Softly, to myself, I counted: one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five . . .
Mama relaxed. Her shoulders rolled back and I could hear her exhale just as I got to five.
“I’ll mark it,” I offered, as Mama wrestled with Julian’s feeding tube.
“No, Isabelle. Don’t,” she said, as I stepped away from the table.
“I got it, Mama. Five seconds.” I pulled Julian’s notebook out from Mama’s desk and peeked at the clock. I wrote “8:39 a.m.” in one column and “5 seconds” in the other.
Mama pressed her cheek against Julian’s and whispered softly to him. His head slumped deep into his collarbone. Julian was usually quiet after his seizures, but this one had put him back to sleep.
Mama stood up and returned to the stove, stopping first at her desk to check my notes. I took her place beside Julian and removed the foil ball and putty from his hands. It was easy enough, post-seizure. I took his left hand in mine and began massaging it, rubbing his fingers, loosening his muscles. Soon enough, Julian was snoring.
Mama was right. It was one of those days.
Julian’s seizures were short but constant. Mama relented and we were in a relay race: one of us ran to Julian’s side while the other marked the time. Papa checked the seizure notebook first thing when he got out of bed. He didn’t say anything to Mama or me after he’d examined the pages; he just walked over to Julian and kissed the top of his head. Julian had a ten-second seizure moments later. By early afternoon, we’d filled up twenty-four lines in his seizure notebook.
Mama and Papa used to wonder about the causes of Julian’s seizures, but they stopped trying to figure it out years ago. Even after scans, exams, the best doctors, and multiple medications, we still didn’t know why Julian’s brain acted the way it did. That Sunday, though, Mama was blaming the doctors.
“Therapeutic dose,” she mumbled to herself.
After Julian had returned home from his big seizure, Papa had explained that Julian would be changing medications. The thing was, he couldn’t switch meds overnight. It would take a few weeks before what the doctor called a therapeutic dose kicked in and we could count on reliable seizure activity. Until then, we wouldn’t know what to expect from Julian’s seizures.
Julian’s medications were always changing. Sometimes his medications worked well, but he’d only be allowed to stay on them for a few months. If Julian stayed on them too long, they could hurt him in some other way—they were too strong for his liver, or they could be toxic to his kidneys. Other times, the medications just stopped working. Some medications made him cranky, or he got a rash, or something else. There was always something else.
Mama, Papa, and I took turns soothing Julian through each seizure. My science project sat unfinished. As the sun set, Julian’s head sagged on his shoulders, Mama’s face had grown progressively more pale, and Papa had stopped speaking altogether. He just shook his head slowly and tried not to let me see when he wiped his eyes.
“Inez, he’s been home for just one day,” Papa muttered.
“And he’s been on the new medications for one week. The doctors said this might happen.” Mama placed her hand on Papa’s arm. “The day before he was discharged, Julian had sixteen seizures. Yesterday he had fourteen. Today he’s had thirty-six. The doctors said that they would fluctuate—sometimes more, but gradually less.”
Lost in a day full of seizures, it was only when Mama said it was bedtime that I remembered.
It was like waiting for Christmas morning. I kept my door open a crack, so I could listen to the house. I pulled on my flannel pajamas in case Las Brisas was cold. I heard Mama click off the TV and the lamp beside the couch. I heard Mama’s and Papa’s feet padding into Julian’s room. Then the whole house was still and silent for a few minutes. I pictured Papa brushing Julian’s hair softly with his fingers. I pictured Mama sitting next to Julian, watching him sleep, singing a lullaby.
On their way out of his room, they switched on the monitor. Mama started up the steps first, singing the lullaby softly to herself. The words streamed up the stairs and crept into my room. I covered my head with my blankets and took a deep breath. Papa pushed my door open a little ways and watched me for a moment. I pictured Mama clicking on the receiver on her nightstand and listening closely for a few minutes to make sure it was working correctly, listening for Julian’s breathing and the scratch of his blankets. I heard Mama and Papa slide into bed and then . . . silence.
Curled up under my covers, I told myself that I would count to one hundred to be extra sure that Mama wouldn’t hear me.
One, two, three, four, five, six . . . It felt like I’d never reach one hundred. I peeked out from under the covers and decided that fifty would be good enough. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven . . . Fifty never felt so far away. But it came, slow and steady.
Carefully pulling back my blankets, I crept to my bedroom door. I walked down the staircase with my hand gliding against the railing. At the bottom of the stairs, the rising moon illuminated the kitchen.
Julian’s head was turned away from the door as I stepped into his room. His arm slid from his chest and dangled off the side of his bed, like he was reaching out for me. A passing car’s headlights streamed through the room, placing a moving spotlight on his wheelchair, his feeding machine, his tools.
I suddenly felt embarrassed and silly. What if last night was only a dream? There I was, sneaking into my brother’s bedroom in the middle of the night. Completely ridiculous! But then I remembered Mama’s confusion about his robe and slippers.
And I smelled oranges.
Julian turned his head toward the doorway, as if inviting me in.
I let the darkness of Julian’s room surround me as I tiptoed over to his bed. Holding his hand tightly in mine, I sat down on Mama’s chair. Forgetting to blink, my eyes searched his room until my vision got fuzzy. Finally, I let my eyelids droop. I remembered the lights at the fair, as bright as fireworks glowing in the ebony sky. I remembered the sounds—the music humming from the rides and games, the horses’ hooves thumping against the dirt track. And I remembered Julian’s hand holding mine.
My arm, pressing the side of Julian’s quilt, had fallen asleep. Just as my fingers started slipping out from Julian’s, his grasp tightened around mine. It was so soft, so subtle and slight, I wasn’t sure if I had dreamt it. I turned around.
Julian’s eyes glittered.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
4
“I wasn’t sure you’d come back.” Julian’s voice was soft. My ears strained to hear his words, clinging to each syllable.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked.
“Today was rough,” he said.
Julian slid off his bed and we sat together on the floor. His eyes scanned the room quickly, lingering on the pinwheel, and then he turned back to me.
“I’m glad you came. Las Brisas should be here soon.”
“Julian, I’ve been wondering,” I whispered, “why do you call it Las Brisas?”
“Because it blew in like the wind for months. Just a breeze coming from my closet, or from under my bed. I was too young and afraid to do anything at first. But it grew stronger, and so did I.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. I harvested the memory of his voice.
“Do you want your robe?” I finally asked.
He shook his head.
“Mama put me in my flannel pajamas,” he answered. “And we don’t have much time.”
“How do you know?” I looked around searching for a sign.
“Shhh,” Julian hushed. “It’s coming.”
The light on Julian’s monitor dimmed and darkened. The pinwheel slowed its spin as his bedroom walls faded away.
Something wriggled beneath my body. I turned to Julian.
“Belle!”
&nbs
p; I shot to my feet, pulling Julian with me. The rug began to bubble underneath us. The furniture rattled and jerked, scraping against the floor. And then, as though someone had pulled the plug in the bathtub, the center of Julian’s carpet spun and spiraled, dropping into the floor. The center grew wide, like the eye of a hurricane.
Julian’s grip tightened around my hand. We fell on our bottoms and circled the room. The spinning grew stronger as Julian and I whipped around and around before plunging into the eye and falling through the floor.
Suddenly, water enveloped me. My arms flailed around in panic. Thankfully, Julian’s fingers were still intertwined with mine. My eyes opened to see blurry blue light. Julian tugged on my arm, and I kicked my legs as hard as I could. With one last jerk, and one great kick, I reached the surface.
Coming into such bright light hurt my eyes. Everything was blue: the sky, the water, even the beach far off in the distance, fading into the horizon.
While I tried to make sense of our surroundings, Julian swam circles around me.
“Where are we?” I asked, salt burning my lips.
“In the ocean,” Julian said, waving his arm out to his side to show the expanse of water all around us.
“Thanks,” I said. “But I meant more specifically.”
We had to be someplace tropical. The air was hot. The water was as warm as the sunshine. The trees on the not-too-distant shore were lush and viny.
“We’re in the Gulf of Mexico. And that”—Julian nodded his head toward the beach—“is Mexico.”
“Mexico? How do you know?”
“I come here a lot. This is one of my favorite places.” Julian ducked his head underwater and popped up beside me.
“How many places have you been to?” I asked.
“I don’t know . . . more than I can count.” Julian leaned back and started floating.
A breeze brushed against my face. The smell was unfamiliar but comforting. It smelled of never-ending sunshine, of freshness, of warmth. I watched a pelican fly overhead. Taking a deep breath, I turned back to Julian.
“When your room starts to change, do you know where Las Brisas will be taking you?”
He shook his head.
“It’s always a surprise. I go to places I’ve been to or have been told about. I visit my favorite places the most.”
“You can’t choose?”
“I haven’t tried. I just go where Las Brisas sends me.”
“And when did you learn to swim?” I asked, marveling at his stroke and form. Julian looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
“In Las Brisas.”
When Julian talked about Las Brisas, it sounded like fantasy, like a magical force of nature, like a dream. But there was no denying the reality of the water around me.
Julian floated by, gazing up at the clouds. Drops of water curled around his nose, gliding down his bronze cheeks. His face grew more serious. I swam in closer.
“I like the ocean, Belle. I like the way it feels around my body. It lifts me up and carries me with it.”
I flipped onto my back and floated with Julian, trying to remember if he had ever floated in the ocean before. The sun warmed my belly through my soggy pajamas. Julian reached out for my hand. With the sound of the ocean in my ears, the sun on my face, and Julian’s fingers interlaced with mine, the world seemed perfect. I wanted to live in this moment forever.
“Belle,” Julian said, pulling me in closer, “I want to show you something before time runs out. Come on.”
He let go of my hand and swam to the beach. I followed.
The waves gently pushed us to shore. Water dripped off our pajamas, leaving a trail behind. Under the shade of the trees, I saw a path worn down by footsteps—Julian’s footsteps. Julian reached for my hand again as he led me down the trail. The air soon became thick and muggy as we walked farther from the ocean. Beads of sweat dripped down my forehead. Mosquitoes hovered, but didn’t bite.
“Look, there are the mangroves.” Julian pointed up ahead.
In the soft, wet, and spongy soil, the roots of the mangroves coiled like tangled rope. Root bulbs bulged above the soggy earth. Just as my feet began sinking into the mud, Julian’s path turned into sliced stumps. The mangroves grew thicker. Blue crabs poked their long thin antenna eyes out from tiny holes beneath the roots, scuttling sideways from one hole to the next, creeping in quickly. I felt the presence of birds tucked between the leaves, but couldn’t see or hear them.
“Where’re we going?” I asked as the path took another turn.
“Just wait and see.” Julian’s voice sounded excited, and his pace quickened.
The canopy of mangroves and vines hid the sun. I could scarcely see the sky above us. And then, just as I was starting to wonder when we’d ever get to the end of the path, it opened up. The branches seemed to pull back, revealing a tranquil pool edged by stones and surrounded by vines. It was beautiful.
“What is this?” I asked.
“A cenote.”
“A what?”
“It’s a cenote. It’s what the Mayans called a pond with fresh water for drinking.”
We walked to the edge of the path. The stumps turned into strips of wood, like a dock leading out over the edge of the water. Julian sat down, and I sat beside him.
“Is it deep?” I inched my leg down so the tips of my toes grazed the surface of the water.
“This one is. I don’t know how deep, but every time I dive down, I can’t find the bottom.”
My fingers curled around the edge of the dock. The jungle air seeped into my lungs.
“How did you find this place?” I asked.
Julian shrugged. “Papa told me about it.”
“Really?” I whispered. “He never told me.”
“Well . . .” Julian paused to think. “Papa and Mama came here before I was born. There’s a picture of them swimming in this cenote, on the mantel over the fireplace. Papa showed it to me when I was very little.”
The water chilled my toes as I worked to remember the photos. I could recall the front few, but the ones in back were a mystery to me.
“I’ve never seen it,” I said, shaking my head.
Julian must have sensed the jealousy in my voice. He leaned in and smiled.
“Belle, they’re not keeping it a secret. Go see for yourself when we get back home.”
The sun wrapped itself around my shoulders. Julian leaned in even closer.
“Cenotes like this one are connected by caves. If we swim to that far side”—he nodded across the water—“there’s a passageway underneath the mangroves.”
I squinted across the cenote. The water was completely still. I pulled my legs in close to my chest.
“Is there anything living in the water?”
“Some really small fish. Oh, and maybe a few sea monsters,” Julian said, standing up and winking. He swung his arms out at his sides, preparing for his jump. Before Julian moved to the edge, I dropped in. The water was cool against my skin. My feet kicked and kicked; I couldn’t feel the bottom.
Julian took a step back, leapt forward, and cannonballed into the cenote.
“How often do you come here?” I asked, when he popped up beside me.
“Once a month or so. Follow me!” Julian started swimming. “This next cenote is amazing.”
We swam to the far edge. Julian slowed and looked around the rocks and under some roots, deep in thought. His hands felt along the moss. He turned back to me with a satisfied smile.
“The passageway to the other cenote is here. I’ll go first. You have to swim down about three feet, and then you’ll get to the tunnel. Feel the stone above you. Kick your feet and pull yourself along the stone. When you don’t feel it anymore, swim up and you’ll come to the surface. I’ll be there waiting for you.”
I swallowed hard, looki
ng deep into the water.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” I finally asked.
“Don’t worry, Belle. We’re in Las Brisas. You’ll be fine.”
And with that, he plunged underwater and was gone.
Once Julian had slipped out of sight, the cenote was as still as glass. I felt the breeze on my face. I counted ten rapid heartbeats and then took the deepest breath I could.
Pulling myself under, I saw the black tunnel in the shadows. I felt the rocks encircling it, and then I swam into the darkness. My lungs screamed—not for air, but out of fear. My hands grasped the crags and jagged cuts in the stone. My feet kicked. My eyes stared into a vacuum of darkness. I swam farther and farther, down, down, down. And just when I thought the tunnel would never end, my hands wrapped around the edge of the stone. I kicked my legs as hard as I had ever kicked. It felt like minutes, it felt like hours, but it was actually only a few seconds later when I bobbed to the surface.
A small hole in the ceiling above let in a shred of light, slicing through the thick air inside the cavern. Bats fluttered overhead, their small wings flapping and snapping. The water was deep turquoise and crystal clear.
Julian sat on the hard stone shore, his legs crisscrossed, his smile broad.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It’s beyond incredible,” I said. The ground was cool against my feet as I stepped out of the water. “This is the most amazing place I’ve ever seen. It’s like a cathedral.”
The limestone walls were sculpted by time and water. A few sleepy bats dangled from the ledges. Vines fell from the cliffs like streamers.
Julian cleared his throat. “I like the way my voice echoes inside this cave. The sound bounces off the walls, the water, the stones. It must drive the bats crazy, but I love the way it makes me feel—all those vibrations.”
I leaned back. My wet hair clung to my pajama top.
“Julian, can I ask you a question?” I felt my voice echo softly, encircling us, trickling down the stalactites.
“Of course,” he said.
I gathered my thoughts. The bats slowed their flying and hung in frozen clusters at the top of the cavern.
What the Wind Can Tell You Page 4