The Jade Notebook (31 page)

At some point, I sense the waves picking up and the breeze turning into a cold wind. I open my eyes, shake off my daze. It’s growing darker by the second, but not just with dusk. On the horizon, dark clouds are rushing toward us. And gusts of wind are blowing violently. Farther in the ocean, a huge wave is rolling toward us.

“Wendell!” I cry, rousing him from his own dreamy state. “A storm’s coming.”

At my words, a jagged line of lightning slices the sky.

Wendell splashes upright, taking in the situation. “Let’s go in, fast.”

“That wave,” I say, looking over my shoulder with growing panic. “It’s gigantic.”

“Hold my hand,” he says as thunder rolls. “Swim for shore.”

We struggle against the rough currents, glancing at the wall of water behind us. The sky is steely gray and heavy now, the wave black and towering.

“It’s gonna crash!” Wendell yells over the ocean’s roar.

“It’s too big to ride in!” I shriek.

“Dive under!” he calls back, tightening his grip on my hand.

We take deep breaths, squeeze each other’s hands, and dive under, deep, close to the sandy bottom. But the wave grabs me and tears my hand from Wendell’s. The force thrashes my body against the ocean floor. The sea pounds me, flips me over, my head smacking the sand, then my shoulder, then my leg. I’ve become a tiny piece of driftwood in this angry expanse of water. Sand scrapes my skin; salt water fills my head.

My mind is screaming Wendell’s name. My whole body is shouting for him. Thoughts tumble through my mind—Wendell’s vision, his gasping and choking. Is this it? My lungs are burning. My mouth opens, searching for air but only sucking in more salt water.
Wendell!
I scream inside.

Finally, after what seems like forever, the wave passes and recedes. I fight toward the surface, but it’s hard to tell which way is up. It’s dark on all sides. This water has swallowed me. But somehow, I emerge, gasping for breath, coughing, gagging. I look around desperately in the darkness. The ocean is all seething foam. No sign of Wendell.

“Wendell!” I call weakly. The ocean swells devour my voice. “Wendell!” I try again, louder, scanning the water desperately. A flash of lightning briefly illuminates the ocean. No sign of him.

“Wendell!” My voice is stronger now that I’ve caught my breath, but it’s still no match for the stormy sea.

I start swimming toward shore. Maybe he’s already there. I glance around, seeing nothing but waves. My body throbs and aches from battling the sea. A current keeps pulling me back, sucking me toward the open water. I swim and swim, making no progress. I’m stuck out here. And utterly exhausted.

Then I see another giant wave heading to shore. Not again. I can’t handle this. There’s nothing to do but dive under. This one nearly knocks me out, bashing my head against the sand, whipping my body around and around. But now, when I break the surface, coughing and gasping, I’m closer to shore. The wave must have caught me, carried me head over heels. The inside of my head stings with salt water. I look around for Wendell. Nothing but the dark, raging sea.

Now I’m driven by a survival instinct. My arms muster up every last bit of energy and propel me toward shore. I stagger through the foam onto the beach, just before the next wave. This wave smashes my body against the sand, but at least the water’s shallow here. I find the gritty floor with my hands and knees and push myself to my feet, force my legs to carry me through the surf. Once I’m ankle-deep, I turn back to the ocean, searching for Wendell. It’s dark, so dark. Another enormous wave comes, swirling around my waist, knocking me back a few steps.

“Wendell!” I yell, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Wendell!” I stand there, shaking, barely keeping my knees from collapsing. Rain is pelting me, stinging my flesh, making it even harder to see. What should I do? Stay here and
yell? Or go back in? Or run for help? I don’t know. There’s not enough time. I’m sobbing, choking out screams. The wind’s whipping my wet hair, smacking it against my skin. “Wendell!”

I squint through the downpour and gradually see a shape coming out of the water. I keep my eyes glued to it, hoping, hoping. I splash and trip toward it.
Please, please, please
.

As I’m closer, I hear his voice, weak, gasping “Zeeta.” He’s staggering toward me, but then another giant wave swells behind him.

“Watch out!” I scream.

It knocks him over, and for a moment, he’s under again. I keep my eyes stuck to that spot and fight my way toward him. Finally, he comes up, and the wave recedes in a chaos of foam. I stumble toward him, my arms outstretched. “Wendell!”

We grasp onto each other and stumble out of the surf. The rain and wind are driving into us as we forge our way up the beach toward the jungle. At the edge of the trees, we collapse. I kiss him, all over his damp face, his neck, his shoulders. “Thank God you’re okay.”

“You too,” he says hoarsely, his trembling arms wrapped around me.

Here, the trees shelter us from the worst of the storm. We lie in the sand, shivering, holding each other. Gradually, I notice the time between lightning and thunder growing longer, the rain letting up, the wind calming.

This must have been Wendell’s vision, I realize. How
horrible, the weight of this, the knowledge that he might die. The helplessness. And he was carrying this alone. “This was your vision, wasn’t it?” I ask softly.

He looks as if he’s struggling to decide whether to tell me something. “In the vision, I was drowning. I was exhausted, scared. It was dark, stormy. Just like tonight.”

“You survived,” I say, rubbing his shoulder. “It’s over. And now everything’s okay, right?”

He stares out into the ocean. “It’s just—”

“What?” I ask, panicked.

“Nothing. You’re right. This must’ve been the vision.” He turns to me, kisses me.

But something about his tone doesn’t convince me. There’s something he’s not telling me. “And if it wasn’t?”

“Z, come on. I’m not gonna cower. Not for every scary vision. I have to live my life.”

I pull him toward me again, wrap my arms tightly around him. As I peer over his shoulder, I see a movement in the jungle. A pair of eyes. Someone’s there, watching us. This time, I don’t try to catch the person. I simply raise my hand in strange greeting, hoping for the best.

Still, whoever it is runs away.

The next day passes more quickly. I take it easy, doing homework and lounging in the hammock, nursing my bruises and scrapes. I nap for hours, exhausted from last night’s ordeal. In no time, it’s evening, and I’m chopping cucumbers for the side salad, chatting with Layla, who’s stuffing
chiles rellenos
. At some point, I glance up at the clock, and I’m surprised to see it’s 5:32. “Isn’t he usually back by now, Layla?”

“Who, Wendell?” She glances at the clock. “I think so. He’s probably running a little late.”

Distracted, I continue chopping the cucumbers, nearly slicing my finger. I take a deep breath, try to calm down. Now each chop on the cutting board makes me think of machetes, and El Dedo, and death threats. And was that an extra-long, dramatic kiss goodbye he gave me when I dropped him off at the Turtle Center today? The kind of kiss you’d give before … 
Stop, Zeeta!
I try to control my wild,
panicked thoughts. Wendell’s vision already came to pass. And he survived. Nothing to worry about.

When six-thirty rolls around, the sun is setting. I’ve assembled the salad and the guests are trickling into the kitchen hut. Wendell’s always here in time for dinner. Always. Last night, when I asked if his vision had been realized, he hesitated. Why? What did he know that he wasn’t telling me? I set out the glasses and plates as fear builds inside me.

Stop, Zeeta!
I put down the pile of dishes and blurt out, “That’s it, Layla. I’m going to look for him.”

“He’s probably resting in his cabana, love.”

True; he got so battered from the waves last night, he might have come home and gone straight to bed. Hoping that’s the case, I race toward his cabana, bang on the door. No answer. I peer through the window. No sign of his having come home.

I jog down the dirt road, heading to the Turtle Center. I’ll run into him on the way there, I tell myself. He’ll be perfectly fine, with some good reason for being so late—maybe lugging groceries. My hopes rise when I see a figure toward the bottom of the hill, carrying bags. But at closer look, it’s a woman with a slight limp. Silver necklaces and bracelets glitter in the angled sunlight.

“Meche!” I call out, picking up my pace. “Have you seen Wendell?”

“No, Zeeta. Is something wrong?”

My heart’s pounding, my breathing hard. “He never came home from work … I—I think something bad happened.”

She doesn’t question my concern. “I’ll search the
jungle and the beach,” she says calmly. “I’ll meet you at your kitchen hut.”

“Thanks, Meche,” I say, already running again.

“Be careful, Zeeta!” she calls out.

By the time I reach the Turtle Center, I’m exhausted, with a stitch in my side. It’s nearly dusk and the Center is officially closed. The place is deserted, the gates open just a crack. I call to the guard. “
¡Señor!
I need to get in!”

He saunters over, frowning. “Yes,
señorita
?”

“Have you seen Wendell?” I ask.

“Not since you walked him here today.”

“He never left?”

Frowning, the guard shakes his head.

“What about Pepe? Is he here?” I poke my head around the guard. A group of men in blue Turtle Center T-shirts are walking toward the gate, laughing and chatting. Thankfully, Pepe is one of them.

“Pepe!” I call out. “Pepe!”

His head snaps up; his hand rises in greeting. I dart around the guard, make a beeline for Pepe. “Have you seen Wendell?” My voice is brimming with desperation.

“He left a while ago,” Pepe says, waving goodbye to his colleagues.

“You saw him? Where’d he go?”

“Who knows. Home, I guess.”

“No, he didn’t, Pepe. Tell me every detail. What time did he leave? Which way was he headed?”

“Sorry, I don’t remember, Zeeta. Maybe he’s running errands.”

“No, he’s missing! He wouldn’t—”

Pepe shakes his head, a gesture of pity and impatience. “Zeeta, when a
muchacho
has another girl, the first sign is not coming home on time. The second sign is when the girlfriend invents scenarios. Excuses that feel better than the truth.”

“What?” I sputter. “What are you talking about?”

“Zeeta, all I’m saying is that there are many beautiful girls around here. Any one of them might catch a young guy’s eye.”

I glare at Pepe, suddenly seeing him in a different light. He’s actually accusing Wendell of cheating on me? It takes all my restraint to not slap this man, or at least curse at him in about twenty different languages. I’m shaking now, searching for words to tell him off.

He puts his hand to my shoulder. I wince, stepping away.

“Keep your dignity, Zeeta. Go home now.”

My eyes bore into his. “I have to look around the Center for Wendell.”

Pepe shakes his head, then signals to the guard, who takes a step forward. “The Center is closed,” Pepe says. “Go home, Zeeta.”

With no other choice, I walk out the gate and head down the main street. Pepe calls out,
“Hasta luego.”

I ignore him. Halfway down the street, I turn around and see that the guard has returned to his little booth. My pulse racing, I double back. Staying hidden from the guard’s view, I run around the perimeter to where the fence ends and the beach begins.

Across the dusky violet stretch of sand, I spot a white boat. Beside it, a man crouches by a bucket, gutting a fish.

“Santy!” I feel like hugging him. “Thank God you’re here. Where’s Wendell?”

“Who knows. I didn’t take him out today.”

“But you always take him out!”

He nods, frowning. “This afternoon, two
muchachos
beached their boat here. Pepe said they were researchers, told me they’d be taking Wendell out today. He gave me the afternoon off. Seemed strange to me, but I left. Spent the time fishing.”

I run my hand through my hair. “Do you have any idea where they took him? Or who they were? What they looked like?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t know them. They were teenagers, around your age. Not from around here. City boys. Oh, and one of them was missing a finger.”

Panic rises, nearly suffocating me. It’s El Dedo. And his buddy. The poachers have Wendell.

“Santy,” I say, my voice trembling, “we need to look for Wendell.”

Santy’s eyes widen in alarm. “Didn’t he come back?”

“No,” I say, struggling to keep my tears at bay long enough to tell Santy about the threats, curses, the poachers. “They must’ve realized that Wendell’s on to them.” I don’t say anything about the vision, but what I’ve said is enough for Santy.

“Vámonos,”
he says, pushing the boat out into the surf.

Once we jump in, he speeds up the coastline, zigzagging
along the shore. I wish I’d thought to bring binoculars or a flashlight. There’s a small light on Santy’s boat, but it doesn’t help much. It’s getting darker by the minute. I think of Wendell’s vision. Nighttime. Darkness. His hands at his throat. Gasping for breath. El Dedo’s words:
You’re dead
.