What the Wind Can Tell You

by Sarah Marie Jette

I ran inside and returned to the garage with a large bowl of popcorn. I slid it underneath the bottom bicycle tire. It took a few tries to get the correct height. I moved my bike an inch too far down and the cups hit the side of the bowl. I raised it too high and the cups brushed the top of the popcorn and returned empty. After half a dozen tries, it finally worked.

  “What is this amazingness?” Papa asked, appearing like a vision at the doorway to the garage, pulling his work apron over the top of his head.

  “It’s a wind-powered popcorn dispenser.” I smiled. “Well, right now I’m using a fan for testing purposes. But, theoretically, it could be powered by the wind alone.”

  “Isabelle!” His eyes glittered as he stepped forward, as if in a trance. He watched the cup inch down the fabric belt, scoop up a few pieces of popcorn, lift them up to the top of the pulley, and drop them onto the table. “I don’t think anything could make me happier.”

  “I knew I’d find you here.” Mama’s eyes were on Papa as his hands snuck the popcorn off the table. “It’s almost time for dinner. Popcorn can wait.”

  Papa knew better than to frown, but he waited until Mama’s eyes flashed toward the house, to where Julian sat inside the kitchen, before he slipped the popcorn into his mouth. Mama’s eyes were quick, but so was Papa’s chewing.

  “Seven seizures,” she said.

  Papa froze mid-chew.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Julian’s had seven seizures today. Each one less than ten seconds long.”

  “Inez,” Papa said, stepping away from my turbine and wrapping his arms around my mother, “that is amazing.”

  Mama smiled. When she looked up at Papa, her eyes changed ever so slightly.

  “How was he?”

  Papa looked at me before responding to Mama. “Same as always,” he grumbled.

  “He’s still coming by on Thursday, for his birthday?”

  “I’m assuming so,” Papa said. “Restaurants are too crowded for him, and we can’t bring Julian over to his house.”

  It had always been a problem, my grandfather’s house not being accessible.

  Mama’s eyes spied popcorn caught in Papa’s mustache. “Hernando, try to control yourself. I’m going in. I’ve got to keep an eye on Julian.”

  She slipped back inside, the kitchen door slamming behind her.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I let Jimmy run the store for a few hours so I could swing by your grandfather’s house.” Papa scooped a fistful of popcorn into his mouth. “Your mother wanted me to check in on him, since we haven’t seen him since before—”

  “Before Julian’s big seizure.”

  Papa nodded.

  “And?” I asked.

  “He’s still as stubborn as ever.”

  Papa picked a kernel from a molar with his fingernail.

  “He just seems grumpy to me.”

  “That, too. Do you mind if I have a bit more?” Papa asked, pointing to the growing pile of popcorn on the table. I nodded. “Your abuelito will be here for his birthday this week. Maybe if Julian’s medication is working and your grandfather sees that the seizures are going away, he’ll visit more often.”

  “He’s still scared of the seizures?” I asked.

  “It’s not that he’s scared. He . . . it’s just hard for him, that’s all.”

  “Papa, it’s been fifteen years.”

  “I know.” Papa nodded and offered me a smile. “Some people need more time than others.”

  “Isabelle, Hernando! Dinner’s ready!” Mama called from the kitchen window.

  “You go in first, Isabelle. I just need a minute.”

  Papa scooped up the bowl of popcorn, cradled it in his arms like a baby, and slipped behind the garage.

  6

  Later that night, I sat on Mama’s chair, with my back against Julian’s bed and my hand holding his. The radiator whistled and I waited to see a cloud of steam swoop in like a genie from a magic lamp and lift us away. The wind smacked Julian’s window and I expected the glass to burst so that Julian and I could clamber out through the window frame and into Las Brisas.

  I peeked under the bed. I craned my neck to see if there was any movement or light coming from Julian’s closet. I glanced at the pinwheel and watched its steady spin.

  And then I remembered.

  It only happened when I relaxed. Julian had told me so himself.

  Taking a breath, I leaned against his bed and pressed my head deep into his mattress. My hand gripped Julian’s firmly, while everything else loosened: my jaw dropped, my eyelids drooped, my shoulders sagged, and my breathing grew heavy. Then, and only then, did it happen.

  As though someone was whispering into my ear, “Now, now, NOW,” my eyes snapped open. The mattress moved against my head as Julian shifted his weight and sat up. Sliding his legs off the edge, he looked down at me expectantly and clasped my hand.

  “That sounds amazing,” Julian began.

  “What?” I whispered back.

  “Your turbine project. When will you try it out?”

  “I already did! Don’t you remember?”

  Julian’s eyebrows bunched together.

  “I told you at dinner.”

  “I don’t remember that.” Julian shook his head. “What did you make?”

  “I put together a popcorn dispenser.”

  “I do remember the smell of popcorn,” Julian said thoughtfully. “How’d you think of it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, remembering the hours spent sketching plans in my notebook, scrounging for supplies, and the shivers of excitement when everything came together.

  We sat quietly and waited. Our breathing slowed. Our heartbeats slowed. The silence settled.

  “Isabelle, look! The walls . . .” Julian whispered.

  The wallpaper was slowly peeling off the walls. Underneath was a film as fragile as butterfly wings. The walls behind and the ceiling overhead vanished. Light glowed from beyond the textured, now tissue-paper-thin walls.

  Julian stood, pulling me up with him. Reaching out, our fingertips pressed the paper. The wallpaper trembled and glittered. In one smooth ripple, it dropped like a curtain of golden dust, forming a shimmering ring around our feet.

  Suddenly, we were standing side by side, together, in total darkness.

  Even though Julian’s room was dark, Las Brisas was darker.

  “Where are we?” I whispered.

  “I don’t know,” he said. He put both of his hands over mine for a moment to reassure me.

  “Have you been here before?” I whispered.

  “No—not that I can remember.”

  I felt the warmth of Julian standing beside me as a breeze crept up my back.

  “Belle, do you smell what I smell?” he asked.

  “What do you smell?” I sniffed, but noticed nothing—no scent, no sound, no movement.

  “The ocean,” Julian said. “It’s very faint, but I smell seaweed, salt, and sand.”

  As he spoke, I was once again sucked into the melody of Julian’s words. His voice was so beautiful and so strong, a voice like none I’d ever heard before. Julian spoke differently at home. He had a range of sounds and notes, cries and whispers. By the pitch of his voice we knew his mood. We could tell whether he was happy, frustrated, or tired, but he could never go into specifics. He couldn’t explain himself. He couldn’t describe.

  Standing beside him in Las Brisas, I began to feel just how frustrating that must be.

  My nose searched the air, the way Papa hunted down bags of microwave popcorn. And sure enough, I found it: The smell of the ocean pricked my nose as the landscape changed. Salt.

  A horizon gradually appeared before us.

  “Are we back at the cenote?” I asked.

  “No, it�
�s too cold,” Julian said. “Come on, Belle, we should get moving.”

  Julian led the way. His eyes adjusted to Las Brisas faster than mine.

  “Look, Belle. There’s a light,” he whispered.

  I squinted and saw a beam of light swooping in front of us. As we neared, it illuminated a lighthouse, which reached high into the blackened sky. The beacon glowed an iridescent green with glints of turquoise, the color of the tail feathers on a quetzal.

  “Should we go to it?” I asked.

  “Why not?” Julian held my hand tighter. His grip was firm, like Papa’s whenever we walked through crowded parking lots.

  We climbed the stony hill. I stumbled a few times, but Julian kept me upright. His pace was quick; there was a drive about him.

  At the base of the lighthouse, we waited in darkness for the light to return. We reached out and felt the cold, damp tower wall. When the light returned, Julian spied a door. He reached it first and turned the knob.

  Inside, with shimmers of light pouring in from the narrow windows, we paused. A staircase snaked along the wall like a thick braid, twisting up and disappearing from view. For a moment, my stomach lurched, and I wondered how Julian could reach the top. Then I remembered: We weren’t home. We were in Las Brisas. Julian could use his legs—and he never seemed to get tired.

  Each step felt familiar: the way the railing cut into the wall and slid inside my palm, the way the steps grew brighter as we ascended. Piece by piece, it all came back to me.

  “Julian, stop,” I whispered, tugging on the hem of his pajama shirt.

  “What is it?” He turned around, the light framing him from behind, his face hidden by shadow.

  “I’ve been here before.”

  Julian turned and looked up, his profile revealed in the glow of the light. And ever so slightly, his expression changed.

  “Are you sure, Belle?”

  “I’m positive.”

  Julian’s fingers traced the stone wall.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever visited a lighthouse,” he said. “This must be the one you told me about, the one you and Tía Lucy visited last year during Tía Week.”

  I swallowed and stepped closer to him.

  “I’m sorry you couldn’t come with us that day,” I said softly.

  Tía Lucy called it Tía Week. Mama didn’t disagree. Papa called it Summer Unvacation. Regardless of what it was called, Tía Lucy was my mother’s older sister. She lived across the country in Los Angeles with my tío Santi, who was regionally famous for being Southern California’s Taco King. Tío Santi was the founder of the popular Taco King restaurants and Taco King Puppy Boutiques.

  Tía Lucy flew in every June for the first week of summer vacation with her two tamale-size Chihuahuas. She spent the first half of the week over at Abuelito’s house. There, she cooked a month’s worth of food and filled his freezer with single-serving packages of enchiladas and sweets, using the Taco King’s secret recipes. When Abuelito’s gruffness got the better of her, she arrived at our door with too many bags, more shoes than you could ever wear in a month, and a modified baby stroller for her dogs.

  Tía Lucy’s hair was jet black, except for streaks of silver just above her ears. On her left hand was a diamond so big it drooped and spun around on her finger. Her acrylic nails tick-tacked over anything they touched. Her lips were covered in bright red lipstick—until she spread the color across my cheeks and Julian’s forehead.

  As Papa always said: First she spreads the lipstick, then she spreads the advice.

  Last year, Tía Lucy had barely placed her bottom on our couch before it all started.

  “Inez, you aren’t fluffing your pillows properly.” She plucked a pillow off the couch. “Step away from the kids and come over here. Let me show you how it’s done.”

  Tía Lucy smacked the pillow with her open palm and delicately placed it on the couch. It didn’t strike me as particularly different, but Mama paused while cleaning Julian’s feeding tube to step into the living room and fluff pillows. I took Mama’s place at the kitchen sink and dipped the tube into a tub of warm, soapy water. I swished it around, just like I’d been taught, and then I rinsed it through. When I placed it on the drying rack, the tube coiled up like a drowsy rattlesnake. The pillow fluffing continued, so I wheeled Julian over to the kitchen table. We sat together, watching my mother fluff and arrange pillows for much longer than was necessary. Papa took five trips up and down the stairs, lugging Tía’s suitcases up to my bedroom.

  “Well, I have to admit that they look lovely,” my mother said as she sat down on the couch and gingerly leaned against the fluffed pillows. Tía Lucy smiled and pulled her Chihuahuas out from her purse. They hopped on the couch and snuggled in beside her. Mama leaned over and scratched their heads.

  “Oh, Inez,” Tía Lucy said, shaking her head. “That is not the way to scratch a Chihuahua.”

  Tía Lucy scooped up the tiniest of her Chihuahuas, Sanchita, and held her close to my mother. “You have to rub under Sanchita’s chin while you scratch from the tip of her ear.”

  “Ahem,” Papa interrupted, standing at the base of the stairs. “Their ears are one inch long—how much is there to scratch?”

  “One inch,” Tía Lucy clarified. Sanchita’s eyes pinched closed. Her thin lips turned up in a doggie smile.

  “Lucia,” Mama said, passing the tiny dog back to her sister, “her teeth are chattering.”

  “Oh dear.” Tía Lucy clutched the dog, ran to her doggie stroller, and pulled out something fuzzy. “The girls aren’t used to this New England weather.”

  Once Sanchita was cozy in a doll-size sweater and subdued with proper ear scratches, Tía Lucy carefully lifted Big Betty and placed the pudgy Chihuahua on my mother’s lap.

  “Big Betty has her own ear-scratching preference.” Tía Lucy locked eyes with Papa. “And don’t give me that look, Hernando. You might think that sister Chihuahuas like their ears scratched the same way, but you would be mistaken.”

  Papa walked over to the table and leaned close to my ear.

  “Isabelle, why don’t you leave the Taco Queen and take Julian to his room,” Papa suggested.

  “Aye, Hernando, you know I don’t like you calling me the Taco Queen,” Tía Lucy shouted from the living room.

  I wheeled Julian into his room as my mother learned Big Betty’s counterclockwise ear-scratch technique.

  I pulled Julian’s red plastic ball out from his toy basket and slipped it into his hand. He squeezed it in his fist, strengthening his finger muscles. I saw the tendons tighten and his knuckles turn white. Once he grew tired of the red ball, I moved on to a different therapy toy.

  “While they are nice and relaxed, let me show you Sanchita’s new sweater collection,” Tía Lucy’s voice rang out.

  It wasn’t long before Papa’s head poked into Julian’s room. He was pulling at the collar of his shirt.

  “There’s only so much of the Taco Queen I can take,” he grumbled.

  “Hernando!” Tía Lucy shouted.

  Papa smiled as he stepped inside.

  “I’m going for a jog. Keep your brother company, okay?”

  “I was going to anyway,” I said.

  Julian and I played a game of Memory and listened to some music. We painted with watercolors, Julian practicing his swirls as I painted portraits of Sanchita and Big Betty. We finished just as an eight-second seizure interrupted Julian’s painting. His brush toppled out of his grip, bounced off his tray, and landed on the floor. I comforted him, wiped up the mess, and recorded the seizure.

  Later, I wheeled Julian into the backyard where we held pinwheels against the wind. I blew bubbles and he watched them float into the sky.

  Soon it was time to hook up Julian’s feeding tube and start his next feed. Mama waved us inside.

  “I’ve mixed it all up; I just need you
to attach the tube.” She rubbed my back. “Thank you, Isabelle.”

  In the kitchen, Mama seasoned the Taco King’s famous tacos. The recipe was trademarked and extremely time-intensive. Mama and Tía Lucy roasted chilies and ground them in a molcajete before rolling out the tortillas by hand.

  Papa returned, sweaty and smelly, just in time for dinner.

  Once we were all seated, our tortillas sufficiently stuffed, the Chihuahuas safely snoozing in their doggie stroller, Tía Lucy tapped her glass with her fork.

  “This visit has only just begun, and already, I’ve loved every minute,” Tía Lucy announced.

  Papa’s mustache twitched. His eyes were on his tacos. The table vibrated and the Chihuahuas started barking.

  “You’ll have to excuse Hernando’s stomach,” Mama apologized. “Long jogs make him hungry.”

  “Oh, please eat!” Tía Lucy exclaimed. Papa shoved the first taco in his mouth and ate it whole. Tía Lucy nodded in admiration. “Every year, I come all the way from Los Angeles to spend time with you.”

  “We’re always happy to have you,” Mama said.

  Papa kept his head tucked as he popped his second taco in his mouth.

  “Almost all of you.” Tía Lucy smiled and took a deep breath. “And so, I feel it is my duty to state an important observation. I have noticed that Isabelle isn’t getting enough attention. Every time I look around, she’s taking care of her brother. She needs time for herself.”

  Tía Lucy took a dainty bite of her taco and delicately patted her mouth with a napkin.

  “I don’t think Isabelle’s deprived of attention.” Mama turned to me, searching for affirmation. I took a bite of taco.

  Tía Lucy arched one of her penciled-on eyebrows.

  “Inez, didn’t you notice that Isabelle cared for her brother all day? She helped him with his physical therapy. She played with his wing-dings outside.” Tía Lucy took another bite of her taco and savored it for a moment. “She also got his medications ready. She set up his feeding machine. Oh, I could go on and on. It is quite clear that young Isabelle is too preoccupied by her brother, and it’s not okay.”

  “Lucia, you preoccupied Inez with your frivolous and ridiculous—ow!” Papa stooped over and rubbed his leg. Mama closed her eyes and sighed deeply while Papa arranged six more tacos on his plate.