The Indigo Notebook Page 7

  Wendell plays with a loose thread at his shirt hem. “I bet we’ll find something out when we come back tomorrow.”

  I’m doubtful. “We could just try another village.”

  “I have to give back the poncho. And there’s that mystery woman.”

  Right. Let’s not forget the ranting of an incoherent drunk man. Carefully, I say, “Remember, we have limited time and lots more villages.”

  “I have a feeling about this place, Zeeta. A few more days. If nothing shows up by then, we’ll move on.”

  Although this whole thing is rapidly turning into a waste of time, we did have a fun day together in this village, and the girls are very cute, and I wouldn’t mind some more of Mamita Luz’s bread, so I say, “All right.”

  We stay silent for another song, and then he says, “Zeeta, I have some letters.” He hesitates. “Can you translate them into Spanish?”

  I get the feeling this is something big he’s asking me. “Sure.”

  “No one’s ever seen them before.”

  “What are they?”

  “Since I was eight years old, I’ve been writing letters to my birth parents. Mostly on birthdays and holidays. I have about twenty now. I want to give them to my birth parents.”

  A large woman toting huge bags squeezes past us in the aisle. I lean close to Wendell to avoid being bumped. Ever notice how the touch of certain people, even accidental, can send tingles through your whole body? For a second, Wendell’s arm grazes mine, and a warmth floods into me. Layla would probably boil it down to chi. She went through a phase a few years back in Morocco where all she wanted to do was sit around holding hands and sending chi back and forth.

  After the woman passes, I say, “It would be an honor to translate your letters,” and I keep my head close to his, nearly touching, feeling the chi flow in the dark, lemony-sweet air.

  We stop at Wendell’s hotel room for the letters. It’s Colonial, painted buttery yellow with white trim around tall French windows. A doorman with a gold tooth greets Wendell by name on the way in. Inside, from behind a desk, a pudgy middle-aged woman in a suit shoots him a giant smile. “Wendell! Good to see you!”

  “Hey, Dalia.” He gives a quick wave and keeps walking.

  “You’re popular here,” I say as we enter the lobby, a huge pillared space with an indoor garden bursting with orange bird-of-paradise flowers. The wooden floors shine with pine wax and smell like a forest.

  “She’s the owner. The friend of a friend of my mom I told you about.”

  “Que pleno. You’re lucky.”

  “Not really. She’s basically my babysitter.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “When I told my parents I was going to Ecuador, they were excited. They thought they’d come along, too. Then I said I wanted to go alone. At first they said no, but then my mom e-mailed all their old Peace Corps friends and found someone who knew someone who ran a hotel here. And here I am. On the condition that I tell Dalia the babysitter everywhere I go. That and call home every day. A little oppressive.”

  “I still say you’re lucky.”

  While he runs up the polished marble stairs to his room, I wait in the lobby on a worn velvet chair, watching a tiny bird flit around the garden. I try to imagine Layla going to all that trouble to make me safe.

  During my childhood, regardless of the country, I ran wild after school. The only rule—recommendation, really—was that I had to be home by dark. In the evenings, when Layla was feeling too mellow for dancing under the full moon or forming an impromptu drum circle, she read me her favorite books of poetry over and over. Mostly Rumi, but also Thich Nhat Hanh and Khalil Gibran. One night, I asked her why I didn’t have rules like the other kids. Why didn’t I have to do my homework right when I came home from school? Why didn’t I have to change out of my school uniform to keep it clean? She kissed my cheek. “That’s why we read together, Z. So that you get chock-full of wisdom. So you know for yourself how to live.” She gave me another jasmine-scented kiss, her hair tickling my face. “Rules are an illusion.”

  Wendell’s coming back downstairs now, breathless, holding a pack of folded-up letters tied with a red ribbon. He pulls them out of the ribbon and hands them to me quickly, before he can change his mind.

  “Here they are,” he says, tucking the ribbon into his pocket and folding his arms across his chest.

  “Okay.”

  “They’re embarrassing,” he warns.

  “That’s okay.”

  “They’re the only copies I have.” He looks as though he wants to take them back.

  “I’ll be careful.”

  He rocks on his heels. “Well, good night.”

  “Hey,” I say, slipping the letters into my bag, “want to come to lunch with me and Jeff and Layla tomorrow? Jeff’s treat.”

  “Okay.”

  It’s almost like he’s my boyfriend and he’s about to meet my parents. I wonder how he’ll react to Layla’s nonstop Rumi quoting. I wonder if Jeff will like him. If he’ll like Jeff. Of course, Wendell’s in love with his sort-of-ex-girlfriend and Jeff is a man I barely know.

  Still, it feels almost normal.

  All through tonight’s leftover potato-chicken soup dinner with Layla, she talks about Jeff, how his retirement money is diversified in money market accounts and mutual funds and IRAs. “I talked to him for an hour today at the phone booth down the street. Me, on the phone for an hour! I told him about how I almost drowned. How it made me realize that the most important thing is to give you and me a safe life.”

  “Hmmm.” The waterfall incident seems like the absolute wrong thing to tell a guy you’re starting to date. It’s the perfect example of emotional instability—clear evidence that she’s crazy enough to wake up in the middle of the night and get naked in a raging waterfall to make a wish. “And how did he react to that?” I ask.

  “He said, ‘Listen, Layla, my whole job is transforming hopeless messes into efficient systems.’ And then he told me all these ideas for ways I can change. He has a whole Power-Point presentation on this topic! He says it’s hard at first, leaving your comfort zone, and that you’ll naturally come up with a million reasons why you should go back to the old way, but if you stick with it, it’s worth it in the end.” She smiles and sips her bottle of Pilsener.

  I sprinkle extra cilantro into my soup, watching the green bits float around like tiny lily pads. “So you didn’t scare him off?”

  “No! He says I’m a breath of fresh air. He loves hearing about everywhere we’ve lived. He says I open his mind. And don’t worry, I left Rumi out of the conversations.” She tilts her head. “You know, I think Jeff sees me as the ultimate efficiency-consultant project.” She scoops the last chunk of potato into her mouth. “He says I should start small. Organize my clothes drawers.”

  “Good luck with that,” I say skeptically. Layla tends to just jam whatever into the nearest drawer and then spends ages looking for things. When her crown chakra’s weak, she desperately needs to find that purple head scarf, or when her heart chakra’s blocked, that pink silk tank is the only thing that will fix it.

  Layla downs her last sip of beer and disappears into her room, leaving me with the dishes as usual. I don’t complain. I’m curious to see if she’ll actually organize her clothes or if she’ll get distracted and paint murals all over the drawers instead.

  In my room, I open my notebook to a fresh sheet. My hands are pink and wrinkled from washing the pile of dishes. From down the hall in Layla’s bedroom, I hear drawers opening and closing, cabinets creaking and slamming, the sounds of efficiency. I realize that with all the excitement over Jeff, I didn’t fill Layla in on the Agua Santa trip.

  Usually we hang out and talk for hours and manage, in a mellow, meandering way, to eventually cover all the events of our day. Tonight, though, Layla’s energy has seemed somewhat hyper and jumpy. I remind myself of what Jeff said, that transformation involves leaving your comfort zone.

  I pull one of Wendell
’s letters from my bag and smooth it out beside my notebook. It looks old, written on wide-lined notebook paper, in pencil, in awkward, uneven letters.

  Dear birth mom and dad,

  Did you come to colorado in july? Because we went to a fair and there were these four guys playing flutes and mom said there from Ecuador and they looked like me and I thougth one of them was you. Were you looking for me? Did you see me? Why din’t you say hi? I felt too embarissed to say hi and I was wurried mom and dad might feel sad or maybe scarred you’ll take me away so I din’t say anything. Wich one were you? The one with the black boots right? I asked for black boots for cristmas. May be I look like you. Mom and dad said you were probly poor and that’s why you couldn’t take care of me. But you din’t look poor.

  Bye,

  Wendell B. Connelly,

  age 8

  I lie on my mattress and close my eyes. I wish this eight-year-old Wendell had known the seven-year-old Zeeta who walked around bug-eyed for weeks because she was afraid to blink. They would have made good friends.

  Restaurante Americano is five-star, with starched white tablecloths and two stemmed glasses and three forks per setting. Most tables are empty, except for three with tourists talking softly as a Muzak version of an Andean folk song plays. I’ve always watched these kinds of places from afar, as though I were at the zoo, observing creatures of a completely different species. Sometimes I’ve tried to imagine myself talking and laughing with them. Layla likes to make fun of places like this, where she claims the food is extra-bland and extra-expensive. I hope she doesn’t crack any jokes about it, since Jeff’s the one who picked this restaurant.

  She’s sitting across from me, wearing a straight skirt and button-down white blouse she bought for a job interview in Morocco—her lone set of respectable clothing. We joke that she tricked them into hiring her by pretending she was normal. And then, when she started the job, she went back to her see-through skirts and peasant blouses, but by then it was too late because the students were all half in love with her.

  We introduce everyone, then Layla orders a seven-dollar appetizer of soggy fried plantains that cost fifty cents at the market. It’s a good thing she doesn’t comment on what a rip-off it is, because we soon learn that Jeff has eaten every meal in Otavalo here, chicken and boiled vegetables. “I’m a creature of habit,” he says apologetically. Luckily, Layla seems to find this cute.

  When the waiter comes back, I order two daily specials, one for Layla and one for me.

  “What’s the daily special?” Wendell asks.

  I shrug and pop a mushy plaintain in my mouth. “We always get the daily special wherever we go. It’s usually the best thing. And the freshest. Least likely to make you sick.”

  Wendell orders the special too. “When in Rome …,” he says with his half-smile.

  “Heck,” Jeff says. “I’ll take it too.” He twirls a strand of Layla’s hair around his finger. “You bring out the free spirit in me, Layla.”

  “So where are you from, Jeff?” Wendell asks.

  “Virginia.” He leans back, as though the very mention of home sets him at ease. “A D.C. suburb. Just off the beltway.”

  I’ve heard of this state. It borders the squiggly Atlantic state of Maryland where my grandparents live, the only state in the United States I’ve been to.

  “What’s it like in Virginia?” I ask.

  “My neighborhood’s really safe. Lots of open space. Bike paths to jog on. Just a mile run to the gym from my house.” He goes on and on, and I listen intently. It sounds like Maryland, deliciously normal.

  “And some really great golf courses!” A dreamy look has come into his eyes. “Have to admit, I miss it already.” He laughs. “After what, a week?”

  Layla smooths her hair, which is brushed into a neat ponytail. “Jeff’s a man of routine.”

  He nods. “Good routines are key. To raising kids, to making the workplace efficient, you name it.” He says this so convincingly, it must be part of his PowerPoint presentation. I imagine him in a sleek suit, talking to a room full of important bankers. He’s bathed in the glow of the projector’s light, an organizational savior in a halo of dust motes.

  He cuts a plantain slice in half and nibbles. “You ladies are amazing, traveling all over the place, routines changing all the time. I’m trying my best to get used to it—the lack of water pressure in the showers, brushing my teeth with bottled water, dealing with a different language. It’s good for me. Expands my horizons.” He dabs the napkin at the corners of his mouth. He is, by far, the most polite and meticulously groomed man I’ve ever seen seated next to Layla. Not even a stray ear hair.

  Layla smiles. “And he’s expanding my horizons.” She rubs her lips together. She’s wearing mauve lipstick. The last time she wore lipstick was at that job interview in Morocco.

  Wendell eats another plantain slice. “Traveling’s totally worth the hassle. It makes your mind go down completely unexpected pathways, you know?”

  I smile. “Serendipity, some would call it.”

  The daily special arrives. It’s a skinny, furless creature, complete with claws and teeth, nestled between a side of salad and two boiled potatoes. “Your cuy,” the waiter announces.

  Jeff studies the charred animal. “A rat?” he says finally.

  “Guinea pig,” I say, taking a bite.

  Wendell stares. “I had a guinea pig named Thomas. A really cute little guy.”

  Layla digs in. “Chickens are cute too,” she says, waving her fork. “Especially the babies. I bet you don’t think twice about eating chicken, do you?”

  “It’s good,” I say, taking another bite. “A little dry, but good.”

  Layla adds, “Better than snake or iguana.”

  “Oh my,” Jeff says, cutting his potato.

  I love that this man says things like “Oh my.” And I love that he’s not entirely freaked out by the guinea pig. Well, at least he’s trying not to be.

  Wendell takes a bite, twisting up his face. “I can’t stop thinking about Thomas.” He hides the carcass under some lettuce and chows the plaintains and potatoes.

  Layla holds a forkful of meat to Jeff’s mouth. “Come on, it tastes like chicken!”

  He takes a minuscule bite, the size of a pea, swallows it whole, and downs it with an entire glass of water. He blinks rapidly. For a minute I’m afraid he’s going to run to the bathroom. Then, to my relief, he laughs and says, “Wait till the guys at my golf club hear about this.”

  An observer might think we look like a magazine ad for a fun family-dining experience, if, of course, you can overlook the dead rodent.

  After dessert, Wendell pours a long, steady stream of sugar in his coffee. Layla and Jeff have just headed off for a guided walking tour of the city, leaving Wendell and me lingering at the table. “Layla’s nice,” he says, swirling in an entire mini-pitcher of cream.

  My eyes widen. “That’s the first time in the history of the universe that anyone’s used that adjective to describe Layla.”

  “Really?” He sips his coffee. “What do they usually say?”

  “Eccentric, exotic, zany, wild, creative, flighty, weird, stunning, dazzling, bizarre …”

  He grins. “Well, she seems like a regular, nice person to me.”

  Once Layla and I went skiing in Chile, my first time skiing, and as I built up momentum, going faster and faster, I suddenly felt out of control. I didn’t know how to slow down or change direction or make myself stop. So I kept barreling down the hill, telling myself that skiing was fun and it was what regular families did for vacation and I should be enjoying it. Just before I slammed into a tree, I let myself fall.

  Now, this barreling-downhill feeling has come back to me. I’m not sure why. And I’m not sure what to do about it. So, for some reason, I impulsively reach my hand under the table, find Wendell’s hand, and hang on.

  Chapter 11

  The next morning, on the bus on the way to Agua Santa, I tell Wendell, “Sorry I
held your hand. I know you’re obsessed with that ex-girlfriend, and I respect that. I just felt—I don’t know how I felt. Scared maybe. For no good reason.”

  “It’s okay.” He smiles. “Good reason or not, my hand’s here for you.”

  “Okay.” I feel pathetic. This morning a large zit appeared on my chin, which I can’t stop picking at. And I slept terribly, woke up with bruised crescents hanging below my bloodshot eyes.

  “Are you freaked out that your mom’s seeing a new guy?” He’s looking at me with concern.

  “No! Jeff’s the type I’ve been begging her to date for forever. You should have met some of Layla’s old flames.” I ramble on about all her slightly crazy former boyfriends, surprised at the fondness I have for each irresponsible one.

  “They sound pretty cool,” he says.

  “They were, I guess.” And I’m quiet for a while, staring at the torn fabric seat in front of me.

  Last night Layla stayed out late with Jeff. I was in bed, half asleep, when she came home, and I waited for her to bound into my room, like she usually did after outings with new men, feeding me ice cream and giving me details. But she tiptoed into the apartment and I heard the subdued sounds of her brushing her teeth, running water as she washed her face, and then the click of her bedroom door closing. At that point I was wide awake, and it took me ages to fall asleep again.

  In a couple of hours, I had my three-thirty a.m. panic, and managed to sleep for maybe another hour, until Layla started clattering around in the kitchen. I assumed she was cooking her favorite Thai street-food treat, pa tong go, which she sometimes gets middle-of-the-night urges to make. I waited for the yummy, greasy smell to seep under my door, expecting her to burst into my room with a plate of steaming, chromosome-shaped fried dough. Eventually, I fell back asleep. This morning she said she’d gotten a bout of insomnia and was just making chamomile tea to help her sleep.