The Indigo Notebook

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).

  Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at

  www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  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

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and

  celebrates the right to read.

  v3.0