by Laura Resau
I stand up and look at the pictures closely, noticing the shapes, the color contrasts, the composition of light and dark. “Wendell, remember in the cave, when I asked if you saw us together in the future?”
He stands behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “I didn’t get a chance to answer.”
“Well, what is it you see?” Asking this scares me. What if he doesn’t see us? Or sees us far away from each other? Sees us lonely? Or sees us with other people?
He presses his face into my hair. “We’re together. In a place with amazing light conditions. And lots of fountains.”
Chapter 30
I’m sitting in the shade of a floripondio tree in Faustino’s garden, jotting down impressions on the last page of my indigo notebook, glancing up once in a while to watch leaf shadows shift on Wendell’s face. It’s the day before he has to leave, and we’re having a farewell picnic. We’ve just eaten avocado-and-cheese sandwiches and watermelon slices and caramel-filled pastries. I’m full and content, tingling with the thrill of filling another notebook, relishing the breeze moving over my skin.
A few feet away, Giovanni is perched on a boulder, blowing up a pink balloon, his curls dancing wildly around his face. He’s teaching the girls and Mamita Luz and Taita Silvio and Gaby how to make balloon pigs. Layla—who’s already mastered balloon-creation from a previous clown boyfriend—is wandering around the garden, watercoloring petals and bugs and stones.
I close my notebook and slip my hand into Wendell’s. He’s spent the past month living with Mamita Luz and Taita Silvio, learning about healing and divining. Every day, I stop by their place, and Wendell and I walk to Faustino’s house with the girls to feed the donkey and chickens and dogs. Sometimes we hang out in this garden, sometimes in the crystal chamber, which mesmerizes the girls. Their father is making some progress with his treatment, and their mother comes by to visit when she can.
I glance at the impromptu balloon-animal-making class. Gaby is forming the balloon pig’s snout, with Giovanni’s guidance. She twists with so much vigor, the balloon pops. She jumps and, in English, shrieks, “Holy cow!” which sends the girls into giggle fits. Her English is getting better by the day, and I’ve been making enough money from our tutoring sessions with the other vendors to put some into savings.
Layla meanders over to me and Wendell, crouches across from us, and opens to a fresh page of her sketchbook. Things with Layla have been good. She’s been doing her half of the dishes—or at least convincing Giovanni to do them for her. And I haven’t complained once about how our apartment’s been invaded by exotic balloon creatures—dinosaurs, armadillos, potato bugs.
“You know, Z,” Layla says, dipping her brush into the green, “if you’d been a boy I was going to name you Wendell.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” With broad, impulsive strokes, she starts painting a picture of what I can only assume is an abstract representation of Wendell and me. She glances up at Wendell. “It means wanderer, right?”
He nods. “My parents named me after my grandfather.”
“When I was pregnant, I knew my child and I would be wanderers together.” Layla slathers deep green onto the page, forming our cheekbones, noses, the curve of the leaves surrounding us. “And I loved this idea. But you were a girl, so I named you Zeeta.”
“What’s that mean?” Wendell asks.
“Seeker. Because we’re not just wandering the world.” She swishes her brush in the glass of cloudy green water and dabs it in the red. She splashes the red among the leaves, bright flowers. “We’re seeking.”
“Seeking what?” he asks.
I’m curious how she’ll distill all her searches. Seeking enlightenment? The ultimate spiritual high? The Absolute? Ourselves?
“Who knows,” she says. “Maybe whatever we’re seeking, we’ve had it all along.”
I think of the blue chair.
She rinses the red from her brush and dips it in the blue. She makes the sky in a few quick strokes. “But that doesn’t mean we stop seeking.” She tears off the finished portrait and hangs it from a tree branch with a clothespin. It looks like a strange flag, this sketch of Wendell and me blending into the leaves, flapping there in the breeze. “See, you two are perfect for each other, the wanderer and the seeker. Soul mates.”
I’m more than a little embarrassed, grateful everyone else is out of earshot. I decide to change the subject, fast, before she starts talking about past lives and karma and how her soul mate keeps eluding her, which I’ve heard many times before. “Hey, Layla, maybe our next country could be one with really good light conditions.”
She doesn’t blink at the strangeness of this suggestion. “That would be nice. Inspire me to paint more.”
“It could be a place with lots of fountains, too,” Wendell adds.
“Fountains and light,” Layla murmurs, nodding. Suddenly, her eyes widen. “I know just the place!”
I squeeze Wendell’s hand, and he squeezes back, and everything feels right, the perfect mix of chance and choice and fate and wishes. And as Layla draws in a breath to name our next home, the ground beneath us transforms into the worn, comfortable wood of a blue chair, already lifting us into a watercolor sky.
Glossary and Pronunciation Guide
Adiós ah-dee-OHS goodbye
Algo más? AL-go MAS? Anything else?
Algo para tomar? AL-go PA-ra to-MARRR? Something to drink?
alli punlla* AH-lee POON-zha hello/good day
Amiga ah-MEE-gah friend (female)
Amigo ah-MEE-goh friend (male)
anaco* ah-NAH-coh wraparound skirt
Banco BAHN-coh bank
Buena BWAY-nah good
Buenas tardes BWAY-nas TAHRRR-days hello/good afternoon
Bueno BWAY-noh good, all right, okay
Buenos días BWAY-nos DEE-ahs hello/good morning
Cabrón cahb-RRROHN very offensive insult along the lines of “asshole”
café con leche cah-FAY con LAY-chay coffee with milk
cállate CAH-ya-tay shut up
Canguil* cahn-GEEL popcorn
Chicas CHEE-cahs girls
Chicha* CHEE-chah traditional fermented corn drink
chilca* CHEEL-cah medicinal herb
¡Chuta! CHOO-tah Shoot! or Darn!
Compadres com-PAH-drays coparents or slang for friends
con la luna cohn la LOO-nah “with the moon” or crazy
cumarita* coo-mah-REE-tah comother or slang for female friend
Cumbarigo* coom-bah-REE-goh cofather or slang for male friend
Curandero coo-rahn-DAY-ro healer
cuy* coo-EE guinea pig
Don Dohn Mr.
Doña DON-yah Mrs.
dos mil DOHS MEEL two thousand
Ella AY-ah she
Espérate ays-PAY-rah-tay wait
Floripondio floh-ree-POHN-dee-oh flowering plant native to South America
Fritada* free-TAH-dah fried pork
Gracias GRAH-see-ahs thank you
Gracias a Dios GRAH-see-ahs ah dee-OHS thanks to God
Gringa GREEN-gah female from the U.S.
Gringo GREEN-goh male from the U.S.
Guapa GWAH-pah beautiful
Hacienda ah-see-AYN-dah large estate
Hermano err-MAH-noh brother
Hijo de puta EE-ho day POO-tah son of a bitch (very offensive insult)
Imbabura* eem-bah-BOO-rah huge mountain near Otavalo
jergón* hayrr-GOHN kind of pit viper
jergón sacha* hayrr-GOHN SAH-chah medicinal herb used for treating snake bites
jugo de tomate de árbol* HOO-goh day toh-MAH-tay day ARR-bohl sweet juice made from a “tree tomato” fruit
limpieza leem-pee-AY-sah spiritual cleansing
llapingacho* yah-peen-GAH-cho traditional potato pancake
mamá mah-MAH mom
mamacita linda mah-mah-SEE-tah LEEN-dah pretty little mama
Mamita* mah-MEE-tah mom
menestra* m
ay-NAYS-trah traditional lentil stew
mestiza mays-TEE-sah female of mixed ethnic heritage—indigenous and white
mestizo mays-TEE-soh male of mixed ethnic heritage—indigenous and white
Mierda mee-AYRR-dah shit (offensive)
Mija MEE-hah my daughter
Mijo MEE-ho my son
Mire MEE-ray look
mis hijos mees EE-hohs my children
Mucho gusto MOO-choh GOOS-toh nice to meet you
Mucho mejor MOO-choh may-HOHRR much better
Mujer moo-HAYRR woman
ñaña* NYAH-nyah sister
Ortiga ohrr-TEE-gah medicinal herb (nettle)
Otavaleña oh-tah-vah-LAYN-yah female from Otavalo (may refer to indigenous Quichua speakers)
Otavaleño oh-tah-vah-LAYN-yo male from Otavalo (may refer to indigenous Quichua speakers)
Otavalo oh-tah-VAH-loh a small city in the Ecuadorian Andes
Pachamama PAH-chah-MAH-mah Mother Earth (Quichua goddess)
Papá pah-PAH dad
Parque Bolívar PARR-kay boh-LEE-varr Bolívar Park, a plaza in Otavalo
Peña PAYN-yah live music club or bar
Perdón payrr-DOHN Excuse me
Phoneutria foh-nay-OO-trree-ah highly venomous South American spider
Plaza de Ponchos PLAH-sah de POHN-chohs Ponchos Plaza, location of the outdoor crafts market in Otavalo
que rica bébé kay RREE-cah bay-BAY A possibly offensive catcall
que Dios te bendiga kay dee-OHS tay bayn-DEE-gah God bless you
¡Que pleno! kay PLAY-noh Cool!
Quichua KEECH-wah indigenous language of Otavaleños in the Ecuadorian Andes
Quiero kee-AY-roh I want
Regresamos rray-grray-SAH-mohs We'll be back
Señor sayn-YOHRR sir or Mr.
Señora sayn-YOH-ra ma'am or Mrs.
señorita sayn-yoh-REE-tah Miss
Sí SEE yes
taita* tah-EE-tah father
telenovela TAY-lay-noh-VAY-lah soap opera
Tengo dinero TAYN-goh dee-NAY-roh I have money
Toma TOH-mah drink
Tostado* tos-TAH-doh toasted corn
trago* TRAH-goh liquor
tranquilo tran-KEE-loh calm
Ya no aguanto YA noh ah-WAHN-toh I can't bear it anymore
Yaguarcocha yah-wahrr-COH-chah “Blood Lake” in Quichua
* Word that is either indigenous Quichua or Andean Spanish
Author’s Note
Several years ago, in the Ecuadorian Andes, my Otavaleño friend told me a fascinating true story. One day, a teenage boy traveled from Europe to my friend’s indigenous community, searching for his birth parents. The boy looked just like my friend, yet spoke no Spanish or Quichua. After a lot of digging (with the help of his translator girlfriend), he discovered he was my friend’s half brother, and was embraced by their family. I loved this story, and started weaving it into a novel.
More than a year later, I returned to Ecuador. One evening, I found myself in an adobe curing room with a curandero spitting fireballs at me (sound familiar?). When he asked me to imagine what I truly wanted, I was prepared to envision a successful pregnancy, which was what I’d spent the last five years wishing for. My husband and I desperately wanted a baby, but had struggled with infertility. As I stood there in the darkness, soaking wet, wrapped in the hum of Quichua chants, it occurred to me: Maybe a successful pregnancy isn’t the key to my happiness. Maybe my baby is growing inside someone else, waiting for me. Maybe our spirits are connected. Maybe, somehow, they’ve been connected all along.
After returning from Ecuador, I began the adoption paperwork. Three months later, my husband and I saw a picture of our beautiful one-week-old baby. Over the next nine months, as the paperwork was processed, I wrote a draft of my novel and traveled twice to Guatemala to visit our son. He finally came home with us in December. For the past year, I’ve been finishing this novel, loving my son with every particle of my being, and feeling tired … but happy!
As I wrote Wendell’s story, I thought about the search my son might someday make for his birth parents. Maybe it will be a journey in his imagination, or maybe it will be a physical journey. I hope what he finds at the core of his journey is love, in all its surprising forms.
About the Author
Laura Resau is the author of What the Moon Saw and Red Glass, winner of the IRA Young Adult’s Book Award and the Américas Award. With a background in cultural anthropology and ESL (English as a Second Language), she has lived and traveled extensively in Latin America. She now lives in Colorado with her husband and toddler son, whom she adopted from Guatemala while writing this novel. Laura will donate a portion of her royalties to Latin American indigenous rights organizations. Visit her on the Web at www.lauraresau.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used ficitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Laura Resau
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Books,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark
of Random House, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Coleman Barks for permission to reprint
Rumi excerpts from The Essential Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks,
copyright © 1995 by Coleman Barks (HarperSanFrancisco,
an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers).
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Resau, Laura.
The indigo notebook / Laura Resau.
p. cm.
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Zeeta comes to terms with her flighty mother and
their itinerant life when, soon after moving to Ecuador, she helps an American
teenager find his birth father in a nearby village.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89384-1
[1. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Single-parent families—Fiction.
3. Fathers—Fiction. 4. Ecuador—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.R2978In 2009
[Fic]—dc22
2008040519
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celebrates the right to read.
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