The Jade Notebook

by Laura Resau

  After another sip of coffee, I settle on giving him the highlights of my seventeen years roaming the planet—a recap of the countries we’ve lived in, how Wendell and I met, the multitudes of clowns and musicians Layla has dated. This last one elicits an ironic chuckle from him.

  Mostly, he nods, trying to take it all in, looking a little overwhelmed. Finally, he sets down his coffee cup and offers a tentative smile. “I don’t know what to say. You’re—you’re amazing, Zeeta.”

  I bite my cheek. Of course, this is exactly what I’ve always wanted to hear from my father. Still, I flush, embarrassed.

  “You’re everything I’ve wanted in a daughter,” he continues. “You’re smart, you’re kind, you’re strong.” His hands twist nervously on the table. “And I’m none of those things. I don’t deserve you.…”

  “Stop saying that, Tortue.” I study his face, taking in the features that are so similar to my own. Again, this feels like a dream, as if I’m watching a movie of Zeeta meeting her father. “Tortue,” I say quietly. I consider calling him Dad or Papá, but I’m not ready for that. I’m most comfortable with the name I’ve known him by best, his French nickname. “I still don’t get it. Why couldn’t you reconnect with your family? I’m friends with your parents, you know. Your father regrets how he acted. He’s a sweet man. And of course, your mother adores you.”

  “She adores everyone,” he says. “I’ve been in touch with her over the years. Phone calls, letters.”

  “Really?” I wonder if it was hard for Lupita to resist mentioning this fact to me. “And?”

  He sips his coffee thoughtfully. “She says people have forgotten about the scandal. She says my father would forgive me.”

  “He would! So what’s stopping you?”

  Tortue shakes his head. “My brother. I contacted him when I first got here. I thought he’d give me honest advice.” He rubs his face, too upset to continue.

  His brother. Pepe. And he actually thinks Pepe’s honest. How can that be? “And what did he say?” I urge gently.

  “That my family would turn me over to the cops. That my father’s grudge has only grown stronger over time. That my sister has finally let go of me. That I’d hurt my family if I tried to come back home—”

  “That’s not true, Tortue! Cristina still misses you. Just like your father.” My heart is racing. “Your brother’s wrong.” I try to compose my thoughts. “I know Pepe. He’s Wendell’s boss.”

  Tortue raises his eyebrows. This must be new information for him. “I see you’ve met my entire family.”

  “I don’t trust your brother, Tortue.” I pause. “How can you?”

  He shrugs. “He’s my brother. He’s always been a friendly guy. Wants everyone to love him. That’s his weakness. It was hard on him to have his family be victim of a scandal.” Tortue forges ahead slowly. “He said he left town in shame, that I nearly ruined his life. Now that he’s settling back here, he wants a clean reputation. He’s got a good job at the Turtle Center, and—”

  I can’t stand it anymore. “Tortue,” I practically shout, “that man—your brother—he had something to do with Wendell nearly being killed last night. The poaching on Playa Mermejita—Pepe’s involved somehow. He lied to us. He’s been lying to everyone.” I look at Tortue and say, almost fiercely, “Including you.”

  “What—how …?”

  “He’s been pressuring our neighbor to sell her land—a piece of jungle by Punta Cometa. He wants to build a giant hotel here.”

  Tortue clutches his head. “Then—” He must have a million questions. Finally he settles on, “But the turtles—why does Pepe work at the Turtle Center?”

  “Why not? It’s one of the best jobs in town. All he has to do is be friendly. And coordinate volunteers—nonexistent volunteers. That way he can let his buddies poach. And in exchange, they do his dirty work. Like leaving curses, setting fires, making threats, trying to kill people.”

  The pained look on Tortue’s face makes me remember his fragile emotional state. The last thing I want to do is make things worse. More softly, I ask, “Tortue, is it possible that Pepe committed the crime years ago? And framed you?”

  After a long moment, Tortue answers. “When Pepe was a teenager, he was always trying to impress people, especially the kids he thought were cool. Some of his buddies were a little sketchy. Honestly? I figured they manipulated him into giving them the key to our father’s truck. I didn’t want him to get in trouble.” Tortue runs his hand over his dreadlocks. “But maybe Pepe was the one manipulating his friends all along. And his family.”

  I’m quiet for a while, thinking. Pepe managed to keep his own brother and mother and father blind to his shady nature. Wendell didn’t see it either, and they worked together. Even I didn’t start seeing through Pepe until last night, when he suggested that Wendell was being unfaithful. The man has this entire town wrapped around his finger. So many people owe him favors—including the police—it would be easy for him to break the law and build the hotel. I could even imagine him flaunting his authority, assuring people that the hotel beach would be a safe haven for the turtles. And of course, everyone would believe him. They love him.

  Ultimately, the only obstacle to building his hotel would be this land we’re on. And his plan to get it was threatened by Tortue’s reappearance, and then by Meche’s and my determination to stay here.

  Almost all the pieces fit together. There’s just one thing I don’t understand. “Tortue, why did you take the fall for Pepe? You had an alibi. Proving your innocence wouldn’t place the blame on Pepe. Not then and not even now.”

  He stares into his coffee. “I had to protect someone.”

  “Who? The girl you were with that night?”

  Just then, the leaves in the jungle rustle. With a wave, Meche emerges from the path and walks toward us with her somehow regal limp. “Buenos días, Zeeta. Buenos días, señor.”

  She doesn’t appear to recognize him as the fish guy. Or the cloaked man who saved Wendell. She must assume he’s just a new guest who woke up earlier than the others. “Buenos días, Meche!” I call back. “Grab some coffee. Join us.”

  Tortue stands up, mumbles that he should be going. Letting his dreadlocks fall over his face, he starts backing up.

  I reach out and grab his hand. “Please stay,” I whisper.

  He takes a long breath and sits back down, lowering his head.

  “How’s Wendell?” Meche asks, bustling behind the counter.

  “Still asleep. I think he’ll be fine.”

  “Thank God,” she says. “I could hardly sleep I was so worried.”

  “Well, you’re the only one,” I say. “Everyone else slept in.” Then I notice the dark circles beneath her eyes. “Hey, how’s Gatito?”

  She takes a long breath. “He’s not eating. He doesn’t want to move.”

  “I’m so sorry, Meche.” And I am. As much as I wanted that jaguar gone, now I’m rooting for him to pull through. “Anything we can do?”

  Meche pours sugar into her coffee. “Actually, I was hoping I could use your phone later. I need to call the vet, see how much time my baby has left.”

  Walking over with her coffee mug, Meche takes in my ice pack, the scratches and welts from my tumble down the cliff. “Zeeta! What happened?”

  “A little fall. Nothing broken.” I motion with my chin to Tortue. “He saved me. And he’s the one who saved Wendell last night.”

  Meche sits down beside me and regards Tortue from across the table. “And you’re a fisherman?” she asks, confused.

  “This is—” I begin, and hesitate. How do I introduce him? Definitely not as El Loco—The Crazy Guy. And Tortue—that’s French—would be hard for her to pronounce. El Tortuga isn’t a possibility either; it would betray his hidden identity. “José,” I finish, turning toward him. “And this is my neighbor, Meche.”

  She offers him her ring-laden hand. “Mucho gusto.”

  Tortue pushes the dreadlocks from his face and sha
kes her hand.

  Suddenly, Meche’s eyes grow wide. She doesn’t let go of his hand. “Is that you?” she whispers. “Tortuga?” Tears well up in her eyes and she places her other hand over his. “Tortuga?”

  He meets her gaze. “I—I’ve missed you, Meche.” His voice cracks with emotion.

  “¡Qué milagro!” What a miracle! Meche blinks, bewildered, and turns to me. “El Tortuga and I—we’ve known each other since we were children. We were good friends, grandes amigos!” Turning back to him, she says, “I’m so glad you’re back! Lupita didn’t mention—”

  “I asked my mother not to tell anyone.”

  “Why not? That scandal? But it was so long ago.”

  When Tortue doesn’t answer, I ask her hesitantly, “What do you know about the scandal, Meche?”

  “Pues, not much,” she says, flicking her hand. “I heard some rumors after I returned home from Puerto Escondido, but I refused to pay attention. You know I hate gossip.” She looks back at Tortue. “Tortuga, all I knew was that you were my friend, a man with a good heart.” Almost shyly, she adds, “I never got to thank you for that night, Tortuga.”

  He swallows, looks away. “It was nothing.”

  “You saved my life, Tortue. Just like you saved Wendell’s.” She reaches out again, takes his hand. “Gracias.”

  I flick my eyes to El Tortuga then to Meche. “What happened?”

  Meche looks at me. “I’ve never told this to another soul. But lately I’ve been thinking about it … with Gatito so close to passing away. Thinking about being alone again, thinking about people in my life who’ve shown me kindness, people I’d like to have around.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “My daughter fell off the cliffs of Punta Cometa when she was two. We weren’t living here at the time, just in town for a visit. When I returned to my husband in Puerto Escondido, I was too devastated to eat or talk or do anything. On the year anniversary of her death, I came back to this property—my family’s property. That night, I sank into such despair, I decided I couldn’t live anymore. I walked to Punta Cometa and threw myself off the cliff.”

  My muscles tense.

  She gives a wry laugh. “Obviously, I didn’t die. I broke my leg and got banged up. The surf tossed my broken body onto Playa Mermejita. I lay there, moaning in pain. I couldn’t move. The water washed over me. It’s strange how clearly I remember it, the moonlight reflecting off the bubbles, the way the sand glistened. Strangely beautiful.

  “And then an odd thing happened. A sea turtle came to shore right beside me, an enormous turtle, and it looked at me, right into my eyes. At that moment, for some reason, I decided I didn’t want to die. I don’t know why … something about the moonlight, the turtle, the sand, the water. It was as if they all held little bits of my daughter. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  Her voice quavers. “But I knew I wanted to live. The tide was coming in. I’d lost a lot of blood. I was too weak to move. I could only lie there watching the turtle drag itself from the surf onto the sand. Every wave brought the tide higher, nearly covering me. That’s when I saw someone on the beach. El Tortuga.”

  She looks at him across the table, keeps her gaze fixed on his as she speaks. “Without asking questions, El Tortuga took me in his arms and carried me all the way up the jungle path to my house. I don’t know how, but he did it. He wanted to take me to the hospital. I told him no. I was ashamed I’d tried to kill myself—and failed. I didn’t want to give people more ammunition for gossip. And most of all, I didn’t want to drag poor Tortuga into it. He was already … misunderstood. And I had a terrible reputation. I knew people would invent their own stories about why Tortuga and I were alone together. I made him promise not to tell a soul. He agreed. He bandaged my wounds and set my leg with wood splints.”

  She pats her leg. “You did a pretty good job, Tortuga. It’s a miracle I can walk at all.”

  She doesn’t know, I realize. She doesn’t know she was his secret alibi. I have to break it to her, gently. “Meche, was this the same night he was accused of poaching?”

  She wrinkles her eyebrows, confused. “I—I don’t know. I went back to Puerto Escondido after that, back to my husband. It wasn’t till later that we divorced and I returned here. The scandal had mostly blown over by then. Since I kept to myself, and I never really asked—” Her hand flies to her mouth as the realization hits her. “Tortuga? That was the night …?”

  He nods ever so slightly.

  She searches his face. “But how? How on earth did they think you were guilty?”

  Tortue looks too distraught to speak.

  I answer for him. “He came home with sand and blood on his clothes. The police thought he was the guy who’d run—the poacher who fled the truck loaded with turtle eggs and meat. It was his father’s truck; the evidence pointed to Tortue—El Tortuga. His mother believed he was with a girl. But he refused to name her or give an alibi.”

  Meche’s jaw drops as the full significance sinks in. “You mean—it’s my fault? That you were falsely accused? All this time I could’ve cleared your name? All this time you honored your promise? Despite the sacrifice?”

  Silence. His eyes fill as he looks at Meche.

  “We have to tell your family! And everyone else!”

  “Tortue,” I say, surging with emotion. My voice sounds so strong and certain, it surprises me. “Tortuga. I’m not disappointed in you. Just the opposite. I’m proud you’re my father.”

  Meche’s head snaps up, and just as she whispers, “Your father?” Layla comes down the path, followed by Wendell.

  Layla enters the kitchen hut wearing a wrinkled huipil that she probably slept in, her hair a mess and wrapped in a silk scarf. She’s yawning and rubbing her eyes when she catches sight of Meche. “¡Amiga!” she cries, embracing her with a kiss on the cheek.

  Meche is still speechless, absorbing the revelation. In confusion, she looks at my father, then at me, then at Layla.

  Wendell, meanwhile, notices Tortue and walks over, extending his hand. “Thank you so much. For last night. I’m glad you came back.”

  Layla turns to him now, and echoes, “Yes, thank you!”

  Then she looks at him, really looks at him. His dreads are pushed away from his face. Her eyes flick from mine to Tortue’s. A long ray of angled morning light, fresh and silver, illuminates his face. Her eyebrows furrow as she studies him. I can almost see it dawning on her, who this man is. It’s as if she’s digging deep in her mind for the memory of his face, asking herself, Is it …?

  She looks at me and whispers, “Zeeta?” Her eyes are intense. I know the question she’s asking.

  I nod. I take a deep breath, and say, “Meet my father.”

  Layla falls back onto the bench. Wendell steps to my side, holds my hand tightly. In the stunned silence, a blue butterfly flutters into the kitchen hut, hovers, and breezes out the other side, toward the ocean. For once, Layla is speechless. I expect her to spout off Rumi, but she sits silently, her hand over her mouth.

  Meche speaks first. “I don’t understand. How—?”

  That revives Layla. She stands up, moves toward Tortue with outstretched arms. They hold each other, a little awkwardly, but gently. I watch to see if there’s any trace of the passionate love that Tortue declared for her in his letters years ago. Any lasting spark. I can’t tell.

  Now come the tears—Tortue’s, Layla’s, Meche’s, mine—and the cries of happiness, of disbelief, of regret. Then the explanations. The earnest, eager stops and starts in the conversation.

  Soon the guests trickle in, groggy and hungry. Layla grabs some tomatoes and I grab peppers and Meche grabs onions. Together, we whip up a breakfast of huevos a la mexicana with tortillas and heaps of pink sugar-coated sweet rolls, mounds of pineapple and cantaloupe and watermelon. Meanwhile, Wendell and Tortue sip coffee, discussing the details of last night.

  Throughout breakfast, Layla keeps staring at Tortue. It’s the first time she’s seen my father�
��s bare face in daylight—knowing it’s him, at least. She’s uncharacteristically shy, asking him hesitant questions. He answers just as shyly. They’re strangers with a sudden, intimate bond. Layla said she had no expectations—that he’d be a treasure from the ocean. And that’s what he makes me think of, a salt-soaked piece of driftwood, battered by life and the sea, gnarled but soft, and oddly, in his own tender way, tough.

  Meche watches this unfold, regarding us curiously.

  And all the while, Wendell holds my hand, anchoring me, solid and warm.

  I continue to watch for any signs of attraction between Layla and Tortue. As a little girl I dreamed of my parents being reunited, their passion rekindled and transformed into lasting love, the three of us forming a happy family. And Tortue is even Layla’s type—musical, scraggly-haired, homeless. But now, looking at them, I see something unexpected—a tentative affection.

  There’s none of Layla’s usual flirtation, her unconscious effort to charm. And even more surprisingly, this doesn’t disappoint me. It’s actually reassuring to know that my father is not being relegated to fling status.

  And Tortue doesn’t seem love-struck by Layla. Not in the least. In fact, most of the time as they’re talking, he looks at me, exactly the way a father would look at his daughter, his eyes full of pride, love.

  At one point in the conversation, Layla’s fork clatters to the plate, and she says, out of the blue, “Thank you for our daughter.”

  El Tortuga’s lip quivers. “Our daughter.”

  And then, as if the spell is broken, Layla launches into the story of my life—the long version—starting with my babyhood in Italy and rambling through country after country.

  Tortue listens with rapt attention. It’s a strange feeling to witness my father laughing at the things I did as a toddler. Now that I’ve found him, I have the same feeling I get standing at the tip of Comet Point—that this is the edge of the world as I’ve always known it. The promise of something new stretches ahead, something that’s certain to be smooth at times, choppy at others, something shimmering with the delicious unknown.