The Jade Notebook (32 page)

After we’ve gone a few kilometers up the coast and we still haven’t spotted Wendell, Santy gives me a sympathetic look. “We should turn around, maybe go the other way down the coast.”

I nod, swallowing hard. As we speed off, I scan the water, shivering, and notice that no other boats are out. Darkness is moving in fast, not just because it’s twilight, but because another evening storm is approaching. The wind’s blowing harder, dark clouds racing in, covering the moon. In the distance, thunder pounds, lightning flashes. Soon the boat is rocking violently. I want to throw up, not from seasickness, but from pure terror at the possibility that Wendell’s somewhere in this ocean, struggling to stay alive.

“Zeeta,” Santy yells over the roar of the engine and waves. “We have to go to shore. It’s not safe out here.”

I want to beg him, but I know he’s right. I can’t risk his life too. My only hope is that Wendell’s boat came to shore and he’s gone home. Maybe he’s in the kitchen hut with Layla waiting for me. Maybe I’ll get home and everything will be all right.

Once we’re on shore, we jog across the beach. “I’m sorry I don’t have a car to take you home,” Santy shouts over the howling wind.

“It’s okay, Santy. You need to go to your wife.” I give him a quick hug. “Thanks for everything.”

“I can’t leave you like this,
señorita
.”

“I’ll be fine, Santy,” I reassure him. Unfortunately, he’d just slow me down with his creaky joints. “Please, go home.”

“Call the Coast Guard,” he says after a pause. “All right?”

I promise, and then, reluctantly, he turns away, shielding his face from the rain. Immediately, I run down the path toward the road. The wind whips at me and the rain stings, but I focus on moving my legs. Tree branches are cracking and flying, and I dodge out of their way. In the flashes of lightning, I see that the uphill road ahead has transformed into a brown river. I head straight for it, bracing myself. My lungs burning, I slip and fall and scramble back up, smeared with mud. Finally, at the top, I turn left at the cabanas sign and tear down our driveway, shaking with cold and fear.
Please be here, Wendell. Please
.

I approach the kitchen hut, breathless, soaked to the bone. The trees shelter the dining area from the worst of the wind, but the candles are all blown out. The tables are empty; the guests must have retreated to their cabanas. Layla and Meche are huddled behind the counter, washing dishes by lantern light.

“Layla!” I call out as I enter.

“Zeeta! Are you okay?”

I nod quickly. “Wendell? Is he—?”

She shakes her head, drying her hands on the dish towel. “He’s not back, love.”

Meche grabs a black wool shawl from a hook in the kitchen. It must be hers; I’ve never seen it before. She wraps it around me, despite the mud clinging to my clothes and skin. Gently, she sits me down on a bench. “I couldn’t find him, Zeeta. Are you okay?”

I nod. “But Wendell—” I stifle a sob. “I think he’s out there on the water. Santy and I couldn’t find him.”

Meche and Layla shoot each other looks of alarm. Layla asks, “Should I call the Coast Guard?”

I hate that it’s come to this. “Yes,” I relent. “And the fire chief. Hurry, please.”

As Layla disappears down the path toward the phone, I catch a glimpse of movement at the edge of the jungle. My eyes scan the dripping-wet trees, their branches blowing in the wind. It’s dark, shadowy, but I’m sure of it: someone’s behind a tree. A branch covers most of his face, but I can tell it’s a man. A man in a dark shirt and pants.

As I stand up, he turns and disappears into the forest.

By the time I make my legs move a few steps in his direction, I realize it’s too late. He’s probably long gone.

I drop back down to the bench and look at Meche. “Did you see him?”

“Who?” Her gaze flickers around.

“A man watching us. In the jungle.”

“No.” She squints at the rainy foliage. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the same person I noticed before. One of the poachers?” I shiver, trying to think of a less scary scenario. “Or maybe the guy who warned everyone about the
fire. Maybe the one who threw stones at the poachers.” I like this explanation better. The one involving an invisible protector.

She ponders this, staring into the jungle, then puts her arm on my shoulder. “Zeeta, why are you so convinced Wendell is out there? In danger?”

I pause. I can’t tell her about Wendell’s vision. “Santy described the guys who took him on the boat today. One of them fits the description of a poacher in Wendell’s photo. This guy named El Dedo.”

As I’m talking, I remember Santy’s words. If Pepe was the one who sent Wendell out on the boat today, he must know El Dedo. And he must have known that El Dedo was one of the poachers in the photo we showed him.

My mind is reeling. I sputter, “And this guy, Pepe—Wendell’s boss at the Turtle Center—he’s acting weird. Lying to us. Wendell wanted to report the poaching to PROFEPA even though Pepe told him not to.…” I struggle to compose my thoughts, which are leading me to some disturbing conclusions about Pepe.

Meche looks bewildered. “Wait, this Pepe from the Turtle Center … you mean Doña Lupita’s son?”

I glance up. “What?”

“Her younger son?” Meche asks. “The so-called community coordinator?” Uncharacteristic sarcasm has crept into her voice.

I try to make sense of this new information. “I guess that’s him.”

“Lupita told me about his new job,” Meche says.

My heart’s racing. “What do you know about him?”

She laughs wryly. “I’m not surprised he got the job, even with no science background. Everyone loves him. He’s charming, all about exchanging favors. He tried to involve me in his little network, but I refused. And I suspect he fuels the rumors about me, hoping I’ll leave and sell him the land.” She pauses. “Of course, he’s never been interested in turtles. He’s only been interested in—”

I stare at her. “What?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve said enough already. I hate gossip.”

“I have to know, Meche. Wendell’s in danger.”

After a long pause, she continues. “Money. That’s what he was always all about. Impressing his friends. Whatever it took to do that.”

I blink, fighting to rearrange my assumptions about Pepe. “What do you mean?”

“He came over a few months ago, pressuring me to sell my land. Said he’d let me in on an investment, a fancy hotel he wanted to build here.” Meche’s voice hardens. “My land is smack in the middle of his plans. And he’s assuming he’ll get this land you rent from his parents. Apparently, he met some investors in Mexico City. It all sounded shady to me. Of course, I refused. Which didn’t make him happy.”

“But how could he build a hotel? Wouldn’t the electric lights endanger the turtles?”

“Exactly. Why would he be working at the Turtle Center
if he cares so little about the turtles?” Meche furrows her eyebrows. “Maybe he thought he’d have more power if he worked there, being on the inside. I wouldn’t put it past that man.”

I shut my eyes tight, not wanting to believe it, but it makes sense. Slowly, I say, “Pepe wants us gone. He’s always wanted us gone. With us gone, his parents will give him the land. And he’ll develop a hotel. And knowing him, he’ll get the support of his friends, the cops, and everyone else. He’ll find a way to avoid following the turtle protection laws. That’s why he doesn’t want Wendell going to PROFEPA—he doesn’t want anyone else interfering. If PROFEPA gets involved, they’d stop him.”

I hesitate, putting together the rest of the information. “El Dedo and the others must be Pepe’s friends from Mexico City. Maybe he does them favors—like letting them poach on this beach. And the volunteer force—it’s a sham, nonexistent. El Dedo and his buddies do Pepe favors in return, like leaving curses and committing arson, to try to scare us off.”

Meche listens intently, nodding.

The more I talk, the more pieces come together. “The first curse came after we reported the poaching. The threatening note came after Lupita found out that we wanted to stay for years. The fire came after I convinced Rogelio to let us stay. Lupita and Rogelio probably mentioned these things to Pepe, and he instructed his buddies to do the dirty work. And now this incident with Wendell—it came right after he told Pepe he’d go to PROFEPA.”

Each of Pepe’s attacks has escalated, gotten more serious,
more destructive. And now, this latest one—would he actually try to kill Wendell?

I turn to Meche, a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Wendell’s in serious danger, isn’t he?”

Solemnly, she nods. “It appears so.”

And then there’s the big question, which I can’t tell Meche about, because it involves my father: What if my father really is innocent of the crime he was accused of as a teen? What if his brother, Pepe, was the guilty one? Pepe would’ve had access to the keys to his father’s truck. He could’ve escaped from the truck, taken a shortcut home, and slipped into bed, unseen. He could’ve easily pinned it on his brother, who was out with a girl. Maybe everyone was so charmed by Pepe that they just assumed his troubled brother did it.

My insides are still spinning over the revelations about Pepe when Layla comes down the path. “I reported him as missing at sea,” she says, breathless. “The Coast Guard is out looking. The fire department too.” Twisting her face, she adds, “And supposedly those inept cops.”

“You called them, too?”

“The Coast Guard did. Said it’s protocol.” Sitting down beside me, she hugs me and looks back and forth between me and Meche. She must see the new wave of fear in our eyes. “What is it?”

“Pepe,” I say shakily. Between the two of us, Meche and I tell her about Pepe’s shady side.

Once Layla understands the meaning of this, she jumps up and runs to call in this new information to the authorities.

Now there’s a search on for Pepe as well as El Dedo and
Wendell. For what feels like hours, I wait in the kitchen hut, watching rain drip from leaves, praying that Wendell will make it back. But with every minute that passes, it seems less and less likely.

After word of Wendell’s disappearance spreads, the guests stop by the palapa, trying to comfort me. They adore Wendell too. Many of them have gone on a tour with him at the Turtle Center, become enchanted by his turtle enthusiasm. There’s no bonfire tonight, only a solemn mood as people offer me sympathetic hugs, then, after midnight, trickle off to their cabanas.

Eventually, the only ones left are Layla and Meche and Joe, drying dishes behind the counter, and at a table, Horacio and me. He sits beside me in the flickering light of a small lantern. Knowing that he can’t see my face is liberating. Finally, my tears stream down, unrestrained. Hearing my muffled sobs, he reaches out, finds my arm, rests his hand there.

I sniffle as he pats my arm rhythmically. “You were right, Horacio,” I say in a shaky voice. “My life could get messier. It did.”

“Trust …,” he begins softly, his voice fading.

“Trust what?”

He sighs, searching for words. “Trust you’ll handle the mess. Trust you’ll even, somehow, love it. Trust that in the end, it will all be fine. More than fine. Beautiful.”

I wipe my eyes. “My friend Lupita—she told me the same thing. She said life is like
mole
. Not all sweet. Spicy with chile, bitter with cacao. All these flavors that jumble together and make it delicious.”

He gazes into the night, his expression pensive. “And now, tonight, we’re living through the bitter part, or maybe the painful, burning chile part.” He pats my arm some more. “But more sweetness will come, sooner or later. Trust that it will.”

I think about all the sweetness Wendell has brought into my life. The sweetness this new home has brought into my life. And how terrified I’ve been of losing it all. My home, Wendell, my perfect paradise.

But it’s not a perfect paradise. It never was and it never will be. The only real perfection is the miracle of simply being alive. Suddenly, I understand this with every cell in my body. There will be storms, scares, beasts, heartache … and I’m strong enough to deal with it all.
As long as he’s alive
.

All this time I’ve been worrying he’d leave and I’d lose him. And now, I might lose him in a way I never dreamed possible. Lose him for good.

No!
I scream inside. He will come back.
He will
. He has to. I have to believe that he’ll return. And even after he does, there will always be uncertainty, a string of obstacles to overcome, the pain of being apart, the elation of being together. Our paths will fork here and there, unexpectedly, double back, take detours. And I’ll give him freedom to fly, to be his own person. I’ll trust that in the end, we’ll be together. Trust in the sweet parts and the bitter parts—trust the whole delicious mess.

Then I think of my father—the depth of his music, the tenderness that comes through in his mother’s stories. He might be innocent of the crime. If so, how tragic that a false
accusation shaped his entire life. But if he hadn’t left and gone to Greece and met my mother, then I wouldn’t exist. I think of all the regret and sorrow and anger he must feel … and maybe hope, too, like a speck of mud that starts a world anew. I have to believe that he’s still out there, with enough hope to meet me halfway. His life has been the ultimate mess, but there’s been beauty in it.

Suddenly, Horacio grips my arm. “Listen,” he whispers, motioning with his chin. “Someone’s coming from the jungle, over there.”

I look up. Two figures are stumbling through the battered path toward the kitchen. They push through broken branches and rain-pelted leaves, huddled together beneath a blanket.

I jump up, squinting to make out the faces. One of the figures pulls back the blanket. It’s him, Wendell.