The Jade Notebook

by Laura Resau

  After breakfast, the guests scatter, leaving me, Wendell, Meche, Layla, Tortue, and Joe sipping our third cups of coffee. Bit by bit, we’ve filled each other in on our suspicions about Pepe and the developments in the poaching scandals—both the current one and the one that’s decades old. Meche wants to go to the authorities immediately and clear Tortue’s name, but he insists that his family should be the first to know. “I want to tell my whole family at once,” he says earnestly. “Not just about Meche, but about Zeeta. That she’s my daughter. And that I’ll be claiming my land, our land.” He casts a hopeful look at Layla and me.

  “Gracias,” I say, grateful for this moment, the morning sunlight on the ocean, the glittering aftermath of the storm, everyone I love here in this place I love. Finally.

  “I know!” Layla says, clasping her hands together. “Let’s invite your family here tonight—Lupita, Rogelio, Cristina and her kids.…” Her voice trails off. She must be remembering Pepe and the probability that he had something to do with Wendell’s nearly dying last night.

  Tortue looks at his lap and says, “Maybe you should check in with the authorities. See if they have any leads on Pepe.”

  Wendell nods. “I’ll call the fire chief,” he offers, heading to the phone in the office.

  Tortue lets out a long breath. “Let’s not tell the rest of my family about Pepe. Not just yet. I want tonight to be a festive occasion.” He gazes at me, the loving gaze of a father. “I’ve waited years for this day.”

  We assign tasks to prepare for the celebration tonight. Layla will buy ingredients for dinner; Tortue will head out on his boat to catch fresh fish; Wendell will go to Restaurante Tesoro Escondido to invite El Sapo and his sisters and Cristina to the party. I’m in charge of inviting my grandparents.

  I swing by Lupita’s house and manage to catch Rogelio just before he leaves for his shop. I’m nearly bursting with giddiness as I give them the mysterious invitation. I simply say there will be an important gathering at our cabanas tonight at sunset. A big announcement will be made. Rogelio and Lupita pelt me with questions, but I press my lips together in a contained smile and say, “You’ll see!”

  Meanwhile, Meche has gone to check on Gatito. But on the way home, I run into her on the jungle path. Her hair is mussed, her face puffy and tear-streaked.

  “What’s wrong, Meche?”

  “It’s Gatito. The vet came over. My baby’s kidneys are failing.”

  I reach for her hand. “What does that mean?”

  “He can’t filter out the toxins in his blood. He’s in terrible pain. He might have only a day or two left.” She breaks down into sobs.

  I lead her to the bench at the end of my sun-path ray and sit her down. Suddenly, a stream of pent-up words tumbles out. She reminisces about how she first met Gatito, recounts his cute antics as a cub, the adorable tricks he learned. I listen, offering comforting words here and there. For the first time, I really get it—Gatito was her baby, her child, the closest possible replacement for her daughter. And now, she’ll have to live through the sorrow of her baby dying all over again.

  Finally, after she’s cried out, she draws in a long breath and glances around. She takes in the GET WELL sign that Xochitl and Mayra painted for Gatito. It’s right next to the TRESPASSERS WILL BE DEVOURED sign. Looking at the signs now, I get a lump in my throat. It’s as if they’re memorials to Gatito.

  Meche regards the smiling, sparkling jaguar and sniffles. “Where did that come from?”

  “Mayra and Xochitl painted it. For you and Gatito.” I squeeze her hand. “You have people who care about you. We’ll help you through this, Meche.”

  She gives me one more hug. “I’d better get back to Gatito. I’ll come over for a little while this evening. Just long enough to explain to everyone that I was with El Tortuga that night. But after that I need to get back to my kitty.”

  After saying goodbye, I head back home, passing Wendell and Joe, who are cleaning the storm debris from the gardens and stone paths. Wendell sets down the broom and drapes his arm around me. “I did it, Z.”

  Instinctively, I know he’s talking about accepting the scholarship. There’s something about his tone—a mixture of sadness and excitement. “Good,” I say, determined not to mope, to just enjoy our last few months together. And to trust that some time after that, we’ll be together again. Somehow.

  “I start in June,” he says a little wistfully.

  “You’ll do great, Wendell.” Swallowing hard, I add, “You’ll love it there.”

  From the kitchen hut, Layla catches my eye and waves me over. “Hey, Z!” she calls out, tying on an apron. “Come cook with me!”

  I join her, taking a bag of mole paste from the fridge. She’s making flan using Cristina’s recipe, humming as she whizzes around the kitchen. “Well,” she says, “I talked with the fire chief. Pepe and his friends haven’t been found. They might’ve left town.”

  I breathe out slowly, trying to stay calm. Layla doesn’t seem concerned, but I’d feel better if we knew where Pepe and El Dedo were.

  She interrupts my worrying. “I hope J.C. gets here soon with the fish. Especially if we have to gut it and everything.” She’s taken to calling my father the name she first knew him by.

  I glance at the clock. Four o’clock. “He’ll probably be here soon,” I say. But a little part of me wonders, what if he doesn’t come back? What if he freaks out again? What if I can’t trust him after all? I shake off my questions, try to relax and sink into the smells of sizzling chile and chocolate and the excitement about the party. After all, tonight will be the culmination of nearly two decades of longing for family and home. Mine, and—I realize—my father’s.

  Where is he? An hour later, Tortue still hasn’t shown up. I’ve showered and changed into a sundress and tucked a pink flower, which I can’t stop fiddling with, behind my ear. What’s going on with him? At this point, it’s too late to cook any fish he might’ve caught. Layla assures me it’s fine, there’s plenty of mole. She doesn’t seem worried about him getting cold feet.

  Shortly before sunset, Lupita and Rogelio show up, sporting fancy clothes—a flowered dress and woven silvery shawl on Lupita and an old-fashioned, neatly pressed suit on Rogelio. Then come Cristina and the girls, their hair brushed and slicked back into ponytails tied with ribbons. El Sapo is wearing dress pants and a long-sleeved shirt, and every strand of hair is gelled into place. Even his glasses sparkle. The first words out of the girls’ mouths are “Where’s Meche?”

  I crack a smile at how fast they’ve embraced the so-called jaguar lady, the feared bruja. “She’ll be here soon,” I assure them. “She’s with Gatito. And you know, your sign cheered her up.” I try to sound natural, as if my insides aren’t in knots.

  By dusk, everyone is sipping lemonade and speculating about the mysterious announcement. Everyone but Tortue. To stall, I bring out the guitar and play a butchered version of “La Llorona” for Rogelio. Although he acts impressed, my heart isn’t in it. Where is my father?

  I pass Rogelio the guitar and make an excuse about checking on the mole.

  Lupita stops me, her face lit up. “So when will we hear the big announcement, mija?”

  “Soon,” I stall, glancing nervously at Wendell.

  Wendell gives me a sympathetic look and follows me behind the counter. Little by little, the sun has slipped farther toward the horizon, painting the sky dusky hues of violet.

  Wendell strokes my hair. “Hanging in there, Z?”

  Under my breath, I ask, “You think he ran?”

  Wendell pulls me close, kisses my ear. “He has to have a good reason for being late.”

  Our cabana guests have started trickling in, looking hungry. Layla breezes over to us. “Well, we might as well feed everyone now. Mole seems like a perfect distraction till J.C. gets here.”

  “You really think he’s coming, Layla?”

  “Of course, Z.” She offers a conspiratorial smile. “You know, I heard that guys who
sleep under boats aren’t the most punctual. And he had a rough night last night. He’s probably dozing under his boat now.”

  True … or he could be on a plane somewhere.

  That’s it. I can’t stand waiting another second. “I’m going to look for him.”

  Quickly, Wendell says, “I’m coming with you, Z.”

  Before Layla can protest, I turn to the expectant faces of my family. Barely keeping my voice steady, I say, “Wendell and I are going to get our guest of honor. After dinner, we’ll make the announcement.” I take a deep breath, attempting to inject enthusiasm into my voice. “In the meantime, enjoy the mole!”

  Wishing us luck, Layla begins heating up the food as Wendell and I bid everyone farewell. We hurry in the opposite direction, down the dark jungle path. “Let’s see if his boat’s there,” I say, breathless.

  When we emerge from the jungle, we peer over the cliff into the crescent-shaped cove. The full moon illuminates the beach. No boat. Just piles of storm debris. I look at Wendell, my heart sinking. “He’s not here.”

  Wendell puts his arm around me. “Maybe he’s out fishing and lost track of time. I mean, Layla’s right. He’s not the kind of guy who wears a watch. Hey, maybe his boat’s still on Playa Mermejita. That’s where he beached it this morning, right?”

  “Worth a shot,” I say, biting my lip.

  We head through the jungle, around the rocky cliff, toward Playa Mermejita. Bits of moonlight filter through the tree leaves, just enough to show the way. When we reach the beach, I exhale with relief. There’s his pink boat, upside down on the sand.

  We hurry to it, peer underneath. No one. Only the blanket strapped beneath the seat. We glance around, calling out all the various names he goes by. “Tortue! Tortuga! José! J.C.! Loco!”

  No response.

  I slump on the boat. “Where could he be?” I let my head fall into my hands. Emotions crash and tumble inside me—anger, disappointment, fear. Maybe he changed his mind, decided he wasn’t ready to see his family, to be my father. Maybe he decided he’ll never be ready. Things look so bleak, it’s all I can do not to sink into the sand and cry.

  Wendell’s voice breaks through my misery. “Hey, look, Z!”

  My head snaps up.

  He’s pointing to something on the sand, on the other side of the boat. Slowly, we stand up, walk toward the movement. Small, dark shapes crawling down the beach. I see their flippers first, moving, determined, surprisingly large on their small bodies.

  “Hatchlings!” Wendell cries. “Some of the eggs must’ve made it!”

  A tentative path of baby turtles stretches from the nest to the surf. Near the nest, tiny noses poke out from the sand, and flippers flop, full of effort and hope. Once the hatchlings are out, they take a moment to get their bearings, then head toward the reflected light of the sea.

  Despite my despair, I can’t help smiling at these tender creatures. By silent agreement, Wendell and I move obstacles out of their way—stones and bits of driftwood—making their journey a little easier. We watch them row themselves into the surf and disappear into the sea. Something about this, their survival against all odds, gives me hope.

  As the last ones are flopping into the surf, a giant form emerges before us. Huge and oval. A turtle head pokes up, adult-size, its tiny eyes gleaming.

  “A leatherback,” Wendell says, moving closer. “Full-grown.”

  We wait a moment, expecting the turtle to crawl to shore, but she simply circles there, in the water.

  “Strange,” I say. “Is she watching her babies?”

  “I’ve never heard of that happening,” Wendell says, puzzled. He splashes carefully into the surf, his eyes glued to the enormous turtle.

  “What?”

  He walks closer to the turtle. “Z, it’s Gracia!”

  “Really?” I ask, squinting. “You see her scars?”

  “No. I just know her. It’s like Horacio recognizing voices. I can recognize turtles, especially the one who saved me.”

  I follow him into the water. Gracia swims closer, close enough that Wendell can rest his hand on her back. “Feel her scars,” he whispers.

  I run my hand along the ridges of thick, healed-over flesh, stroke her leathery back, thinking of the lives she’s saved. Abruptly, she turns and swims out to deeper water. Then she circles back to us.

  “She’s acting weird,” Wendell says, staring into her little eyes. “I get the feeling she wants us to follow her.”

  I bite my lip, give him a dubious look. “Wendell, come on. I’m in a dress. My whole extended family is waiting for us to make a big announcement. I can’t just swim after a sea turtle. And you shouldn’t either. You nearly drowned last night. You need to rest and—”

  “The boat!” Wendell cries, and before I can argue, he’s running to the pink boat, flipping it over, pushing it out onto the water.

  “You’re serious, Wendell? We’re following Gracia?”

  “Z, remember, she has a connection with Tortue. If something happened to him, maybe, there’s a chance …” His voice fades into the surf.

  “Something? Like what?” And then I realize. Pepe is still on the loose. And Tortue is the main obstacle standing between Pepe and this land.

  I swallow hard. “Okay, Wendell, let’s go.”

  I help him push the boat into the water and then jump in and wring out the hem of my dress. Luckily, Wendell knows how to operate a motorboat from his outings with Santy. He revs up the engine, switches on the front light. Gracia watches us for a moment, then swims straight out to sea. We follow her around the cove to a rock outcropping not far from the coastline, one that looks like a jagged sculpture. The waves crash wildly against the stones, shooting sea spray, drenching our skin and clothes.

  Soon Wendell cuts the engine so the blades won’t get caught on the rocks. I keep my eye on Gracia, who’s gliding right beside the boat, so close I could reach over and touch her. Wendell and I scan the rocks illuminated by the boat’s light.

  And then, ever so faintly, a hoarse voice calls out. It’s barely audible over the ocean’s roar. “¡Ayúdenme!” Help me!

  Wendell adjusts the light, and we squint in the direction of the sound. No one. I strain to listen over the pounding of my heart, the ragged waves. There it is again. “¡Ayúdenme!” It’s a ghostly sound, unearthly, hollow and echoing.

  Gracia swims around the outcropping as Wendell paddles behind her.

  Another shout for help, eerie and distant-yet-close.

  I cup my hands around my mouth. “Where are you?”

  “¡Aquí! Here! In the cave.”

  My gaze sweeps over the rocks. They’re riddled with nooks where water rushes in and out. Any of them could lead to a cave. In desperation, I turn to Gracia. “Help us!” I plead.

  Gracia glides through the rough current toward a gap in the rocks, an opening too small for her, too small for the boat. “Anchor the boat, Wendell! I’m going in.”

  Before he can object, I jump overboard. The water’s cold and violent, battering me against rocks hidden underwater.

  “Z!” Wendell calls out. “Let me go instead!”

  “Not after last night!”

  “No, Z!”

  “I can do this!” I take a deep breath and swim after Gracia. The tidal current is strong, smacking me this way and that. Gracia slows down. I reach out and hang on to her, pressing against her scarred back. She carries me to the edge of the cave, as far as she can fit.

  “Wendell,” I call, “over here! Give me some light!”

  He positions the boat lamp to light up the cave. I grab a rock, steadying myself, and peer inside.

  There, up to his neck in water, is Tortue. He sputters, coughing in wide-eyed panic. “Apúrate, Zeeta—hurry, the tide’s rising!”

  “Tell me what to do,” I shout.

  “Untie me! My hands, behind my back.”

  I move along, hanging on to the rocks as I go, struggling against the currents. When I reach Tortue, I feel
the thick rope underwater. It binds his hands tightly to a cluster of sharp, rocky protrusions behind him.

  Blindly, I tug at the complicated mess of knots.

  “You okay, Z?” Wendell calls from outside.

  “Tortue’s tied up!” I yell back.

  “I’m coming in, Z!”

  “No, Wendell! Stay in the boat. Keep the light shining here. You might need to go for help.” I don’t mention that there wouldn’t be time for that. The water is rising higher by the second, with each rush of tide. At this rate, within minutes, it’ll be over our heads. The knots are so tight and complex, I’m barely making any progress.

  “We need the knife,” Tortue gasps, struggling to raise his head high enough to breathe. “Strapped under the seat on my boat.”

  I gauge whether I have time to get back to the boat. “Wendell!” I call. “The knife, under the seat!” I start swimming toward the cave entrance. Another huge wave pushes me back inside. I look back and see Tortue’s head underwater now. As the wave rushes out, it exposes his mouth, and he desperately sucks air in.

  As fast as I can, I swim to the entrance of the cave, propelled by the outrush of water. Wendell holds the fish-gutting knife out toward me. I just manage to grab it and swim back inside with the next rush of tide. The wave smashes me against the back wall. There are only a few inches of air at the ceiling of the cave now.

  I can’t see Tortue at all now. He’s fully underwater. God, is he dead?

  I take a deep breath and lower myself, my hands searching the churning foam for his hands. Every second feels like an eternity. Finally, I locate the network of ropes holding Tortue’s wrists. He doesn’t seem to be moving. In the chaos of white currents, I can’t tell if he’s still conscious. How long has it been? One minute? Two? Or more?

  Adrenaline coursing through me, I tear off the sheath and slide the knife between his wrist and the rope, slicing through the wet fibers, hoping I’m not slicing into his flesh. I strain to cut through the thick strands. Come on, come on!