain are turning and I’m picturing the thugs and how if they don’t get thei
r money, they’ll use that machine gun, and I’m wondering how many seconds I have left in this phone call—probably about ten—and I’m realizing that before Sarah closes the account, Wendell needs to get far, far away from Faustino. And as I’m trying to form this into some kind of explanation that won’t throw Sarah into a total panic, the line goes dead.

  I run to the counter where the girl sits staring at the tiny flowers of stick-on rhinestones on her red nails. “I need more time!”

  “Your two dollars ran out, señorita.”

  “Can you call back and I’ll pay you later?”

  She shakes her head, looks back at her nails. “Sorry.”

  “Please?”

  “Sorry.”

  I race to the ATM. The closest one is broken, the next closest is broken too, and the third closest has a line stretching around the corner. Fifteen minutes wasted.

  I stand on the sidewalk, clutching my bag, trying to order my thoughts, which are hard to hear over the pounding of my heart. I need to return the teddy bear. I need to get to Wendell, fast. I need to warn him that his account will be empty. I need to convince him to leave Faustino’s house.

  The smugglers said they’d come back in the tarde, a frustratingly vague word covering anytime between noon and night. The sun’s already right overhead. If I’m fast, I might make it there before them.

  I run toward the bus stop, unsure how I’ll pay for my fare. Usually, you get on the bus and pay later, en route to your destination. I figure I’ll sit in the back and hope by the time they get to me, we’ll be close enough to Agua Santa that even if they kick me off, I’ll be able to run the rest of the way.

  A block from the bus stop, I spot Don Celestino on the corner, settled in his blue chair, holding his orange bowl on his lap, greeting passersby. How low can I stoop, begging from a beggar? I slow down in front of him.

  “Buenas tardes, Señorita Zeeta,” he says, smiling.

  “Buenas tardes, Don Celestino. I have a favor to ask.”

  His clouded eyes gaze into the distance. “Anything.”

  “I need to borrow bus fare to Agua Santa.”

  He reaches out for my hand, holds it open, and drops a fistful of coins in my palm. He closes my hand and pats it. “Enough for bus fare back, too. Que Dios te bendiga, señorita.”

  “¡Gracias, señor!” I take off, reaching the corner just as the bus chugs away. For twenty minutes, which feel like forever, I pace the sidewalk, twirling my finger around a strand of hair in desperation. Once I’m on the bus, my heartbeat calms a little, but my palms are sweating like crazy and no matter how much I wipe them on my jeans, they’re wet again within seconds. My sparkly white shirt reflects light through the open window. I feel the opposite of sparkly white. I feel stuck in slimy, pig-shit-laced mud.

  By the pink house, I get off, along with a family loaded down with burlap sacks and a little piglet that they’ve probably bought at the market.

  I push the horrible pig-market scene from my mind. Focus. Feel sorry for yourself later. Wendell needs you now.

  I take off my flip-flops and run up the hill, one hand on the bag slung across my shoulder. Now there’s another thing forcing its way into my mind: the gun on the seat of the thugs’ truck. If they get there before me, they might kill him.

  I have to get there first.

  At the top of the hill, I pause to catch my breath. The sky is clear blue, the color of Don Celestino’s chair, with just a few clouds gathered at the mountain peaks.

  Over the bird and insect songs, girls’ voices rise, squealing with excitement. Odelia and Isabel and Eva are running to me, shouting, arms outstretched. “Zeeeta!”

  Odelia fixes her huge eyes on mine. “Are you going to Taita Silvio’s?”

  I shake my head, still catching my breath.

  Eva frowns. “You’re not going back to Don Faustino’s, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  The girls’ eyes widen. “Why?”

  “I have to get Wendell.” I give them quick hugs and take off running up the hill toward Faustino’s house, pausing a few times to pluck some stickers from my bare feet. Faustino’s truck is there. Wendell and Faustino must be inside.

  I haven’t brought bread for the dogs, I realize. They’re lounging in the dirt patch, licking their fur and snapping at flies. They see me and wag their tails, bounding over with tongues flopping happily.

  I let them sniff my hands—luckily that’s enough—and head toward the house, taking the bear from the bag, ready to return it to Faustino, wondering what I’ll to say to Wendell, how he’ll react.

  When I’m about twenty feet away, Faustino comes to the door, rifle in hand.

  Wendell appears beside him, backpack slung over his shoulder.

  He looks confused.

  And Faustino looks furious.

  He raises the gun and aims it at me.

  Chapter 26

  I’ve had guns pointed at me before, when Layla and I crossed the border into Cambodia, and a few times in Northern Africa, but those were just military guys showing off. After Layla smiled and worked her magic, they waved us along without even bribe money.

  But this is different. I’ve taken something valuable from him.

  I drop the bear and put my hands up, flip-flops still dangling from my fingers.

  Wendell is shouting in broken Spanish, “No! Ella Zeeta! She buena! She amiga!”

  Faustino ignores him and moves closer, snatching the bear from the weeds.

  “Wendell,” I say, “you know what’s hidden inside those bears?”

  Wendell shakes his head slowly.

  “Emeralds.”

  “But …” He turns to Faustino.

  Faustino flips over the bear, rips the seams with his switchblade, and pulls out the bag. He dumps the stones into his palm, weighing and counting them.

  “Wendell, he’s part of a smuggling ring. We have to—”

  “¡Cállate!” Faustino sticks his face in mine. His breath smells of hard liquor and onions. “Did you take any?”

  “They’re all there,” I say, my voice unsteady. “Do what you need to do. Just don’t let Wendell get involved.”

  “He’s already involved. He’s my son.”

  I swallow hard. “If you think of him as your son, let him go.”

  He lowers the gun.

  Wendell grabs my arm. “What’s going on? What’s he saying?”

  “It’s too late,” Faustino says, before I have a chance to translate. “I owe these guys—and Wendell’s loaning me money to pay them back.” He pulls his keys from his pocket and heads toward the truck. “We’re on our way to his bank now. We’re already running late.”

  I turn to Wendell. “Don’t go with him. Come with me. Say goodbye to him and come with me.”

  “But I promised him the money, Z.”

  “Wendell.”

  “Ask him why he lied to me.”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “Ask him why, Zeeta. Please.”

  I turn to Faustino. “He wants to know why you lied to him.”

  Faustino looks at Wendell, then at the ground. “To protect him. I’ll pay him back, I promise. By now they probably noticed a bag is missing, and they won’t be in a good mood about that, either.”

  I translate.

  “I don’t know,” Wendell says. “Maybe I should give him the money.”

  “No!” I yell, aware of every drawn-out second.

  Wendell nods at Faustino. “Come,” he says, motioning to the truck. “Banco. Yo dar dinero tu.” I to give money you.

  I brace myself. “Wendell, your account’s empty.”

  “What?”

  “I talked to your mom. She transferred all the money from your account.”

  Wendell says nothing. Insect sounds rise and fall. Dogs bark in the distance. “Tell Faustino, Zeeta,” he says coldly.

  I turn to Faustino. “Wendell doesn’t have any money.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “His
mom emptied his account. And we’re leaving now.”

  The smugness in his squinty eyes gives way to fear. “These guys will put me in the cemetery.”

  Suddenly, there’s the rumble of an engine. A cloud of dust is moving up the hill. The dogs bark and run to the truck. The big silver truck. The one with the machine gun on the front seat.

  They’re here.

  Faustino drops the bear. “Run!”

  “This way!” He heads toward the garden. With one of the two skeleton keys around his neck, he unlocks the door and pushes it open. We run in after him. Cursing, he locks the door behind us.

  The truck screeches to a stop. Men’s voices start shouting.

  Faustino takes off down the path.

  We follow him through the scent of flowers, heavy and perfumed, and birds chirping and thousands of insects humming. It’s bizarre, racing through this paradise with armed men on our tail. Tree roots and stones trip us, but we regain our balance and keep running. Behind us, fists are pounding on the wooden door, and there’s more shouting, and then machine-gun fire on the iron lock, a sharp, staccato sound.

  The door creaks open.

  “¡Chuta!” Faustino cries.

  This is farther than we went the last time. It’s all downhill, but the path twists and turns here and there. My legs have gained a momentum of their own, and now I’m just trying not to fall or run headlong into a tree. In a couple of minutes, after a sharp curve, the path ends at a wooden door at the base of the hill. To the right of the door, a stone wall topped with glass shards begins and disappears in a tangle of flowering vines. Faustino stops at the door, gasping and fumbling with the keys around his neck.

  I spot the men through the foliage, nearing the end of the path. “Hurry, Faustino,” I whisper.

  He leans over and fits the key in the lock, his hands shaking. He pushes the door open with all his weight. It looks heavy, six inches thick, a solid plank. We stumble inside after him.

  In a split second, I take in the details, my eyes straining to adjust to the darkness. The only light comes from the doorway, a dusty golden glow. This part of the cave is small, with three tunnel openings behind us, mine shafts, maybe. They look tall enough for a person to walk through hunched over.