I unlocked the wheels of Julian’s chair, pushed him over to Abuelito, and removed his tray.
“Isabelle,” Mama said fiercely.
“Just like last night,” I whispered into Julian’s ears. “But with a tennis ball, okay?”
I uncurled Julian’s right hand, moved his thumb to the side, and placed the ball in his palm. Julian wrapped his fingers around the tennis ball.
Taking a few steps back, I held my hands open in front of me.
“Keep your eyes open, everyone,” I announced.
Julian’s fingers gently brushed the fuzz. He smiled and his cheeks dimpled. His left hand dropped to his lap as his right arm pulled back.
My heart pounded in my chest. I looked back at Abuelito, whose eyes were pinned on Julian. Mama’s face was guarded, but I didn’t have time to stop and wonder why. I turned my focus back to Julian. His eyes were different. The brown got warmer. He sat up straighter. This wasn’t Julian from Las Brisas, this was just Julian, the Julian I’ve always loved.
And then he flicked the tennis ball.
His arm swung and he released the ball at just the right time. It flew from his fingers and hit me on my shoulder.
“Ouch!” I laughed as I bent down to pick it up. “Great pitch, Julian!”
The towel dropped from my mother’s hand. The Chihuahuas barked but Tía Lucy didn’t shush them. Abuelito’s eyes shifted to me. They were haunting.
“Want to see another one?” I asked.
Julian’s arm fell down on his lap with his fingers curled slightly open. I pressed the tennis ball into his hand and backed away until I was several feet away from him. Julian slowly moved his hand into pitching position.
“I’m going to catch this one, Julian—just watch me,” I said.
Mama scooped up Big Betty and scratched her back a little too forcefully. There was a glitter in her eyes—or maybe tears. I couldn’t tell because I couldn’t take my eyes off of Julian’s pitching hand. Abuelito whispered something, something too soft to hear.
Julian flung the ball at me. It arced through the air and I caught it.
Before the next pitch, Mama pulled up a chair beside Abuelito. She tucked her hand inside his. Tía Lucy pulled up a seat as well. Her dogs snuggled into her lap, while Julian and I played catch for our audience. They applauded every throw. I moved even farther away, and Julian adjusted his throw accordingly. By the last few throws, I had my back pressed against the front door.
And then I saw it. A shadow passed before Julian’s eyes. The next pitch was off. I moved forward to catch it, but it slipped through my fingers and bounced around my toes. When I pressed the ball back into his hand, Julian’s grip trembled. His fingers twitched. His lips moved and he tried to speak.
“It’s okay, Julian.” I leaned in and brushed his curls to the side. “It’s okay. You’ll be fine. Your medicine is kicking in. It’s just your medicine.”
The ball rolled from his hand and I let it tumble to the floor because his hand had found mine, and my fingers would not let go.
I pressed my forehead to his.
“It’s okay, Julian. It’s okay.” I kissed his cheek. “See you soon.”
“Isabelle.”
I looked up.
Abuelito was cradling the tennis ball like a piece of fruit. He stood and brought the ball over to Julian. Abuelito tucked it into the space between Julian’s leg and the chair. He stooped and kissed Julian on the forehead. He kissed me, too, his lips soft, his stubble scratchy.
Mama and Tía Lucy walked Abuelito to his car. I wheeled Julian to his room, took out his pajamas, and placed them on his bed. When Mama didn’t return right away, I took a washcloth out of the linen closet and ran it under warm water in the bathroom sink.
“Those were great throws,” I said as I gently wiped Julian’s face and neck. I brushed his hair off to the side of his forehead. His breathing deepened and his head sank into his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Julian,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t do something sooner. It just took me a while to realize—”
But Mama had returned, so I said no more.
Together we tugged Julian’s clothes off and slipped his pajamas on. Mama angled Julian’s bed.
“Mama?” I began.
“Yes, Isabelle?”
“Why do you hide Julian from Abuelito?” I asked.
“Isabelle . . .” Mama’s voice faded.
“You keep Julian far away. You don’t talk about him. You’ve been telling everyone else how many seizures he’s down to, but tonight you didn’t tell Abuelito.”
“I guess I . . .” She pulled down the shades and dimmed the lights. “. . . I guess I get afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Of so many things.” Her arms tightened. “I’m afraid that Julian’s seizures will scare Abuelito away, or that they’ll go on too long. It’s hard not knowing what will happen next. I think I’m afraid of that, too.”
“I’m not afraid,” I whispered.
Mama looked down at me. Her eyes were warm and deep and filled with love.
“Sí, Isabelle. You’re not afraid. Thank goodness for that.” She kissed my forehead. “Fear is worse than Julian’s seizures. Fear keeps all of his beauty and possibilities hidden.”
“You know what also keeps his possibilities hidden, more than his seizures?”
“What?”
“Sleeping through the whole day.”
Mama pulled back and her eyes hardened.
“I know you care for your brother, Isabelle, but it’s your father, the doctors, and I who make his medical decisions.”
Mama stood and switched Julian’s monitor on. She paused beside Julian, who was already fast asleep.
“Things were very scary in the beginning, Isabelle, when Julian was first diagnosed. Bad brain scans, bouts of pneumonia that wouldn’t go away, visits to the doctor that turned into weeklong stays in the hospital. Things are much better now, but remembering all that is part of what makes me afraid.” She looked across the room at me. “Time for bed, Isabelle.”
Upstairs, Tía Lucy brushed Sanchita’s teeth while I pulled on my pajamas and slipped into my sleeping bag.
“Isabelle,” Tía Lucy said, peering down at me, “your mother told me that Julian’s teachers okayed his dismissal, so he can leave school early and help out at your science fair.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said. “Julian’s a big part of my project, and he really wants to come.”
“I checked the boxes in the garage after Papá left, and it looks like you’re ready to go.”
“I am.” I paused, toying with my next words. “Tía Lucy, why is Abuelito so grumpy? He never seems to enjoy himself.”
She tucked Sanchita in beside me and began brushing Big Betty’s teeth.
“Isabelle, your abuelito has been through a lot in his life,” she said. Her voice was soft and smooth.
“So has Julian.”
Tía Lucy nodded and cleared her throat.
“Did your mother ever tell you about Abuelito’s amazing hands?”
I shook my head.
She leaned in close, took one of my hands in hers, and turned it over slowly. She traced the lines and creases, wiggled my fingers around.
“Your abuelito could do anything with his hands. They were his special gift. He could fix cars, refrigerators, clocks. He was also a great baseball player—a pitcher. He could’ve made it to the major leagues.”
“Really?” I had a hard time picturing my ancient, slumped-over Mexican grandfather as a major league pitcher.
“Really. But he had an accident when he was eighteen,” Tía Lucy continued. “He was fixing up a beat-up car for your abuelita, as a surprise for her high school graduation.”
She let my hand slip out of hers. She paused and fle
xed her fingers before she rubbed them together.
“Your abuelito was working underneath the car when the jack gave out. A tire crushed his hand.” I closed my eyes, imagining the impact. Tía Lucy continued, “Your abuelita held on to his bloody and broken hand as they rode in the ambulance. It was terribly damaged, but he squeezed her hand so tight. When the nurses wheeled Abuelito into the operating room, they practically had to break his fingers to separate their hands. Abuelito was so afraid.”
“Julian’s not afraid of hospitals,” I said, smoothing out my sleeping bag.
“He’s brave like you.” Tía Lucy took a breath and continued her story. “When your abuelito woke up from surgery, his hand was lifeless. He could lift it, but the fingers barely moved. He said it was like his hand had been replaced with a lead glove. The loss was tremendous. Hours earlier his hands were magic. After the surgery, his future changed forever. It was many years before he could hold a pencil and write, but he never played baseball or fixed a car again.”
“What went wrong?” I asked.
Tía Lucy shrugged.
“Abuelito was just a poor Mexican boy on the operating table,” she said, a hard edge to her smooth voice. “I suspect the surgeon felt he’d done a good-enough job. He probably felt he had better places to be on a Sunday afternoon.”
I thought of Abuelito, struggling to tie his shoes each week. A tight sourness spread in the pit of my belly.
“I think . . .” Tía Lucy paused and wiped her eyes. “I think your abuelito has always waited for someone who could pitch for him.”
We sat in silence for what felt like forever. Except for Sanchita and Big Betty, that is. They were now tucked into the sleeping bag beside me. Their shivering had stopped, replaced with squeaky snores.
“He never talks about baseball,” I finally said, looking up as Mama stepped into my room.
“That was many, many years ago,” Mama said.
“Would he be happy if I played baseball instead of basketball?” I asked.
Mama considered this for a minute as she sat down beside Tía Lucy.
“He’s never come to any of my basketball practices or games,” I added.
“He’s set in his ways, Isabelle,” Tía Lucy said.
“The problem is, Abuelito doesn’t think of all the things Julian can do; he only thinks of the things Julian can’t do,” I said.
“Yes, Isabelle.” Mama nodded. “You believe in Julian. You always have. It’s your special gift.”
“No, Mama. It’s not a special gift to believe in Julian. You don’t have to believe in him to see what he can do.” My voice was growing louder than it should have, but I couldn’t help it. “Julian can throw a ball. He can hold pinwheels, make art with clay, and keep rhythm with his tambourine. He listens to my stories and he smiles when I tell him jokes.”
My head ached with frustration. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. Abuelito waited and waited for a boy, and he finally got one. But the boy he got came with shivers and shakes, not pitches and strikes. And then he got me, yet another girl.
“None of us like that Julian has seizures, not even Julian,” I said. “But if all we do is focus on them, then they win. We miss out on all the possibilities.” My fists tightened. “I know you don’t like me talking about medicine, but Mama”—I blinked hard and fast to keep my tears away—“Julian used to be able to do so many things, and now he can’t anymore. And it’s not because of his seizures—it’s because he’s sleeping all the time.”
“Isabelle. I asked you—”
“I know, Mama. But think about it. You’ve counted seizures all week, but have you tracked how many times Julian has laughed, or played, or made music?”
“Isabelle, not tonight!” Mama stood up. “One more word from you and Julian will not attend your science fair. I’ve had enough! You are his little sister, a twelve-year-old girl, not a doctor.” She closed the door firmly behind her as she left.
“Life’s not always fair,” Tía Lucy whispered.
“And it’s always less fair for Julian.”
“It’s not a competition, Isabelle,” Tía Lucy said. Her voice was guarded. “But your mother is missing some obvious details. Your special gift isn’t believing in Julian, or even helping others believe in him. Your special gift is seeing possibilities.” Tía Lucy smiled as she looked down at me. “I want to tell you another story.”
“Okay.” I wrapped my arm around Big Betty’s warm belly as she stretched in her sleep.
“We once lived in a small, run-down house. It had three rooms, hot water—sometimes—and foggy windows. But your mother and I didn’t mind, because it was smack-dab in the middle of an orange grove. There were rows of trees as far as we could see. They stretched out across the street and wrapped around the back of our house.”
“Mama told me about this house.”
“Did she tell you that we hid in the trees?”
I shook my head.
Tía Lucy’s eyebrows arced high as she leaned back.
“Your mother and I were always in trouble. We’d run through our mother’s clean laundry while it was hanging on the line, kicking up dust until the bottom edges were caked with dirt. We’d sneak fresh tortillas—your mother was the best at sneaking them. She’d take them from the bottom when our mother wasn’t looking. Aye! Your abuelita would get so mad!”
“What would she do?”
“She’d pull out the hairbrush.”
“Hairbrush?”
“Yes. Your abuelita had a round wooden hairbrush. She’d chase us around the house. She was fast, but we were good at slipping out of her hands, and we would run into the orange grove.
“¡Sinvergüenza! she’d come out yelling. We were shameless!”
Tía Lucy laughed so hard that Sanchita and Big Betty hopped out of the sleeping bag and started barking.
“Oh, my babies, did I wake you up?”
“Then what happened?” I asked.
“After she’d scolded us for having no shame, she would leave us in the trees and go back inside. But we knew the coast wasn’t clear. Not yet. So we would run deep into the orange grove and climb up high in the leaves. Your mother and I laughed so hard I was afraid we’d fall out. We’d wait until it got dark and we could hear Papá’s pickup coming. He would park it so we could see the headlights flickering through the leaves, lighting his way to us.”
“Abuelito?”
“Yes. We’d tumble from the branches like ripe fruit and land in his arms. You smell like flowers, he’d tell your mother. You smell like sunshine, he’d tell me.”
“He said things like that?”
“He did.” Tía Lucy nodded. “Your mother and I would fight over which hand we’d hold on to during our walk back home. The skin in the middle of his broken hand was so soft and the pulse so strong.” Tía Lucy opened my palm and studied its lines. “His scars healed once before. They can heal again.”
We sat in quiet for a while.
“You’ve been studying the wind?” she finally asked.
“Yes. I’ve researched facts on wind, the wind gods from different cultures, and wind instruments. And then I constructed a wind turbine.”
“That’s impressive, Isabelle. You and Julian sure do a lot together, even though nothing as mischievous as what your mother and I used to do.”
“That’s not true.”
“It isn’t?”
I sat up straighter.
“Did Mama tell you about Julian’s April Fool’s joke?”
“No, she didn’t.”
I sat up on my knees and smiled at the memory.
“A little while ago I realized that when Julian hums, it sounds like the microwave. After school, for weeks, I had him practice his hum and then coached him to make a beeping noise. He has a hard time with words, but he makes so many different soun
ds. He had to get the right beep and time the pause between the beeps.
“On the first day of April, during breakfast, I wheeled Julian near the microwave. He hummed, then beeped, and Mama put down her coffee and opened the microwave door. We did it three more times until Julian started coughing—that’s what happens when he laughs too much, and finally Mama figured it out. She had us trick Papa when he got home.”
“That’s a pretty good April Fool’s.” Tía Lucy smiled.
“I know! It was great. Papa tried to get him to make a flushing toilet sound. Julian tried and he couldn’t quite get it right, but that didn’t matter, because once Julian made the noise, he’d start laughing and his smile was so big and toothy that we laughed anyway.”
“What sound is he working on now?”
“Besides snoring?”
“Isabelle.” She shook her head slowly.
“The sound that grass makes in the wind, the sound of his pinwheels spinning, and the sound of the gusts on top of Mount Washington. He practiced all this while helping me with my science fair project. And then he had his big seizure.”
Tía Lucy was quiet for a moment.
“You’ve got a big day tomorrow,” she said, unzipping her suitcase. She pulled out a long lacy nightgown and looked at me from the corner of her eye. “How about . . . how about you take your sleeping bag and go downstairs? I’m sure Julian would love your company.”
“What?” I blinked in surprise. “Won’t Mama know?”
“I’ll distract her in the morning so you can make it seem like you were up early, preparing for the science fair.”
I jumped out of my sleeping bag and gave Tía Lucy a big hug.
“Gracias.”
“Sweet dreams, Isabelle.”
12
“Hey there, Julian,” I whispered, slipping his hand inside mine. I looked over at the pinwheel, nestled among the pencils in the cup. I sat down on the edge of his bed. My mother’s footsteps shuffled overhead.
“Tía Lucy told me about the orange groves that she and Mama used to play in, when they were young.” I squeezed his hand with my fingers. “Maybe Las Brisas can send us there. We can run through the rows of trees and climb them.”
What the Wind Can Tell You Page 12
