What the Wind Can Tell You

by Sarah Marie Jette

  “All right.” I could tell she hadn’t finished. Her lips were working with a silent thought, but her eyes closed, keeping the words trapped. “What if this new medication doesn’t work?”

  Mama patted my leg.

  “That’s not for you to worry about,” she said again. Mama tucked her curls behind her ears and smiled. “The big surprise is that your tía is coming for an early visit.”

  “But it’s not vacation.”

  “I know.”

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  “Is that what Papa wanted you to tell me?”

  “In part. Go to sleep, Isabelle. It’s late.” She kissed my cheek. “Everything will be all right.”

  Sliding under my covers, I pressed my head deep into my pillow. Tía Lucy had always visited the last week of June, for as long as I could remember. Something was up. I closed my eyes and tried to push away the worry.

  And that’s when the smell of citrus returned.

  I pulled my blankets back and sat at the edge of my bed. I waited until the radiators quit clanging and the refrigerator stopped gurgling. I waited until Mama settled in her bed and her bedsprings fell silent. I waited until my heart slowed down enough that I could count its beats.

  And then I tucked my pillow under my arm and tiptoed down the stairs to Julian’s room.

  Julian’s room was off limits. Mama and Papa didn’t care that my room was a mess, so long as Julian’s wasn’t. His room housed all of his equipment: physical therapy toys and occupational therapy tools, pump parts, and suction machines. They didn’t want me moving his noisemakers or mats, tangling his tubes, or misplacing his socks. I was only allowed in when Mama asked me to get something for Julian, or to check on him when he was resting.

  That night, I stood in the doorway and peered inside. Julian’s nightlight cast a soft blue glow on his bedroom floor. A gibbous moon illuminated his sleeping face. His room was perfectly still and orderly, even the bouquet of balloons tied to the foot of his bed and the pinwheel in his pencil cup. I sniffed the air and shook my head at my own silliness.

  Julian’s room was the same as always. And he was sleeping. His long eyelashes rested on his cheeks. He took a deep breath, turned his head toward the door, and exhaled. I walked over to his bed.

  Julian slept in a hospital bed, specially delivered two years ago. Before the bed arrived, fluids used to clog his chest at night, and he wasn’t strong enough to cough them out. Mama propped him up using pillows, but the pillows never stayed put. Papa worked the night shift at his store, but Mama worked the night shift at home. She slept in a chair beside Julian, suctioning fluids from his mouth like a dentist, repositioning the pillows when they slipped out of place. After a bad bout of pneumonia, Julian finally qualified for a hospital bed. Seven pillows and a curled-up towel were replaced by a single button. Sleeping in a hospital bed eased Julian’s coughs. And best of all, it let Mama sleep through the night—sort of.

  My eyes caught the red bead of light glowing from the monitor. As Mama slept, she listened to every crackle and buzz, every breath and turn that Julian made throughout the night. The slightest cough sent her racing down the staircase—wide-awake in half a second.

  Lifting Julian’s arm off his chest, I pried his fist open. The thumb was always the hardest. I slipped my hand inside his.

  His breathing was steady and deep. His arm felt heavy. I kept his hand in mine as I pulled up Mama’s chair and leaned my head against his mattress. My left hand skimmed the top of Julian’s blanket, while my eyelids fell. My shoulders began to sag. His room was so tranquil, so serene. It was like all the silence in the world drifted into this moment.

  Suddenly, the sound of stiff bedsheets startled me. I felt the quilt tug the back of my head, pulling my hair with it. Julian’s hand squeezed tight around mine. I smelled oranges. I looked over to Julian’s dresser. The pinwheel was spinning wildly.

  And then I heard something I’d never heard before.

  “Belle?”

  2

  Julian sat upright, his covers thrown back. His cheeks dimpled with an excited smile.

  “It’s almost time,” he whispered.

  “What?” I asked. My eyes blinked too fast, desperately trying to see what was right in front of me.

  “You’re coming with me, right?” Julian asked, his eyes widening.

  “Yes . . . of course,” I stammered, staring at his hand, marveling at its strength.

  “Oh, good.” His eyes never left mine. “I always hoped you’d join me one day, but I didn’t think it was possible.”

  Julian pushed himself off his bed—without anyone helping him. He bent down and slid his feet into his slippers. Walking across his room, Julian reached behind his bedroom door and pulled his robe off its hook. I couldn’t take my eyes off of Julian’s feet—feet that had never supported Julian on their own. I tried to stand, but couldn’t.

  “Belle.” Julian stepped closer and helped me up. He looked at me closely, his eyebrows deep with concern. “Are you okay?”

  “You’re talking! And you’re calling me Belle?” I said, steadying myself.

  “I’m talking because of Las Brisas, and I’m calling you Belle because I know you'd like me to.”

  “You remember me saying that?”

  “I do.”

  I chewed my lips as I searched for my next words.

  “Julian . . . you’re walking . . .”

  He smiled. “It’s Las Brisas.”

  “What’s Las Brisas?” I asked.

  “You’ll see,” he said.

  I watched Julian’s arms as they slipped into the sleeves of his robe. His hands fluidly knotted the belt. He moved with delicate strength, like a butterfly as it approaches the inner petals of a flower. The room darkened as the moon arched past Julian’s window. Shivers ricocheted from my head to the tips of my toes, but I stood still. And in that moment of stillness, I felt the brush of a breeze, fleeting like a memory.

  “What’re we waiting for?” I whispered.

  “I never know, but it’ll come soon.” Julian paused at his dresser and admired his pinwheel. “I love the colors you put on it, Belle.”

  “Thanks. It’s strange. It wouldn’t spin for me.”

  “Las Brisas is spinning it,” Julian said.

  “Las Brisas is magic wind that helps you walk?” I asked, scratching my head.

  “No, it’s much more than that. Just wait and see.” Julian pulled his dresser drawer open and reached in. “Here, put my sweatshirt on. The room is getting colder, and I have a feeling you’ll want it.”

  In the glow of the nightlight, I watched Julian ball up his sweatshirt and toss it across the room. His aim was perfect.

  “Nice toss.” I couldn’t hide the shock in my voice as the sweatshirt landed in my arms.

  “Thanks.” Julian’s chest swelled with pride. “I’ve been practicing.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  When Julian’s physical therapist visited, Julian lobbed beanbags at her. With a lot of focus and effort, he was able to pinch a beanbag with his right hand and hurl it toward her. This throw was entirely different. This throw was effortless.

  Julian and I sat down on the edge of his bed. Once I’d pulled the sweatshirt on and rolled up the cuffs, he took hold of my hand. I leaned against him, my shivers rattling us both.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, but you’ve got to relax, Belle—otherwise Las Brisas won’t come.” He took a deep breath. I did the same.

  I listened to our breathing. I felt the pressure of his shoulder against mine. I felt the soft breeze of the pinwheel. I watched the shadows in his room. They crept around his dresser, his stuffed animals, his wheelchair.

  And then everything went still—the pinwheel, the sounds from the street, even the air around us.

  From the edge of Julian�
��s room, I caught a shimmer of light seeping out from under his closet door. It spread like ink.

  In seconds, Julian’s floor became a pool of radiating silver light.

  “Las Brisas vienen,” Julian said, standing and pulling me up with him.

  Las Brisas was coming.

  I hesitated, my other hand holding on to Julian’s quilt, threads tying me down to reality. The light on the floor inched closer, reaching out for us. It saturated the fibers of the rug. My toes started to tingle.

  Julian leaned in close.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Belle.” Behind him, small pillars of light reached up and illuminated his room like moon glow. “Please come; we have to hurry.”

  As if responding to his words, the light began creeping back to the closet. I saw the pinwheel begin to spin. I squeezed Julian’s hand, he squeezed back, and we stepped onto the puddle of light.

  The breeze returned as we inched toward the closet.

  Julian pulled the door open.

  “Where’re we going?” I leaned in to ask.

  “Las Brisas,” Julian whispered.

  The light snuffed out once we stepped inside the closet. The darkness was as deep and dense as black velvet. The breeze brushed against my cheeks, smelling of mud, horses, and French fries. I couldn’t see the ground before me, so Julian led the way.

  After several minutes of silent wandering, I spied red, neon-green, and blue lights cutting into the darkness. They spiraled and formed shapes. A large circle spun in the distance. The sound of organs and bells woke the air around us.

  Julian suddenly turned to the right, where an archway stood before us, crafted from hay bales, cornstalks, and pumpkin pyramids. I knew those pumpkins. I had climbed those hay bales.

  Julian and I were standing at the entrance to the county fair.

  Hand-painted signs pointed to 4-H barns and livestock contests. Flashing lights illuminated dozens of rides, and the scent of fried dough teased my nose. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the steady drum of popcorn popping.

  “Belle, what do you think?” Julian asked, his voice startling me.

  “Is it real?” I asked.

  “In a way.”

  “Julian,” I said, looking down at his feet and across to the fairgrounds. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “Come and see.” Julian pulled at my hand, but my feet held fast.

  The night sky was free of stars and without a moon. It was black as midnight in a cave. Even with the pulsing and glowing lights from the fair, the darkness hovered heavily above. I took a deep breath.

  “Belle,” Julian said, taking me by both hands and stooping down to hold my gaze, “don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”

  “What is this place?” I asked. It was definitely the county fair—my parents brought us every year, in the fall. And judging from the photos decorating the top of our fireplace, Julian had gone there years before I was born. The fair was exactly as I remembered, but also completely different. The smells were the same: goats, onion rings, hay. The sounds were the same. My ears buzzed with the tinny spring of arcade games and the moos and snorts from barnyard pens. But there were no people. The fair stood hauntingly empty. The contrast made me shiver.

  Julian tightened the belt on his robe. “This is my place. It’s where I go at night, every night. Come with me, Belle.” Julian’s voice ached. “Please, let’s have some fun.”

  “You come here every night?” I asked.

  “Not here to the fair, but to Las Brisas, yes. Well, there have been a few nights I missed. Like the week following my twelfth birthday when I had pneumonia.”

  “You were at the hospital for two weeks.”

  Julian nodded.

  “On my sickest days I didn’t go—too many hospital tubes holding me back.” Julian pulled my chin up and looked into my eyes. “Come on, Belle. Let’s have some fun.”

  My eyes got lost in his, in the warmth, in the love, in the longing.

  “Can we go on the Banana Slide first?” I asked.

  “Absolutely!”

  Julian took my hand and together we raced toward the Banana Slide. This was always my first ride at the fair. Julian and I slipped through the metal gate and trudged up the steps. At the top, I snuck a peek across the fairgrounds. The roller coaster roared along its tracks. Horses’ hooves thundered on the dirt racetrack, pulling empty harness carriages behind them. Buccaneer Bob’s Pirate Ship plunged.

  “Are you ready, Belle?” Julian asked, lifting two burlap sacks off a neatly folded stack.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answered.

  We laid the sacks down on the landing and took our positions.

  Gripping the edge of the sack in my fists, I nodded.

  “Three . . . two . . . one!”

  We pushed off and flew down the slide, riding the curves up and down. My stomach flipped and flopped. As I leaned back, gaining speed over the final bump, I could taste last night’s pizza rising up in my throat.

  “Julian,” I gasped once I reached the bottom. “Let’s go on the bumper cars next!”

  Julian stood up, gave me his hand, and pulled me to my feet. We raced down the dirt path to the next ride.

  In the real world, Papa rode the bumper cars with me. The whole experience was miserable. No matter what we tried, year after year, we were trapped between the other riders. My car always steered as well as a Zamboni in a sandbox. Papa’s car only gained speed when he rode backwards. It wasn’t very fun.

  This time, we had the entire space to ourselves. Julian maneuvered his car with expert accuracy, zooming up from behind, curling in front of me, or skidding away to avoid a crash. He let me hit him a few times, but always came on strong afterwards.

  I was an easy target, as my mind wasn’t in the game. I found myself lost in Julian’s smile, so easy and so effortless—so much like Papa’s on Sunday afternoons.

  “Julian, I can’t believe this is happening! I’m so glad I’m here with you,” I said as our engines slowed.

  “Me, too.”

  I stepped out of my car and reached for Julian’s hand.

  The Tilt-A-Whirl was next, followed by games. We threw darts at balloons, tossed rings onto bulbous clown noses, and fished for rubber duckies. When we were through, I awarded myself a six-foot-tall purple tiger. After that, we made our way to the small white barn with windows that glowed warm with light.

  Without the crowd, the petting zoo was better than I remembered. Chickens pecked around us, their downy feathers littering the wood-chip floor. Baby goats skittered past. A clump of lambs huddled in the farthest corner.

  When we used to go to the fair in the fall, children chased the chickens, poked the piglets, and head-butted the goats. The animals were frantically fleeing the other children as Mama wheeled Julian into the corral. It didn’t take long for the animals to realize how hard it is to nuzzle a child in a wheelchair. Julian wasn’t able to stoop down low or lean far over to the side. The chair was cold and hard and smelled of cheap rubber. I tried to catch a bunny or a chick for Julian to hold, but I ended up looking like all the other kids running after animals that stayed just out of reach.

  This time, it was different.

  Julian knelt down on the barn floor while I sat beside him. My nose twitched, filled with the scent of sawdust and dander, feathers and fur. Julian reached his hand toward the animals. A bunny hopped over and nibbled on his fingertips. The lambs turned to watch. A white and gray goat, her belly swollen well beyond her rib cage, staggered over. She tugged at my sock with her front teeth. I laughed and pulled my foot away, startling the goat for a moment. I reached out and scratched her muzzle, right up to the spot between her tiny horns.

  “Belle,” Julian began. “This is the nicest time I’ve ever had here.”

  “I agree.”

&nbs
p; “No, Belle,” Julian looked at me closely, his eyes clear and bright. “I don’t just mean at the fair. I mean since I’ve been traveling to Las Brisas. It’s been fun—but it’s more fun with you.”

  I stopped scratching the goat and turned to him.

  “You should’ve told me—”

  I stopped. Julian’s face changed, ever so slightly. His jaw set. He swallowed.

  “You know I can’t, Belle.” Julian’s words weren’t harsh, but they were final.

  I dropped my head. I’d forgotten about Julian, at home, in his chair . . . The Julian sitting beside me had stolen away all my memories. He moved so easily; his voice sounded like a song. I felt hypnotized.

  Other animals came by to check us out: sheep, guinea pigs, a spotted duck. And pretty soon, they settled into sleep. An Angora bunny hopped over and curled up on Julian’s lap; a male mallard nestled on top of my purple tiger.

  “There’s not much time left. Anywhere else you want to go?” Julian asked as he gently placed the bunny on a hay bale.

  I pulled my sock back onto my foot. It was wet and warm with goat spit. Peering out of the barn’s doorway, I saw the haunted house, the upside-down Ferris wheel, and Buccaneer Bob’s Pirate Ship. Even with Julian by my side, none of those rides enticed me to take a spin. Then my ears picked up the chimes from the carousel. Julian’s head cocked at the same time.

  “Shall we?” he asked.

  “Yes, definitely!”

  Last September, Julian and I had gone on the carousel together for the first time. Mama carried Julian on board and propped him up in the corner of a bench. She didn’t have her array of pillows, but she had her years of experience. Mama rolled her parka up like a python and wound it around Julian’s neck. She sat me down beside him, and posed me like a department-store mannequin. My left arm hugged his waist tightly. Once she was satisfied, Mama kissed me on my forehead and marched over to the operator. She spoke quickly with only a few hand gestures, before joining Papa behind the fence.

  When the ride began, it spun slowly—very slowly. The other riders looked around, afraid there was some sort of malfunction. We inched along and swung past the teenage operator. He gave Julian the look I’m very familiar with: looking at Julian while not looking at him. Once the grumbling of the other riders grew louder than the music, the operator cast one last glance at us, spun the ride a little faster, and then a bit faster still.