Read Online The Indigo Notebook by Laura Resau - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Resau
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same with the next seven houses. People share food, talk, and ultimately claim that only God knows.
And now it’s sunset and for the past hour, little Odelia’s been pleading, “Now can we go to Mamita Luz’s? Now? How much longer till Mamita Luz’s?”
It’s almost dark, and we have to go back soon. “Okay,
chica
. Just for a few minutes.”
She claps her hands and does a little dance.
On the way there, I ask Eva, “What about your parents? They might know something.”
A cloud passes over her face. “Our
mamá
is out,” she says, her voice suddenly quiet. “She works as a maid in Otavalo all day.”
“What about your father?”
The girls look at one another.
“He’s sick,” Eva says.
“Yes, sick,” Isabel says.
Solemnly, Odelia adds, “Very sick.”
Chapter 9
T he girls lead us through a misty maze of paths and corn rows. Odelia’s a little hummingbird of darting energy, chatting nearly nonstop, her eyes impossibly wide. Isabel walks and talks a little slower, but somehow manages to get a word in edgewise here and there. Eva’s observant and protective like a mother wolf, warning us to watch our step over holes and rocks, her eyes flicking around, always on the lookout for unseen dangers.
We walk on a path by an irrigation ditch, a two-foot-wide channel of water with corn plants on either side reaching higher than our heads, making a tunnel over us, sheltering us from the drizzle. To our left, the cornfield ends in a backyard. From the wall of the house, a clay mound protrudes, a giant bump in the adobe.
Odelia points and jumps up and down. “Mamita Luz’s bread oven!” And then she and Isabel are running, unable to contain their excitement, pulling me along, with Wendell and Eva right on our heels. And sure enough, as we come closer, the rich, warm smell of baking bread surrounds the house in a sweet cloud. Smoke’s rising from the chimney, swirling into the raindrops. In front, sprays of pink bougainvillea are climbing the walls, emerging from tangles of blackberry bushes heavy with shiny berries. A few chickens peck around in the mud among red and orange potted flowers in old tin cans. The house is a cheerful oasis in the rain.
The girls knock on the heavy wooden door, Odelia bouncing in anticipation.
As we wait, Wendell turns to me, shivering. It’s grown colder now that the sun’s setting. “Ever feel extra alive?”
I think of how Layla felt more alive than ever the first time she traveled. “When we move,” I say slowly. “The first month or two, there’s that time when I notice everything—all the colors and sounds and smells—they seem magnified.” I don’t mention that this in-between time is also the time my middle-of-the-night panics are worst.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s how I feel now. Freezing my butt off, but alive.”
The door opens, and there stands a woman, middle-aged, round as a soft roll. The girls rush into her arms and she wraps all three of them up like a blanket. She reaches out for my hand and Wendell’s, and holds them for a moment, beaming.
“Mis hijos!”
My children!
She ushers us inside, to a room on the left—a kitchen—where three other children, two boys and a toddler girl, are sitting by the fire, pulling apart pieces of steaming bread and munching with delight.
They stare at us, curious, until finally a brave boy says,
“Buenas tardes.”
As we introduce ourselves, the girls put their hands in mine and Wendell’s, firmly, claiming first dibs on their new friends.
For a moment, Wendell and I stand, savoring the heat, gazing around the room. The ceiling is high, with exposed beams, and covered in straw. There’s hardly any furniture in here, just two large wood pillars with spoons and pans and ladles hanging from nails. The walls are rough, pink clay with bits of straw and old corncobs poking out. Small benches and stools line the walls, ready and waiting for more kids to come. An old guitar leans in the corner, with reed
And now it’s sunset and for the past hour, little Odelia’s been pleading, “Now can we go to Mamita Luz’s? Now? How much longer till Mamita Luz’s?”
It’s almost dark, and we have to go back soon. “Okay,
chica
. Just for a few minutes.”
She claps her hands and does a little dance.
On the way there, I ask Eva, “What about your parents? They might know something.”
A cloud passes over her face. “Our
mamá
is out,” she says, her voice suddenly quiet. “She works as a maid in Otavalo all day.”
“What about your father?”
The girls look at one another.
“He’s sick,” Eva says.
“Yes, sick,” Isabel says.
Solemnly, Odelia adds, “Very sick.”
Chapter 9
T he girls lead us through a misty maze of paths and corn rows. Odelia’s a little hummingbird of darting energy, chatting nearly nonstop, her eyes impossibly wide. Isabel walks and talks a little slower, but somehow manages to get a word in edgewise here and there. Eva’s observant and protective like a mother wolf, warning us to watch our step over holes and rocks, her eyes flicking around, always on the lookout for unseen dangers.
We walk on a path by an irrigation ditch, a two-foot-wide channel of water with corn plants on either side reaching higher than our heads, making a tunnel over us, sheltering us from the drizzle. To our left, the cornfield ends in a backyard. From the wall of the house, a clay mound protrudes, a giant bump in the adobe.
Odelia points and jumps up and down. “Mamita Luz’s bread oven!” And then she and Isabel are running, unable to contain their excitement, pulling me along, with Wendell and Eva right on our heels. And sure enough, as we come closer, the rich, warm smell of baking bread surrounds the house in a sweet cloud. Smoke’s rising from the chimney, swirling into the raindrops. In front, sprays of pink bougainvillea are climbing the walls, emerging from tangles of blackberry bushes heavy with shiny berries. A few chickens peck around in the mud among red and orange potted flowers in old tin cans. The house is a cheerful oasis in the rain.
The girls knock on the heavy wooden door, Odelia bouncing in anticipation.
As we wait, Wendell turns to me, shivering. It’s grown colder now that the sun’s setting. “Ever feel extra alive?”
I think of how Layla felt more alive than ever the first time she traveled. “When we move,” I say slowly. “The first month or two, there’s that time when I notice everything—all the colors and sounds and smells—they seem magnified.” I don’t mention that this in-between time is also the time my middle-of-the-night panics are worst.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s how I feel now. Freezing my butt off, but alive.”
The door opens, and there stands a woman, middle-aged, round as a soft roll. The girls rush into her arms and she wraps all three of them up like a blanket. She reaches out for my hand and Wendell’s, and holds them for a moment, beaming.
“Mis hijos!”
My children!
She ushers us inside, to a room on the left—a kitchen—where three other children, two boys and a toddler girl, are sitting by the fire, pulling apart pieces of steaming bread and munching with delight.
They stare at us, curious, until finally a brave boy says,
“Buenas tardes.”
As we introduce ourselves, the girls put their hands in mine and Wendell’s, firmly, claiming first dibs on their new friends.
For a moment, Wendell and I stand, savoring the heat, gazing around the room. The ceiling is high, with exposed beams, and covered in straw. There’s hardly any furniture in here, just two large wood pillars with spoons and pans and ladles hanging from nails. The walls are rough, pink clay with bits of straw and old corncobs poking out. Small benches and stools line the walls, ready and waiting for more kids to come. An old guitar leans in the corner, with reed
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