The Ruby Notebook (23 page)

“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry, love.”

I force down the rest of my toasted baguette. Before I head out the door, Layla hugs me goodbye and says, “You don’t have to do this, Z.”

“Yes, I do, Layla.” Suddenly, I’m more certain of this than ever. “Your fairy tale never satisfied me. I’m finding my father.”

Outside, the sun is blazing, the heat already setting in. I pass through the Place de la Mairie, weaving around the potted plants and striped awnings set up for the flower market. The clean, light scent of thousands of petals mixes with the golden smell of warm baguettes.

A few minutes later, at Illusion’s apartment, I’m just about to ring the buzzer when Amandine opens the door. She steps outside and cries, “Zeeta!” Kissing my cheeks, she says, “You look pretty.”

At her heels is Tortue, in his usual mime costume. He
comes out onto the sidewalk, and says, in his soft voice, “
Bonjour
, Zeeta.”

“
Bonjour,
” I say, and turn back to Amandine. “Where are you going?”

Amandine looks at Tortue, who says hoarsely, “Montperrin.”

“The psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of Aix,” Amandine reminds me, holding eye contact with Tortue.

“I was checked in for a few days,” he says. “Now I’m doing the day program.”

Amandine links her arm in his, protectively. “And I walk him there every day.”

“Oh, I see.” I have no idea what to say.
Get well soon?
I offer what I hope is an encouraging yet sympathetic smile.

Taking a folded-up piece of paper from her bag, Amandine says, “Jean-Claude asked me to give you this, Zeeta.”

I open the paper and read the message.

My heart sinks. I’ll have to do this alone. Apparently, Jean-Claude’s fear of his past outweighs any willingness to help me. At least he gave me an address. Although who knows if I’ll use it. Visiting his estranged parents has great potential for being incredibly uncomfortable.

I hand the note to Amandine. As she reads it, I ask, “So what happened to Jean-Claude in Marseille?”

She leans against the window of Café Eternité, the red velvet curtains inside the glass making her own hair gleam even redder. “He killed his brother.”

“What?” Shivers run up my spine. I look at her and then at Tortue. He’s standing against the wall, completely still, as if he wishes he could turn into stone.

“That’s how Jean-Claude sees it,” Amandine says. “He was fifteen and his brother, Thomas, was twelve. Jean-Claude took his parents’ car without their permission, and drove with his brother to a nearby beach town. On the way back to Marseille, they got in an accident. Jean-Claude survived with just a gash on his forehead, but Thomas died.”

I’m quiet for a moment. “But why doesn’t he talk to his parents?”

“They went through a rough time after Thomas’s death. Nearly separated. Jean-Claude was filled with guilt. He thought it was his fault that his brother was dead and his parents were in so much pain. Especially his mother. See, Jean-Claude’s father had died in a car accident just before he was born. His mother was completely devastated by this second loss. For months, she was lost in grief. So Jean-Claude
left. He couldn’t bear the pain in his home. He decided to break from his past. Invent a new life. He never talks about what happened, except after a nightmare, when he needs comforting.”

When she pauses, I ask, “And what do you think about all this?”

She answers immediately, as if she’s already come to a conclusion. “That by refusing his parents’ love, he’s refusing anyone’s love.” Her lip quivers. “And by refusing to love his parents, he’s refusing to love anyone.” She blinks back tears, then looks at Tortue.

He puts his arm around her, a fatherly gesture, and kisses the top of her head.

“We’d better go now,” she says, sniffling. “Tortue will be late.”

They nod their
au revoirs
and walk away, leaning on each other like father and daughter.

I fold up the note and tuck it into my bag, wondering if I should go back home to get Layla. But she’s probably already left for her classes. Instead, I head reluctantly toward the
navette
stop, despite the doubts creeping into my head. I don’t know about contacting Jean-Claude’s family. It might bring up old tragedies for them, not to mention entangling me in their messy relationships. My own relationships are messy enough.

In a kilometer, I reach the
navette
stop. It’s a wide sidewalk, crowded with people streaming on and off shuttles,
dashing to catch a bus, or hurrying off somewhere. I scan the destinations shown in red lights on the
navettes’
electronic screens, trying to figure out which one to board. It’s a chaotic scene, but less so than most bus stops I’ve encountered in South America, Asia, and Africa. Of course, I rode those buses alone all the time, and when I was years younger, too. So why is it I feel overwhelmed now?

I’m staring at the shuttles, when I notice something out of the corner of my eye. It’s a strange sensation to see someone you know well in an unexpected place. First, before you register who the person is, you get a particular feeling in a primal spot in your brain.

The feeling I get comes in snapshots—a crystal cave by candlelight, a sunlit flower garden, a light-soaked field of corn plants. A comforting feeling fills me, then quickly shifts to a deep ache. It’s Wendell. I broke up with him. And he doesn’t want to be friends.

“Hi, Wendell,” I say apprehensively.

“Zeeta?” He’s caught off guard. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking a
navette
to Marseille,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “How about you?”

“Going to art class.” His words sound hard, distant. “What’s in Marseille?”

“I’ve decided to search for my
fantôme
father.”

He moves toward me, his face melting into concern. “Oh, Z!” And then, abruptly, he stops and folds his arms across his chest.

I fold mine as well, mirroring him. “I thought I could just forget about it, Wendell. But he loves Layla. He could love me, too. And for some reason, he’s scared to show himself.” I feel like sinking to the ground, right in the middle of these crowds rushing to and from the
navettes
. “You were right, Wendell. I have to find him.”

Wendell sticks his hands in his pockets, looking awkward but worried. “You’re not going alone, are you?”

I nod.

He looks at his feet, thinking, and then back to me. “I’m coming with you.”

I have the urge to bury my face in his shoulder. “You have class. It’s too much to—”

“You helped me find my father,” he says firmly. “I’m helping you find yours.”

And I know I should insist,
No, you don’t owe me anything. Not after how I treated you
.

Instead, I say, “Thank you.”

O
n the
navette
to Marseille, Wendell asks, “What made you change your mind about finding your father?”

“Something Madame Chevalier said about love. She’s the artist I told you about, the friend of Vincent. One of my endearingly nutty elderly friends—the ones into pigeons and eternal life?”

“I remember you telling me about them,” he says, and then, lightly, “Well, this lady can’t be too nutty if her advice was good enough to change your mind.”

“True,” I admit with a smile.

An hour later, the
navette
stops right at the Vieux Port of Marseille, which makes it easy for Wendell and me. We simply walk off the bus and onto the docks, our destination. The bus pulls away, and as the exhaust fades, the salty, fishy sea
wind wraps around us. Water laps against the pier, and my insides slosh around, wave after wave of jumbled feelings—excitement, fear, longing. For a minute I just soak in the brightness and blueness and hugeness. I watch the sunlight dance on wave tips, breathing in the ocean air and vast sky, listening to the hum of boat motors and seagull calls.

“Want to get something to eat and make a plan?” Wendell asks. He’s beside me, a few feet away, snapping pictures. He was painfully careful not to touch me on the bus ride down here. Once, when he accidentally brushed my knee, he jerked away as though he’d been electrocuted. But here, now, the ocean seems to have calmed him, put some light back into his eyes.

“Yeah,” I say, with a rush of happiness that he’s here with me.

He tucks his camera back into the case, and into his backpack. Then we head across the street, toward the cafés lining the docks. We sit down at a little outdoor
crêperie
and order espressos and crêpes—lemon for me and Nutella for him.

Beyond the piers, the craggy hillsides are speckled with houses and buildings. This port is much bigger than I imagined. And very international. A mishmash of dozens of languages float past the café. There are African women swathed in colorful, wildly patterned cotton; veiled Middle Eastern women; camera-toting tourists from Eastern Europe and Asia. It’s almost dizzying.

“So what exactly do we know about your father?” Wendell
asks. He seems solid and grounded with his logical questions. I feel another wave of appreciation for him.

“Well,” I say, “we know English isn’t his native language. And he has a dark complexion. But that wouldn’t make him stand out here at all.”

“True,” Wendell says. “But we know he’s a great guitar player. His initials are J.C. He probably looks like you. That’s something.”

I take a sip of espresso and say, “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” I stare at my drink. “For being here.”

“Sure. No problem.”

When I glance back up from my drink, he’s looking down at his. “I know we don’t have much to go on, Wendell. I think—” I hesitate, not wanting to say Jean-Claude’s name.

“What?”

There’s no way around it. It’s our best hope for finding some clue to my father’s whereabouts. “Jean-Claude gave me his parents’ address. They live a few blocks away, and his stepfather worked on these docks for years.”

“Sounds like a good connection,” Wendell says after a pause.

“I know,” I admit. “But I feel weird about contacting them. Jean-Claude ran away from home a few years ago. He doesn’t even talk to them anymore. But I think they could give us a good idea on how to start looking.” I pull out the paper and wait for Wendell’s reaction.

He presses his lips together. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“
On y va,
” I say, relieved. We drop a few euros on the little
silver tray and head down the sidewalk as the waves lap at the docks. The constant push and pull of the current makes me think of Wendell and me, moving toward each other for a moment, only to move away again.