The Jade Notebook (34 page)

When I reach the top of the path, I tie the damp shirt around my waist. I’ll need both hands for this. Looking down the steep incline, I feel my heart pound even harder. Sharp rocks and cacti and dried tree branches jut up everywhere. And at the bottom, waves crash against the thin crescent of sand. I glance at the pink boat, which looks tiny so far below.

It occurs to me that no one knows where I am. Everyone is sleeping. If something happens … Biting my lip, I look at the dazzling ocean, the silvery blue sky. I should go back,
get some help. But I’m so close. I’m not letting him get away again.

I try calling out again. “Tortue!”

No response. I take a deep breath and turn around, positioning myself to face the incline and climb down backward. I go slowly, finding solid spots for my feet, grips for my hands. I’m about halfway down when I stop to rest. The drop is almost vertical here. Now it’s even harder to find a place to hold on. When I’ve caught my breath, I grasp a slender tree and lower myself, stretching my right foot into a rock nook below. Then I let down my left foot and an arm, wedging my fingers into a ridge. My knuckles are white, gripping the rock. My left foot has nowhere to go. I search the stone face for somewhere to put it.

Nothing. Sheer rock. And then my right foot slips.

I shriek. An animal scream of sheer terror. I’m hanging by my fingers now, my feet scrambling desperately to find something to step on, a root, anything. I scream again, in words this time. “
¡Ayúdenme!
Help!” The ocean swallows my sounds but I keep screaming on instinct.
“¡Ayúdenme!”

As I scream, thoughts race through my mind in a loop.
I’m going to fall, I’m going to fall. What if I die? What if I die just moments before meeting my father? How can I die after seventeen years of waiting for this?

An image of Wendell comes to my mind. Someplace deeper than my mind, somewhere in my center, inside my chest. All our moments together, our breaths close, our lips grazing, the comfort of his arms, his chest, his cinnamon
smell. And then, the image of our spot on the beach, our handfasting place, empty. His confidence that we’ll be together in the end … but what if I don’t make it to the end?

All this time, I’m crying for help as the waves drown out my flimsy words. I don’t know how long I scream—seconds, minutes—all I know is my hands ache, and I’m terrified to adjust my grip. I need all my fingers to hang on.

And they’re slipping. One by one, as if in slow motion, the fingertips slide off.

My feet flail wildly, searching for anything solid. Again, I scream.

And now I’m falling, sliding down the rock face, stones and pebbles and cactus thorns ripping into my skin. The world becomes a spinning blur of rock and sea and sand.

Then, somehow, there’s an arm around me, holding me securely. My body is still, my head still spinning. But I’m safe—yes, I am. Someone’s caught me. I look up, focusing. A pair of deep brown eyes meet mine.

It’s him. He’s breathing hard, sweat glistening under his dreadlocks, holding me firmly with his muscled arm, his hand gripping a tree root. His eyes peek through his hair, relieved, tender. Without a word, he sets me on my feet, then guides me down the rest of the cliff, knowing exactly where to step. He leads me to the crescent of beach, where he sits me down gently in the shade of the pink boat.
Gracia
, it reads in peeling, faint white letters. Named after the turtle who saved him so many years ago?

Or it might simply mean “Grace.”

He watches me, surveys my wounds.

I realize how much my body aches, stinging and throbbing. “You heard me,” I manage to say, hoarse after so much screaming.

He nods. He looks like he wants to say something, opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Your shirt,” I say, flustered, unwrapping it from my waist and handing it to him. “I washed it but—it’s covered in dirt again.” It’s crazy that this is all I can think to say, talking about a shirt at this moment I’ve dreamed of all my life.

He takes the damp shirt.

I run my fingers over my scrapes and bruises, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t. I want to hear his voice, because now I’m starting to wonder if he’s an apparition. If I fell and died and he’s some kind of silent angel. Hugging myself, trying to stop shaking, I say, “I know who you are.”

No reply. I strain to see his expression beneath his wild hair.

A wave of something is rising inside me, some oceanic feeling that makes the pain from my wounds fade into the background. “I know you. I know you’ve been protecting us.” I suck in a breath. “I know you’re innocent. I know you’re scared and sad. And full of regret.” Again, I wait for him to say something.

He doesn’t.

I feel like a sea turtle, battered and beaten by the currents. Finally making it onto the beach. Exhausted, wanting. Something. A word, anything. I look at him, pleading. “I
just—I don’t understand why you never—why—” And the tears break loose, like a dam opening, streams of tears.

He sits there watching me, awkwardly. Why isn’t he talking, hugging me, comforting me? Something. Anything. Anything remotely fatherly.

“Tell me why!” I shout. My words echo off the cliffs, fade into the ocean.

He lowers his head. “Zeeta.” His voice is a whisper, barely audible over the crashing of waves on the cliffs. He buries his face in his hands. “This isn’t how I imagined it. Us finally meeting.”

He speaks in Spanish, the Spanish of the locals, I realize. Maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize his voice. In France, he spoke to me in French.

“It’s not how I imagined it either.” I look at the debris washed ashore, surrounding us, plastic bottles, an old flip-flop, frayed rope, heaps of trash.

He takes a wavery breath. “I wanted—I wanted to be strong for you. Complete. I wanted to be someone you could depend on. Someone you’d be proud of.” He pauses. “I came back here last summer. I thought I’d reconnect with my family. Let go of old hurt. Fix myself. Become the father you deserve.”

“What happened?” I ask in a small voice.

“I—I realized it wouldn’t be easy. I couldn’t tell my family I was here. I disguised myself as a beach bum, thinking I’d find the courage any day. Then I ran out of my meds, didn’t bother to get more. I thought,
What’s the point?
I fell into a
dark place. And I didn’t have my friends here to pull me out. I was at a real low. I even considered …” His voice trails off. “But then I saw you and Layla and Wendell in town. I wanted to run up and tell you who I was. But I felt too broken. I decided I had to get better first. Seeing you every day—it gave me motivation. I even started taking my meds again. And when I saw you were in danger, I knew I had to protect you.”

“Then why didn’t you show yourself?”

He lets his dreads fall over his eyes. “Look at me, Zeeta.… I sleep under a boat. I forage fruit from the jungle and fish from the sea. I have nothing to give you. I’m so sorry. I’m a mess.”

He stares at me, his arms outstretched, his palms turned up, empty. Surrounded by broken and worn things from the sea. The sunlight shines through his graying dreadlocks, illuminating his face.

I reach out, push away the hair to reveal his eyes, which are red, shining. I muster up all my courage and say, “You know, I kinda like messes.”

Since I can’t make it up the cliff trail, Tortue takes me in his boat around the cove to Playa Mermejita. Then we hike up the beach and through the jungle, arm in arm, him supporting me. We don’t talk much; I’m in too much pain as we hike. And shock. It’s like a dream. I’m in a state of disbelief, struggling to absorb everything.

Once we reach the dining hut, I’m thinking more clearly. I stop by the freezer for some ice packs, and Tortue helps make coffee. It’s still early; everyone else is asleep.

He carries our mugs of coffee to the table. I sit down, propping up my sore leg and icing it. Across from me, through lit-up spirals of steam, my father sips his coffee. I sip my own, watching a line of ants crawl over a few stray sugar crystals. I sneak awkward glances at him. One moment I want to throw my arms around him, and the next I want to shake him.

“I don’t get it, Tortue,” I finally sputter. “Why did you stay? Why didn’t you just go back to France?”

“Money. I had none left.” He smiles. “And the turtles.”

“The turtles?”

“In the fall, I knew the leatherbacks would be coming to nest. I’d come this far and I didn’t want to miss them. I remembered I’d left my boat,
Gracia
, under a rock ledge on the little beach. She was still there.” He smiles again. “I took it as a sign. I camped on the beach, caught and sold fish to support myself. And I started saving pesos to get back to France. I figured by the end of leatherback nesting season I’d have it saved up. But it wasn’t easy. Some days I was too depressed to even roll out from beneath my boat.”

He brushes the hair from his face, his eyes filling with tears. “Zeeta, when I saw you here … I was filled with so much emotion. I couldn’t believe you cared enough to cross an ocean to find me. But I knew I’d only disappoint you.”

He wipes his eyes, and after a moment, continues his story. He says that as he watched the turtles on Playa Mermejita and kept an eye on us at the cabanas, he became aware of the dangers. So he became the protector of the turtles … and of us.

My heart swells when I hear this. My father isn’t a coward after all, but a kind of hero turned on his head. In his own backward way, he’s been a dependable father, one who’s kept me safe. What I’ve always wanted in a dad. Suddenly, I’m filled with warmth, gratitude,
gracias
.

When he pauses to sip his coffee, I say, “That was you with your slingshot, shooting stones, wasn’t it?”

He nods. “I was in the trees, hiding.”

“And you were the one I kept seeing in the jungle? The one who ran away?”

“Yes.” His gaze falls to his lap. “That last time—I suspected the poachers were plotting something. I’d overheard them talking about it the night before last. I came last night to warn you.”

“That was you I saw,” I murmur.

With a nod, he continues. “I heard you tell Meche that Wendell was out at sea in the storm. So I ran to my boat to find him.”

I’m on the verge of asking him more about the poachers, about the plot against Wendell, but he looks exhausted. He rubs his eyes and says, in his soft, raspy voice, “But tell me about you, Zeeta.”

I take a deep breath, staring at the wood-grain pattern in the table. Where do I begin? How do I fill him in on seventeen years? I don’t have to do it all at once, I remind myself. There will be time to fill in the gaps. We’ll have the rest of our lives together, especially if Layla and I get to stay on this land, make this our real home.

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.”