What the Wind Can Tell You

by Sarah Marie Jette

  “It’s just a lot of doctor talk. I don’t think you’ll find it that interesting,” Mama said. “You should go back and get started on your homework.”

  “I’d rather go with you and Julian,” I said.

  “No, Isabelle.” Mama’s voice was firm. “With all the changes Julian’s been through, I don’t want any distractions during the visit.”

  “I help out at home; maybe I’ll learn something useful. And I don’t have any homework. Mrs. Harris wants us to finish up our science fair projects. I can’t do that here.”

  Mama hesitated, and I could tell that I had a chance. “I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

  “All right, then.” She shrugged. “Come on.”

  A nurse led us to a small room. Mama wheeled Julian in and sat on a plastic chair. She let me sit on the examination table. The nurse pulled the curtain back and stepped into the hallway. A moment later, another nurse came in.

  “Hey there, sleepyhead,” she said to Julian as she checked his blood pressure and his temperature. She typed something into the computer, pulled a curtain around the door, and slipped out.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “Now we wait for Dr. Holland,” Mama said as she pulled a magazine off the shelf. A small mobile dangled above my head. I watched it spin, first clockwise, then counter. The heating vent turned on and blew warm air into the room—too warm for mid-May. The tissue paper on the table crinkled every time I moved. I held my breath, and tried to sit perfectly still.

  That’s when I heard the door latch open. The curtain pulled back. The doctor was tall with a few strands of hair brushed limply across the top of his head. His eyes were like water, but when he smiled at Mama and me, his eyes smiled, too.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Perez. And this must be Isabelle.” Dr. Holland shook my hand. He turned to look at Julian, who slouched in his seat, eyes closed. He turned back to my mother. “So please tell me, how’s Julian doing?”

  “Well,” Mama said, taking a deep breath and rubbing her hands together as her left foot tapped the floor tiles, “he’s been very tired, as you can see. But, in terms of his seizure activity, the past few days have been really good.”

  Mama pulled Julian’s seizure journal out of her bag and handed it to Dr. Holland.

  “He had thirty-six seizures on Sunday, the day he returned home. As you know, he averaged 21.2 seizures a day before his big seizure. On Monday, Julian had fourteen seizures. He had eleven on Tuesday. Tuesday morning, he only had seven—it was dinnertime when the rest came, just about five or ten minutes apart.”

  “That can happen.” Dr. Holland nodded.

  “Today Julian’s only had four. As I was telling Isabelle, he had six at this time yesterday. No, wait”—she shook her head—“seven at this time yesterday.”

  Dr. Holland checked the journal and looked back at my mother.

  “You’ve got quite a memory,” he said.

  “It’s her special gift,” I said.

  Dr. Holland’s thick eyebrows scrunched together as my mother’s eyes narrowed.

  “Special gift?”

  I looked to my mother who gave a nod of consent, not agreement.

  “She’s got a magic memory. Papa’s gift is that he can eat anything.”

  “And yours?”

  “She’s still searching for hers,” Mama interrupted. “About the seizures . . .”

  “Yes, yes. Let me check a few things first.”

  Dr. Holland closed the notebook and then moved closer to Julian. He took out a mini flashlight, pulled each of Julian’s big beautiful eyes open, and shined the light inside. I wondered if Julian was seeing blurry blotches the way I do after someone shines a light in my eyes, but Julian didn’t flinch or stir from his nap. The doctor held on to Julian’s hands and moved his fingers around. He pressed a stethoscope to Julian’s chest and his back. He took out Julian’s chart and ruffled through the pages.

  “Well, Mrs. Perez, I think you’re starting to see the benefits of this new medication.”

  “Really?” Mama’s voice sounded different. There was a touch of hope, too fragile and raw to grasp, but enough to sense.

  “Yes.” Dr. Holland flipped to a chart and showed it to my mother. “If the patient is taking to the new medication, there is a noticeable drop just about ten days in. You’ll need to track the next few days so we can be sure.”

  “Absolutely.” Mama nodded and chewed her lip. “So, this means . . . ”

  “We increase the dosage, little by little, starting next week. In many cases, patients taking this medication have five seizures or less each day. For some, they go away completely.”

  “Julian.” Mama pulled his hand to her lips, peeled his fingers out of his fist, and kissed his palm. “Julian, did you hear that?”

  Julian’s chest rose up slowly and then fell as he let out a deep breath. A small drop of drool gathered at the corner of his mouth.

  “Julian, sweetheart,” she continued.

  “Mama—” I began.

  “Did you hear what the doctor said?” Mama whispered to Julian. She brushed his hair away from his face. She turned back to Dr. Holland. “He’s just tired.”

  Dr. Holland nodded. “The most common side effect. Fatigue will be more pronounced with a higher dosage. I’ll send the updated prescription to the pharmacy. Finish what you have and start the new dose next week. You can schedule a follow-up appointment at the desk.”

  “Mama?” My voice came out soft as a nudge, but she couldn’t hear it. She released Julian’s hand and reached for Dr. Holland’s.

  “Thank you, Dr. Holland. This is what we’ve been hoping for.”

  10

  The tips of my fingers were black, but I could still see the curves and swirls of my fingerprints—spiraling like a snail’s shell, a cinnamon bun, water racing down the drain.

  “Heads up!” Julian called out as he passed the basketball. I caught it with both hands and dribbled in for a layup.

  Julian quickly rebounded and dribbled out to half-court, the ball threading in and out of his legs.

  “Wanna try a one-on-one match? I’ll go easy on you, I promise.”

  “Don’t,” I said, trying to sound fierce.

  Julian nodded, his dimples growing with his smile. Looking past me, he dribbled in hard for a layup. My sneakers squeaked against the gym floor as I tried to keep up. Julian drove past me and performed his signature move. His left hand spun the ball completely around his waist while his body soared toward the basket. His arm reached up in slow motion. The ball gently climbed to the rim and fell in.

  “Okay, maybe you can go a little easy on me,” I said, watching the ball swish through the net.

  “How about this: Your baskets count for two points, mine for one?”

  I considered his offer for a moment.

  “Deal,” I said. I held out my hand. In Las Brisas, Julian’s handshake was firm and strong.

  “First to ten?” I proposed, dribbling up to the half-court line.

  He nodded. Julian’s eyes were on mine, not on the ball.

  I lunged forward. Julian kept up. I attacked the basket, turned to the side, and faded back for a jump shot. The ball bounced against the rim, up to the backboard, and then tumbled down. We both dove for the rebound, but I caught it first. Julian bent his knees, anticipating my next move. With the ball dribbling almost on its own, I faked left and then moved right for a layup.

  Two points.

  At the half-court line, Julian’s eyes intensified. I reached in for the ball as he dribbled forward. Julian bounced the ball behind his back and raced past me for the basket. I felt a breeze trailing behind him. Standing at the top of the key, all I could do was shake my head.

  “How’d you get so good?” I asked.

  “From you,” Julian said as he passed me the ball.
/>
  “Really?”

  “You can’t hear Mama and Papa from the bench, but during your games, they sound just like the announcers you hear on TV, telling me the play-by-play.”

  He cleared his throat and deepened his voice, adding a thick Mexican accent:

  “Isabelle passes the ball to number four, who dribbles once and passes it back. Isabelle fakes a shot and runs in for a layup . . .”

  His voice sounded just like Papa’s.

  And then he raised it and changed the accent a little:

  “Arms up! Arms up! Stuff her, Isabelle, stuff her!”

  This was a terrible impression of my mother, but the words were true. Mama was very competitive, and she loved it when I blocked the ball.

  Julian continued. “I listen to what they say, how you move on the court. But, you’re my real teacher. You tell me about every practice, and you tell me your game strategy at dinner. You tell me about the plays you had, the shots you made or missed—”

  Julian abruptly stopped talking. He must have seen the puzzled look on my face.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I wiped sweat from my forehead. “I didn’t know you listened to me so closely.”

  “Well, not all the time.” Julian smiled. “But I like basketball. I like going to your games. I like the smell of the court. I like the sound of the ball and the vibrations it makes when it hits the floor. The cheers from the crowd give me goose bumps, and I look forward to hearing your voice after the games. You’re so excited, even after your losses.”

  We continued our one-on-one match and followed it with free throws.

  My first shot fell through the net. Julian gave me a high five, but as our palms slapped together, I held on to his hand. Julian smiled and I saw the depth of his dimples.

  Standing with Julian, framed by the blackness of Las Brisas, I remembered how he had sat in his chair just hours ago, shortly after his evening dose of medication. Mama had hugged me tight and kissed Julian’s cheeks seven times, one for each seizure that had interrupted his day. Julian might have felt the kisses, but I wasn’t sure. His breathing had turned deep. His eyes had been tightly closed. I had reached over and held his hand, which felt heavy inside mine.

  In Las Brisas, Julian pulled his hand from mine and dribbled to the free-throw line. He lifted the ball up in his hands. He felt the weight of it in his palm before his first shot, his eyes clear and focused. His arms angled for a perfect shot. His body tensed as he prepared to release the ball. And just then, as sudden as a raw wind sneaking in before a storm, my eyes filled with tears. Even though I hadn’t made a peep, Julian moved the ball down and turned around.

  “Belle, what’s wrong?” he asked.

  I was crying. Heavy and hard. Snot oozed from my nose. I choked on my breath and my chest heaved.

  Julian let the ball go. It bounced against the gym floor and rolled out of sight. Reaching out for my hand, he led me to the bleachers. He sat down beside me and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. He said nothing. He waited until I was ready, until I was done crying and had made sense of the tears.

  He listened as I turned the tears into words.

  “I love being here with you Julian. But . . .”

  “What, Belle?”

  “I miss spending time with you at home. You haven’t been the same since you came back from the hospital. You’re always asleep. Even when you’re awake, you’re not really awake.

  “And what makes it so hard is that Mama’s so happy—she’s more focused than ever. Your seizures are down to a handful a day. And that’s what we’ve always wanted, right? We wanted you to live your life without being interrupted by your seizures. But now that they’re almost gone, you’re so sleepy. And Dr. Holland is increasing your dose next week. Do you know what that means? You’ll just get sleepier. What happens then?”

  “I didn’t know about that.” Julian frowned.

  “That’s because you were asleep for the whole visit with the doctor,” I said, shaking my head. “I miss watching you play with your instruments. You can’t build crafts or paint or use your therapy tools.”

  Julian slid his arm off my shoulder and knotted his hands together on his lap. He took a deep breath.

  “I miss those things, too.”

  “I hate the seizures. I hate them.” I turned to Julian. His brown eyes, the color so rich and warm and deep, looked inside of me.

  “I know, Belle. Me, too.”

  “But Julian, I don’t understand. Some people have seizures and they can still do everyday things. Why do yours have to be so bad?”

  “No one knows, Belle. Mama, Papa, and all the doctors I’ve ever seen. No one knows. It’s just the way it is.”

  I sniffled and wiped my eyes.

  “It’s just not fair, Julian . . .”

  My words fell to the floor. I stared at the laces on my sneakers, sneakers from Las Brisas that fit my long slender feet perfectly.

  “Belle?”

  “Yes?”

  “Life’s not fair.”

  That just made me angry. I stood up and paced around the court.

  “I want to play basketball with you at home, in our driveway.” My voice was too loud.

  “We do—”

  “It’s not the same, Julian.” I practically spat these words out.

  “Belle, I hear the ball as it slams against the backboard. I watch the rim shake when the ball misses the basket. I study you as you take each shot, the way your body becomes so still for a fraction of a second, preparing the ball, aiming, taking a breath.

  “Just because I can’t ride the rides at the county fair doesn’t mean I don’t like being there, watching the lights, hearing you laugh, smelling the crazy food Papa orders.”

  Julian stopped because I was shaking my head. It wasn’t that I disagreed with what he said; it was just that those weren’t the words I wanted to hear.

  “I just feel bad, Julian. Why wasn’t I born like you, or why couldn’t we share it? Some days you could be like me, and some days I could be like you.”

  “Belle, it just is what it is.”

  I sat silently next to Julian.

  He put his arm around my shoulders again and leaned his head against mine.

  “Belle, at dinner you were telling Mama a story, but I couldn’t follow what it was about. I listened to your voice and my eyes were getting so heavy. I hoped that if I listened hard enough, I would stay awake. And then I hoped that even if I fell asleep, I would remember what you were saying.”

  “What was I saying?”

  “I don’t remember.” Julian looked down at his shoes. “I’ve been having so much fun with you in Las Brisas, but now that I think of it, the rest of this week has been a blur.”

  “Do you remember your music class?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Pemberly isn’t easy to forget. But what about the tambourine? Have we practiced?”

  “I’ve tried. But your hands can’t hold it,” I explained.

  “Because I’m asleep.”

  I nodded.

  Julian pulled his arm away and put his head between his knees. I wrapped my arm across his back and squeezed him.

  “What’s going to happen to Las Brisas?” he finally asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  Julian lifted his head and looked at me.

  “I—and now, we—visit places I’ve been to or heard about, remember? At some point, I won’t be hearing about anywhere new. I—I don’t mind visiting places I’ve been to before, but in Las Brisas I can see places I’ll never get to, or experience them in different ways.”

  “The cenote . . .”

  Julian turned his head away from me. “I may be losing my seizures, but it feels like I’m losing everything else, too.”

  The game clock on the wall suddenly switched on—a neon
flash—and started counting down. Five minutes, twenty-three seconds. Five minutes, twenty-two seconds. Julian stood and found the ball. He batted it between his fingers.

  “Belle, our time is almost up. How about a few more baskets?”

  I turned and looked around. Darkness was creeping over the bleachers.

  “There’s never enough time,” I said.

  “No, there isn’t. But there’s always now.”

  I put my hands up just in time to catch the ball.

  11

  The following day, Mama’s car pulled into the driveway earlier than usual. I tucked my basketball under my arm and stepped beneath the lilac bush. Even before the car was parked, the passenger door popped open and a pair of magenta heels poked out.

  “Tía Lucy!” I exclaimed. The ball fell from my arm as I ran to the car.

  “Isabelle, my darling, Amorcita.” Tía scooted out of the car, adjusted the hem of her neon-yellow skirt, and kissed my cheeks. “My, how much you’ve grown. So tall and so beautiful—so much like me.”

  “Mama said you were coming next week.”

  “She decided to surprise us,” Mama explained as she stepped out of the car.

  “I had tickets for next week, but then I thought, why wait? Please, Isabelle, come and help me with Big Betty and Sanchita. They need to stretch their legs.”

  While Mama lifted Julian from the car and eased him into his wheelchair, I scooped the Chihuahuas out of their carriers.

  “Don’t worry about the rest of my things. Hernando can get them.” Tía Lucy waved her hand dismissively as she carefully lifted a large white box from the car.

  “How long are you staying?” I asked, holding the dogs close to my chest. Their shivers rattled my ribs while their small black noses sniffed the spring air.

  “I’m not yet sure. Santi is opening a new restaurant and he practically sleeps there. He’ll probably do that until things are running smoothly. Once he’s all set up, he’ll give me a call and I’ll fly back for the grand opening.” Tía Lucy paused at the front door. “Hush, Isabelle. Let’s surprise your father.”

  Tía Lucy slipped out of her high heels and tiptoed into the house. Four inches shorter, we were now the same height. Tía smiled and raised an eyebrow before peeking into the kitchen.