What the Wind Can Tell You

by Sarah Marie Jette

  Mrs. Pemberly wore frilly, tiered skirts and thick-strapped sandals—even in the winter. Her toenails were painted in rainbow colors; her hair was a mess of black and gray corkscrew curls. She wore bracelets that clinked and clanked and sometimes slid off her wrists. She spoke with the loudest voice I’d ever heard—louder than Papa when he had the hiccups, and louder than our principal on the speaker that time the eighth-grade toilets got backed up with milk cartons.

  To me, Mrs. Pemberly wasn’t just a musician; she was a fairy godmother—Julian’s fairy godmother. Her wand was her voice, her guitar, her tambourine, her presence. She made the walls in our house tremble. She made the lines of worry disappear from Mama’s face. Like the Pied Piper, once a week her music stole Julian’s seizures away, luring them to another world.

  Each week, Mrs. Pemberly sat next to Julian or propped him up beside her and sang her ridiculous songs—about a bullfrog wearing a cowboy hat, or an old brown cow with a mustache (or, as she would sing it, a moostache), or the circus train clickity-clacking down the winding rails, off to fetch some pineapples. The lyrics were goofy and the songs were loud. The students in my chorus class would have rolled their eyes or laughed until their bellies ached.

  But not me.

  I craved those songs. I yearned for those songs. And that Tuesday, with Julian slouching in his wheelchair, breathing deep, sleepy breaths, I needed those songs.

  “The buh-buh-buh-bullfrog jumped . . .” Mrs. Pemberly bounded from the floor, her hair springing, her bracelets jangling. When she landed again, she shook Julian’s hand and the tambourine drizzled its chimes into the room.

  “. . . and landed on a tin roof.”

  Julian’s eyes stayed closed, but he lifted his arm. The tambourine slid out of his grasp and clanked onto his tray.

  “Hold on!” Mrs. Pemberly threw her arms up, stopping all music and breath. Pressing the tambourine back in his hand, she gave him a few practice shakes. “Julian, Julian, my dear, sweet boy. You’ve got to hold on tight! You have to fight off this sleep. You can do this. Feel the tambourine. Become one with it. Let’s do that line again!”

  Julian’s eyes opened and met hers. It took great effort, but he smiled, and Mrs. Pemberly strummed her guitar in response.

  “The buh-buh-buh-bullfrog jumped . . .” we sang again.

  Julian’s hand clasped tighter and shook the tambourine, all on his own. He held it high and perfectly, rhythmically, matched the tapping of Mrs. Pemberly’s feet.

  “. . . and landed on a tin roof!”

  Julian shook the tambourine fiercely this time. I picked up his maraca and joined in.

  “The roof was hoh-hoh-hoh-hot. The frog went splat!”

  Mrs. Pemberly pounded on her bongo. Mama and I jumped out of our seats. Julian sat, eyes opened wide, a smile on his face.

  “Let’s repeat the verse, Julian, let’s repeat!”

  Mrs. Pemberly and I sang the ridiculous song about the bullfrog landing on a hot tin roof and frying itself crisp, over and over and over again. It was a never-ending circle of fried frogs, with Julian’s tambourine matching the beat.

  “Well done, Julian! Bravo! Bravo!” Mrs. Pemberly gave him a round of applause when we’d finished. She stood up and bowed down to him, before turning to my mother.

  “Now, Inez,” Mrs. Pemberly said, attaching a strip of jingle bells around Julian’s wrist as his eyes slipped closed.

  Mama inched forward. “Yes?”

  “I’ve been thinking of putting together a small orchestra made up of a few of my highest-achieving musical students.”

  Mama and I both waited for Mrs. Pemberly to go on. She was the type of talker who took deep pauses in the middle of her thoughts. She fluffed her curls and tuned her guitar. Julian’s eyes pinched closed.

  She continued, “I would be honored to have Julian take part.”

  “You want Julian to be in an orchestra?” Mama asked. She didn’t hide the shock in her voice.

  “Why, yes, I do.” Mrs. Pemberly batted her long lashes at my mother, her eyes wide.

  “What instrument will he play?” I asked.

  “I’ve given it some thought.” Mrs. Pemberly smoothed her skirt, adjusted her bangles, and re-fluffed her curls. “Though I know he is quite fond of his maraca, Julian is a master at the tambourine.” She paused again, this time cradling Julian’s maraca against her bosom. She delicately placed it in Julian’s basket of musical instruments. “I see so much potential with this instrument. Oh, how I love the ringing of a well-played tambourine! Julian would be joining two other students: Sylvia, who excels at the bongo, and Dylan, who is learning the recorder. I believe Dylan and Julian have an art class together.”

  Mrs. Pemberly reached out and shook Julian’s wrists. Julian’s arms were limp in her hands and his chin was tucked into his neck. She shook them again. The tambourine rang out with its crisp, clean notes.

  Julian’s eyes opened, but his gaze was focused on the floor.

  “Julian,” Mrs. Pemberly said, scooting closer, her lips now inches from Julian’s left ear, “let’s give these jingle bells another try. You jazzed them up so well last time. Come on, Julian. You can do it.”

  She pulled her guitar over her head and started strumming. For a moment, I was lost in the notes. Her fingers raced over the guitar strings with such speed and force that my eyes couldn’t keep up. Too soon, and too suddenly, she stopped.

  Julian’s eyes had closed.

  “Julian. Julian, my sweet boy—” Mrs. Pemberly leaned forward again. She massaged his hands in hers, and then began tapping his wrist. “The beat is one-two-three-pause, one-two-three-pause. Feel it in your gut, your breath. Feel it in your being.” She shook his wrist a few times to set the rhythm. It took a dozen tries, but finally, Julian’s eyes were open and focused.

  Mrs. Pemberly sang a new song about chirping birds sitting on a fence, arguing about who had the fluffiest feathers. Julian kept the beat pretty well. Every now and again, his eyes closed. Each time, Mrs. Pemberly gently clasped his wrist to guide him farther. I found myself wondering if this orchestra would be made up of kids each playing to their own rhythm, or if they’d fall into a shared one naturally.

  By the end of the song, Julian was alert, and with Mrs. Pemberly’s guidance, his rhythm was spot on. My heart swelled.

  “I know we usually meet on Tuesdays, Inez,” Mrs. Pemberly said as she packed up her gear, “but would it be okay if we also meet on Thursdays, for an additional orchestra session?”

  Mama nodded and stood up.

  Mrs. Pemberly shook her bangles and continued, “It would be at the same time, of course, starting next week. I’ll have the lessons at my house. No worries—it’s accessible.”

  “Next week on Wednesday; I’ll mark the calendar,” Mama said.

  “No, no, dear,” Mrs. Pemberly corrected, delicately placing her hand on my mother’s shoulder. “I said Thursday.”

  Mama nodded again and walked to the calendar, where she paused and rubbed her forehead with her hands.

  Mrs. Pemberly took no notice and sat down beside Julian.

  “Julian, you did well with the jingle bells, but I’m going to have you stick with the tambourine. You’ve practiced with it far longer. This may not be the best time to try new things.” She removed the bells from his wrists and placed the tambourine back on Julian’s tray. “Wake up, my sweet boy,” she said, squatting next to Julian’s chair.

  His breathing grew deep and his eyelashes settled on his cheeks. Julian wasn’t going to wake up anytime soon, so I stepped forward.

  “Mrs. Pemberly, give me the music. I’ll show Julian when he wakes up. I’ll help him practice.”

  She nodded. “Be sure he practices every day.”

  “I will.”

  I held the blue folder tight against my chest as Mama handed Mrs. Pemberly her check. I carried
Mrs. Pemberly’s percussion box to her beat-up station wagon. With her guitar and bongo, her long skirts and her bracelets, she needed the help.

  “Is this your first orchestra?” I asked as I slid the box into her trunk.

  “Oh, goodness no. I have one every couple of years.” She lifted her guitar and tucked it beside the box. “It takes a careful combination of musicians to get an orchestra to play right.”

  “Do the other musicians have seizures?” I asked.

  “No.” She paused and looked up at the trees, thinking. “They are all gifted musicians. But you’re not asking that. You want to know if they’re like Julian.”

  I blushed.

  “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Dylan has a rather complex case of cerebral palsy; Sylvia is visually impaired.”

  I nodded and stuffed my hands in my pockets.

  “Will they like Julian?” I asked.

  “Of course.” She looked at me with surprise. “What’s not to like about him?”

  I shrugged and slammed her trunk closed.

  Maybe because I was lingering, or because she took frequent pauses, Mrs. Pemberly hesitated and looked at me.

  “I like the way you talk to Julian,” I blurted out.

  “How do I talk to him?” Mrs. Pemberly stared at me with her round brown eyes.

  I thought about it for a minute until I found the right words.

  “You talk to him the same way you talk to me. Not everyone does.”

  “Well, Isabelle,” she said, adjusting her bangles and leaning on her car door, “I like the way you are with Julian. There’s love radiating all around you.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled.

  Mrs. Pemberly stooped down and put her hands on my shoulders. Her hands were strong and warm and smelled like mint.

  “You believe in Julian, more than anyone else. He loves you for that.”

  “Mama and Papa believe in him,” I said.

  “They do.” Mrs. Pemberly turned, opened her car door, and scooted into her seat. She pulled on her oversize sunglasses, and slammed the door shut. When her car started up, it buzzed like a garbage disposal filled with forks.

  Mrs. Pemberly was halfway down the driveway when she stopped, poked her head out her open window, and waved me over. “Isabelle, your parents are also afraid.”

  “Afraid?” I asked.

  “But you’re not. That’s why you’re so important to him. You love without fear. You see possibilities.”

  With that, she turned her radio on full blast, pulled out of the driveway, and drove away.

  “Julian,” I called out, “let’s try this one.”

  I walked over to Julian and placed his arm across the tray, leaving his hand dangling at the wrist. I positioned his chair a few inches from my bicycle turbine.

  “Are you ready?” I asked.

  Even though Julian’s eyes were open, his muscle tone was weak. I leaned in closer. His eyes didn’t find mine. They were turned down, and his eyelids began to close.

  “Julian, it’s the middle of the afternoon. It’s not bedtime yet.” I gave his shoulder a gentle shake. In response, he blinked, opened his eyes, and smiled.

  Julian’s love of the wind was not only the inspiration for my science fair project, he was also my assistant. He always listened as I presented new ideas. He never judged my scientific failures. He held anything I asked him to hold, so long as it was a reasonable size and less than five pounds.

  And then Julian had had his most recent big seizure, and he’d been hospitalized. Now, with the science fair just days away and my new projects taking shape, our practice time was crucial. I slipped a new belt onto the bike tires. This one had small paintbrushes attached. For the practice round, a tray of water rested below. I switched on the fan and the turbine blades started to spin.

  The first brush that swept across Julian’s fingers was dry. His eyes widened with surprise. The belt pulled it up and the next brush skimmed the surface of the water. Drops fell to the ground as the brush traveled to Julian’s waiting hand. When the cold bristles kissed his fingertips, Julian pulled his hand back.

  “It’s okay—it’s just water,” I explained. Julian’s eyes found mine, to check the truth behind my words. I nodded, and his hand inched back over to the same spot, just as the next brush approached.

  “Haven’t you practiced enough?” Papa asked as he stepped into the garage, slipping his work apron over his head.

  “There’s no such thing as too much practice,” I replied. “Watch this, Papa.”

  I pointed to the brushes. Julian’s fingers flexed in anticipation of the next stroke of the brush. With each touch, his smile brightened.

  “I’m impressed,” Papa said.

  “For my real presentation, I’ll use paint. Right now, Julian and I just want to make sure everything’s perfect. Right, Julian?”

  His chin dipped, and his eyes started to close.

  Papa’s eyes darted between Julian and me as he pulled his jacket on carefully, holding his breath until the zipper had passed his belly. An orange poked out of an overstuffed jacket pocket, and the other one bulged strangely.

  “What’s Julian got to do with this?” Papa asked.

  “I’ve told you, lots of times.”

  “Told me what?” Papa looked at Julian and then back at me. His mustache twitched.

  “Julian’s helping me during my presentation,” I said, turning to Julian.

  He snored softly in response.

  “I don’t remember you telling me about this. I must have forgotten.”

  I closed my eyes and bit the sides of my tongue to challenge the tears burning behind my eyelids.

  “What is it, Isabelle?” Papa’s voice was softer. I opened my eyes but kept them focused on my sneakers.

  “Nothing,” I muttered.

  “It’s not nothing.” Papa brushed my cheek with a callused finger.

  “I don’t think you forgot. I just think that sometimes you don’t hear me because . . .” I looked up to see Papa glancing at Julian yet again.

  “Oh, Isabelle, I’m always listening. It’s just that sometimes your mother and I—”

  “I know, Papa. I know.”

  “Isabelle.” Papa’s voice was soft, dangerously soft. He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair. “Have you told your mother about this? She hasn’t said anything to me. We’ll need to coordinate with Julian’s school.”

  “I told both of you,” I said. As I looked away, my eyes caught sight of his jacket pocket. “You’re taking the pickles?”

  Papa’s guilty look spread across his face.

  I toweled off Julian’s hand. Without looking at Papa, I continued.

  “Mrs. Harris said that brothers and sisters can come to the science fair. Julian is the whole reason I’ve been studying wind. He helped me map the windiest places in the world.” I peeked at Papa from the corner of my eye. “And besides, you’ve seen us researching for weeks.”

  “Isabelle,” Papa said, taking one of his deep breaths as he peeled an orange. “Julian doesn’t go to your school. I think Mrs. Harris meant that siblings who go to your school can come. Besides, your mother is carefully tracking Julian’s seizures right now, because of his new medication.”

  “Of course she is.”

  “Isabelle, I don’t like your tone.”

  I didn’t like his tone, so I kept my mouth shut. Heavy silence hung between us.

  “We are at a new stage with Julian, with his medicine and his seizures,” Papa said. “It’s probably not the best time to change his routine.”

  Papa handed me an orange wedge. He placed his hand on top of Julian’s head and gently stroked his hair. He turned back to me and winced when he saw the disappointment on my face.

  “Julian wants to come,” I said quietly.


  Papa reached for his backpack. Two jalapeños and three cheese sticks fell out of the front pocket. He snatched them up and shoved them back inside.

  “Isabelle . . .” Papa looked over at Julian.

  “It’s true, Papa. Julian wants to come.” I placed my hand on Julian’s arm and shook it gently. “Isn’t that right, Julian?”

  Papa looked at Julian.

  “Julian,” I said softly. “Julian . . .” I leaned in and pleaded into his ear. Julian’s hand slowly reached out to mine, and I held it. His right eye opened and he fought to open his left. Papa popped both jalapeños into his mouth. I couldn’t tell if his eyes were watering from tears, or from the spicy peppers.

  “When is it?” Papa finally asked.

  “Friday.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “I’ll talk to your mom.”

  I cheered and squeezed Julian’s hand. “Did you hear that?” I asked.

  Julian squeezed back in response.

  Papa wrapped his arms around us. I closed my eyes and leaned into him. I felt the warmth of his hug despite the cold jar of pickles pressing into my ribs. And then a question popped into my head.

  “How old was Julian when the seizures started?”

  Julian’s hand flexed inside mine. His other hand moved slowly across his tray.

  “Well . . .” Papa looked at his watch, reached for a recycling bin, flipped it over, and sat down. “I guess they started right after he was born. But we didn’t know that they were seizures until he was almost six months old.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, they started as small twitches, like he was waking himself up as he was falling asleep.”

  I looked at Papa. The crinkles around his eyes grew deeper. He split open a cheese stick, unscrewed the lid from the jar of pickles, dipped the cheese stick in the pickle juice, and then ate it whole.

  “We finally realized something was wrong at a checkup, when his doctor noticed that Julian wasn’t doing the typical things he should’ve been doing by that time.”

  “Oh.”