The Indigo Notebook (15 page)

And now, because of me, she’s turned into a cow.

At one a.m., we walk back to Wendell’s hotel, our bodies loose from dancing. “I’m sleeping here if that’s okay with you,” I say. “I don’t want to go home and wake up to more
Frasier
reruns.”

Without looking at him or waiting for an answer, I lie down on the bed near the window. After a split-second pause, he settles on the one near the bathroom. The small lamp casts yellow light between us.

“So,” I whisper, “what’s your earliest memory?”

“Why?”

“For my indigo notebook.”

He closes his eyes, and then says slowly, “When I was little, my dad used to sit by my bed at night and play the guitar. Slow, sleepy tunes. Then he’d hold my hand, and when he tried to pull away his hand, I held on, and I said, ‘Tell me about how I came to you.’ Because I knew when I asked about my adoption, he had to stay. He wasn’t allowed to say, ‘No that’s it, go to sleep.’”

“Tell me the story,” I say. “For my notebook.”

“I’ve never told anyone this,” he says, embarrassed.

“I’ll tell you a story next time.”

“Fine, here goes. ‘Before you were born,’ Dad would say, ‘Mom and I wanted a baby more than anything. We cried and prayed and hoped and wished. We went to doctors and herbalists and acupuncturists, but no one could help us. And then, one night, Mom dreamed of a red ribbon that led from her heart to the heart of a baby. And we knew that the red ribbon was stronger than blood. It connected our souls. We felt it pulse with our heartbeats. We felt it whisper that throughout all of time and all of space, that red ribbon is there, linking us together. It tugged us toward you, and you toward us, and finally we found each other.’”

His voice has dropped so low it crackles. “And by this time I was always nearly asleep, and Dad took his hand from mine and put my red ribbon in its place.”

The next morning, I wake up to the sound of Wendell in the shower. I open the window and let sunlight and morning air breeze into the room. I study the photo of his parents
again. Beside them is the red ribbon that held his letters. I touch the satin, worn and soft.

His cell phone rings and I jump, feeling caught. I consider whether I should answer it. What if it’s Her? But maybe it’s Layla. I sneak a guilty peek at the phone’s screen, hoping it won’t say
Love of My Life
or anything.
Sarah
is all it says. No picture. Just the name. Could be Her.

I call through the bathroom door, “Should I get that?”

“Yeah.” His voice is muffled over the running water.

“It’s Sarah,” I warn.

“Go ahead.”

I answer it. “Hello. Wendell’s room.”

“Hi!” A surprised voice. A lady’s voice. At least forty. “Is this Zeeta?”

“Yep.”

“Zeeta! This is Wendell’s mom, Sarah. His dad and I are so, so, so grateful to you. We’re so happy to know he has a friend there.”

“Well, we’re having fun,” I say, glad she isn’t a stodgy mother who gets freaked out over a girl answering her son’s phone early in the morning.

“Zeeta, listen, here’s our number and e-mail. Got a pen? If anything happens, call us. If—” And then quiet sniffling.

“Um, are you okay?” I picture her—the smattering of freckles over her nose, her brown-gray hair in disarray—taking off her glasses and wiping her tears with her sleeve.

“It’s just that—I mean, I was prepared for him to look for his birth parents, but I always thought we’d be with him. He
has high hopes for them. I’m worried they won’t be who he—I don’t want him to get hurt, Zeeta.”

“I’ll look out for him,” I say in the calm voice I use with Layla when she gets riled up about something. When I was little, sometimes other kids made fun of my accent during my first months in a new place. She’d get in a huff. “How many languages do those little twerps speak, huh? Not half as many as you!” Maybe all mothers do have a certain hyperness in common. Maybe Layla does have some maternal instincts after all; I just overlooked them.

I jot down Sarah’s number in my indigo notebook. She wants my contact info too, as backup, which must be a mother thing. I imagine her writing it neatly in a handmade address book. In one of Wendell’s letters, written on Mother’s Day, he wrote a list of what he liked about his mom, and number four—right after her chocolate-chip marshmallow caramel cheesecake—was her talent for making paper with leaves and petals and old newspapers, which she taught him.

Just as I shut my notebook, Wendell comes out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, his hair loose and dripping around his broad shoulders. He takes the phone with a sheepish half-smile.

“I’ll be in the shower while you get dressed,” I whisper.

As I go into the bathroom, he mumbles, “Hey, Mom.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pick up the red ribbon from the bedside table and rub it absently as he talks.

…

We eat breakfast together in the hotel café and drink
jugo de tomate de árbol—
a fruit juice that tastes like sweet tomatoes blended with sugar and water—along with croissants and jam and
café con leche
. Dalia the babysitter is swishing around the tables in a lime green polyester skirt suit that clings to her huge hips. She greets us and winks, as if to say,
I know who spent the night together, but don’t worry, I won’t tell your mom
. Embarrassing. Luckily, the café is busy, and she dashes off to help clear tables.

The TV in the upper corner of the room is blaring the news. It’s all about the bus crash. Three people died, one of them a child. I’d nearly forgotten about the accident. After the night of dancing and talking, yesterday afternoon seems like ages ago.

When Wendell hears this, he blinks a lot.

He doesn’t touch the rest of his food.

He looks like he wants to dissolve into nothing.

He’s quiet all morning, on the bus ride to Agua Santa and the walk up the hill to Taita Silvio’s house.

Taita Silvio greets us at the door.
“Buenos días
, Wendell.
Buenos días
, Zeeta. We heard about the crash.
Gracias a Dios
you’re all right.”

As I translate to Wendell, he nods, his face tight.

Taita Silvio notices his reaction, and says softly, “Follow me, son.” He leads us around metal buckets and plastic bowls to a hut, also adobe, across from the main house. Leaning against the walls are rolled-up woven mats and brooms and
shovels. Puppies and chickens chase one another in a flurry of ruffled feathers and fur.

Taita Silvio ushers us into the dark curing room. He lights the candles, then settles into a chair behind the altar, looking calmer, his shoulders relaxing, as though this is where he feels most comfortable. He speaks in a slow, gentle voice, motioning to the bench. “Sit,
mis hijos
, sit.”

I breathe in the cool, earthy smell of plants and smoke, and a rush of anticipation surges through me. Layla’s brought me to plenty of rituals, and as much as I groan to her, I love recording them in my notebooks, noticing the patterns across cultures. The healers I’ve met haven’t stayed inside the box of any one religion. They all believe their powers come directly from some form of God or the Absolute, or whatever you want to call it, but they blend their own mix of native practices with Christianity and Eastern images and New Agey stuff—whatever works for them. If something feels sacred, it feels sacred, no matter which religion box it falls into. They’re like chefs, creating their own recipes.

Taita Silvio digs around in a bag behind the altar and pulls out several necklaces of wood and tree nuts, which he drapes around his neck. Then he puts on a hat of feathers, white and yellow and red, with long turquoise feathers rising up and forming a peak.

“So,” he sighs. “You want to find your father.”

My translation is fast and smooth. Wendell says,
“Sí.”

“Do you have a coin?”

Wendell takes a coin from his pocket, a quarter.

“Rub it between your hands and blow on it,” Taita Silvio says.

Wendell rubs it and blows, looking nervous. Then Taita Silvio takes the coin from him. He passes it through the candle flame, again and again, leaving it in the fire for longer each time, until I wonder if his hand is burning. I’ve put my finger through candle flames before and felt the strange substance of fire surround it for a second, but never for as long as this.

Taita Silvio begins speaking as if in a trance, his voice deep and rhythmic, his eyes fixed on Wendell, but his gaze focused on some place behind Wendell, or inside him. “I see your father. Your real father. He lives in a place with mountains. The top of his head is smooth like an egg. No hair. He’s sitting in a place of blue and green. There’s music. He’s playing music. Sad music.”

“That’s Dad.” Wendell seems to have fallen into a kind of trance himself, talking in an unusually deep voice, his eyes looking at a far-off place inside the candle flame. “He’s in my room. Playing guitar. Nick Drake. He plays that when he’s sad.”

I translate, and Taita Silvio seems to come out of his trance for a moment, looking at Wendell curiously. “Why do you want another father? This one seems good.”

“There are some questions he can’t answer.”

“We all have questions without answers.” Taita Silvio
passes the coin through the flame again, and slips back into a trance. His eyes widen. After a moment, his voice emerges, wary. “I see a place of light and dark.”

When I translate, Wendell says, “Light and dark?” as though it means something to him.

I nod.

Silvio goes on. “A place of liberation and a prison. I see a betrayal. Danger.”

I translate, shivering and rubbing the goose bumps that have sprung up on my arms.

Taita Silvio shakes his head, snapping out of the trance. “Wendell. Please.” He pauses. “Go home to your real father, this man who loves you and misses you.”

Wendell pulls something from his pocket. The crystal. He places it on the altar next to the four other crystals. “Do you know this crystal?”

Taita Silvio hesitates. “It’s a powerful one. For protection. And comfort.”

“It’s from your brother, isn’t it?” Wendell pushes.

No answer.

“It came from some cave near his house, right?”

Silence.

“Did your brother put it in my blankets?”

Taita Silvio rubs his face in his hands.

“We know about Faustino. He’s my birth father, isn’t he?”

Taita Silvio looks up, surprised. After a moment’s silence, he says, “Stay away from him. He’s—just stay away from him, all right?”

And as I translate these last words for Wendell, a cold, dark feeling creeps over me, pressing on me until I can hardly breathe. I leap up and run outside into the sunshine, wishing Layla were here, her bag of amulets and charms tinkling.

“L
et’s go to Faustino’s.” These are Wendell’s first words after hours of eyebrow-furrowed thought, during which he was probably weighing Silvio’s warning.

It’s early evening. After the divination, we spent the day in Agua Santa, eating potato soup, collecting fruit, stripping kernels off corncobs, feeding pigs. Wendell was silent the whole time. Now, hearing him mention Faustino’s name, I shiver again. We’re heading down the dirt street toward the main road, nearly at the intersection. To the left, up the hill, is the route to Faustino’s house, and to the right, a cobbled road leads downhill to the bus stop. “Come on, Z! Let’s go.”

“Uh, Wendell, were you not there with me? Did you not hear Taita Silvio tell us—very clearly—to stay away?”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s late, Wendell. If we’re going to the house of someone who might have sold his soul to the devil—who we were warned repeatedly was dangerous—at least let’s go in the daylight.”

“Fine.” He takes one last, reluctant look up at the house on the hill. “Tomorrow.”

We turn downhill, toward the highway. I study his face. He looks lost in thought. “Wendell,” I say, “did that mean something to you, when Silvio said ‘a place of light and dark’?”

He looks at the shadows sliding down the mountains, like streams of dark water. In the sunny spots, the last sunbeams hop over the tips of leaves. Finally, he says, “For a while now I’ve had these flashes of feelings. And it’s true there’s darkness, something dangerous. But there’s something else, something bright, something really good, Z.” He rests his gaze on me, his eyes hopeful. “So bright and good it’s worth the risk.”

The sun slips completely behind the mountain’s peak, leaving a golden halo. “All right,” I say, against my better judgment. “I’ll go with you tomorrow.” I make a mental note to bring my pocketknife and leave a note for Layla, just in case.

On the ride home, the music is so loud it’s hard to talk, so we sit side by side in the gathering darkness. When the bus pulls into the stop, we start walking toward the town center. The streetlights have turned on, casting yellow light into the blue dusk.

“Hey, Z,” Wendell says. “Let’s go to that waterfall tomorrow.”

I swerve out of the way of a bunch of Swedish tourists,
nearly falling off the curb. I’m caught off balance. I thought he’d forgotten the waterfall thing. “But we’re going to Faustino’s house tomorrow.”

“Let’s go before that. Early in the morning. That’s when you and Layla did it, right?”

My fingernails are digging into my palms. “What will you wish for?” I ask finally, because if he’s wishing for Her, there’s no way I’m waking up at four a.m.

He shrugs, loping along beside me. “Isn’t that supposed to stay secret? Like a birthday wish?”

I stare at the orange neon Internet café sign behind his head, suddenly angry.

He stops walking, motions awkwardly to the café. “Listen, I have to catch up on my e-mail.”

I slug his shoulder. The slug comes out harder than I expected. “I’ll come to your room tonight.” I start walking away, and then call over my shoulder, “We’ll get an early start. Okay?”

“Thanks, Z!” He grins, rubbing his shoulder. “You owe me a story tonight, remember?”

Walking home to get a change of clothes and a toothbrush, I wonder if he’s e-mailing Her. If he’ll be wishing for Her tomorrow. The thought makes me a little sick, so I push it out of my mind.