Read Online The Indigo Notebook by Laura Resau - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Resau
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have on jeans and Disney polar fleece sweatshirts with hoods. They have round, pretty faces, glistening eyes, cheeks pink with cold. At first they look about to run at the sight of us, but instead, on second thought, they giggle.
“Buenos días,”
I say.
“Buenos días,”
they reply shyly.
“I’m Zeeta. And this is Wendell.”
The oldest one says, “I’m Eva. This little one’s my
ñaña
Odelia, and she’s my other
ñaña
, Isabel.”
“Well,
chicas
, we’re looking for Wendell’s birth parents. He was adopted by an American family as a baby. Want to be our guides? Introduce us to the people in your town?”
The girls stare at Wendell and titter and confer in Quichua, and then Eva says, “Come with us. There aren’t that many houses. We’ll just take you to all of them.” The littlest, Odelia, takes one of my hands, and Isabel takes the other, and we set off down the road. They don’t seem to notice the drizzle, and soon they’re shooting off questions like fireworks.
Where are you from? Do you have animals? Are you two married?
I burst out laughing at the married one, but then remember that Gaby got married when she was fifteen. It isn’t so far-fetched to them.
They chatter and tell stories that I translate in snatches to Wendell—a rich man on the hill who made a pact with the devil, a greedy man whose hacienda was magically drowned in a lake, a woman named Mamita Luz who sounds likeeveryone’s fairy godmother. Mother Luz. Mother Light. They particularly love talking about her. She’s the mother of all the children of the village, they say. She gives all children fresh-baked still-warm bread so that not a single child will ever go hungry. Her husband is Silvio, but everyone calls him Taita Silvio. Father Silvio. “We’ll go there after we finish,” Eva says, “to eat bread.”
Timidly, Odelia takes Wendell’s hand. “If you don’t find your mother, Mamita Luz will be your mother.”
After I translate, Wendell gives me a look full of questions.
I shrug, mystified.
The houses are spaced far apart, each with its pens of pigs, its slew of dogs, its cow or horse or donkey, and the occasional beat-up truck. Some buildings are cement, some adobe, some put together with an assortment of scrap wood. At the first house, three round, pretty women are working under a shelter that lets a little drizzle through. They’re taking hardened corn kernels off cobs, but they stop and smile when we approach. “Sit down, sit down,” they insist, pulling up extra plastic lawn chairs.
They’re pleased with the peaches I give them and amused that we offer to help them strip the corn kernels. We talk for a while, going over the same questions the girls asked us.
Wendell’s from Colorado. I’m from nowhere. No, we’re not married
. (I can’t help blushing at that one.)
The only animals in the picture are Wendell’s corgi-Lab mix and his ancient goldfish. No, not a single pig or sheep
.
Soon our fingertips are growing sore from the kernelstripping. When we get to the part about Wendell’s birth parents, the women turn their palms faceup. “Only God knows.” The oldest woman gives us two eggs fresh from under her hen as a goodbye present.
At the next house, a family invites us inside. They’re eating around a long table, about ten of them, ranging in age from three to seventy, with the TV blaring a singing talent show. They accept a bag of strawberries and make us have a bowl of potato soup with them as we shout over the TV about Wendell’s search.
They speak among themselves in Quichua and, finally, shake their heads. “Sorry, we don’t know. Only God knows.”
Wendell doesn’t seem too disappointed, probably because everyone’s nice and feeds us and acts concerned. They’re all amazed that Wendell doesn’t speak Quichua, much less Spanish. “But you have our face!” they exclaim. “And you even wear your hair long, like us!”
All afternoon, we go from house to house. It’s the
“Buenos días,”
I say.
“Buenos días,”
they reply shyly.
“I’m Zeeta. And this is Wendell.”
The oldest one says, “I’m Eva. This little one’s my
ñaña
Odelia, and she’s my other
ñaña
, Isabel.”
“Well,
chicas
, we’re looking for Wendell’s birth parents. He was adopted by an American family as a baby. Want to be our guides? Introduce us to the people in your town?”
The girls stare at Wendell and titter and confer in Quichua, and then Eva says, “Come with us. There aren’t that many houses. We’ll just take you to all of them.” The littlest, Odelia, takes one of my hands, and Isabel takes the other, and we set off down the road. They don’t seem to notice the drizzle, and soon they’re shooting off questions like fireworks.
Where are you from? Do you have animals? Are you two married?
I burst out laughing at the married one, but then remember that Gaby got married when she was fifteen. It isn’t so far-fetched to them.
They chatter and tell stories that I translate in snatches to Wendell—a rich man on the hill who made a pact with the devil, a greedy man whose hacienda was magically drowned in a lake, a woman named Mamita Luz who sounds likeeveryone’s fairy godmother. Mother Luz. Mother Light. They particularly love talking about her. She’s the mother of all the children of the village, they say. She gives all children fresh-baked still-warm bread so that not a single child will ever go hungry. Her husband is Silvio, but everyone calls him Taita Silvio. Father Silvio. “We’ll go there after we finish,” Eva says, “to eat bread.”
Timidly, Odelia takes Wendell’s hand. “If you don’t find your mother, Mamita Luz will be your mother.”
After I translate, Wendell gives me a look full of questions.
I shrug, mystified.
The houses are spaced far apart, each with its pens of pigs, its slew of dogs, its cow or horse or donkey, and the occasional beat-up truck. Some buildings are cement, some adobe, some put together with an assortment of scrap wood. At the first house, three round, pretty women are working under a shelter that lets a little drizzle through. They’re taking hardened corn kernels off cobs, but they stop and smile when we approach. “Sit down, sit down,” they insist, pulling up extra plastic lawn chairs.
They’re pleased with the peaches I give them and amused that we offer to help them strip the corn kernels. We talk for a while, going over the same questions the girls asked us.
Wendell’s from Colorado. I’m from nowhere. No, we’re not married
. (I can’t help blushing at that one.)
The only animals in the picture are Wendell’s corgi-Lab mix and his ancient goldfish. No, not a single pig or sheep
.
Soon our fingertips are growing sore from the kernelstripping. When we get to the part about Wendell’s birth parents, the women turn their palms faceup. “Only God knows.” The oldest woman gives us two eggs fresh from under her hen as a goodbye present.
At the next house, a family invites us inside. They’re eating around a long table, about ten of them, ranging in age from three to seventy, with the TV blaring a singing talent show. They accept a bag of strawberries and make us have a bowl of potato soup with them as we shout over the TV about Wendell’s search.
They speak among themselves in Quichua and, finally, shake their heads. “Sorry, we don’t know. Only God knows.”
Wendell doesn’t seem too disappointed, probably because everyone’s nice and feeds us and acts concerned. They’re all amazed that Wendell doesn’t speak Quichua, much less Spanish. “But you have our face!” they exclaim. “And you even wear your hair long, like us!”
All afternoon, we go from house to house. It’s the
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