What the Wind Can Tell You

by Sarah Marie Jette

  “What’s it like, when the seizures come?”

  Julian’s eyes closed. His eyelashes fluttered as he looked inside.

  “Numb . . . quiet . . .”

  He slowly opened his eyes and looked up. The bats started flying again.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “What about after?”

  Julian took a deep breath and ran his hands through his curls.

  “When the seizure passes, I’m tired. Very, very tired.”

  “You were tired today.”

  “I know,” Julian said.

  “It’s the new medicine.”

  “I know,” he said again. His voice was a whisper.

  The light pouring into the cenote began to fade.

  “Is it time to go?” I asked, standing up. “We just got here.” My heart raced, and my mouth ran dry. The flapping of the bats’ wings grew louder, the cenote darkened, and the water pulled farther away.

  Julian stood up.

  “Time is different here. Sometimes my visits to Las Brisas feel like hours, sometimes just minutes. There’s little warning. When time’s up, it’s up.”

  His voice was warm and soft. It felt safe against the heavy darkness. The echoes of the cavern drummed in my ears. I felt Julian’s presence beside me as everything faded to black.

  Before heading back upstairs to my room, I pulled a chair up to the fireplace. In the rows of framed photos, tucked way in the back, I found a small picture of Mama and Papa swimming in the cenote. It looked just as it had moments ago. The mangroves just as thick, the water just as still. Mama’s hair was parted in the middle and hung in two long braids that floated in the water like sea serpents. Papa’s mustache was extra thick and covered his top lip as he smiled for the camera. His arms and belly were gigantic. I wondered if they knew about the passageway to the cavern. Even if they had, judging by the size of Papa’s belly, there was no way he could have fit inside the stone tunnel.

  The following morning, I slept through my alarm and was woken up when Mama called for me. I scrambled into my clothes and raced down the stairs.

  Papa was pouring Mama’s perfect cup of coffee. I watched him measure out the sugar, give it a stir, and sneak a sip.

  “Papa, why are you still home?”

  “Buenos días, Isabelle.” He smiled. “I decided to leave a little later so I could see Julian off for his first day back at school.”

  I walked over to Julian and placed my hand on his shoulder.

  “Good morning, Julian,” I said. His head straightened, but then fell to his left shoulder. “Asleep again?”

  “Isabelle,” Papa whispered. I looked up, and his eyes darted to my mother.

  Mama stood at the sink, busy cleaning Julian’s feeding tubes. With her back turned, Papa took another sip of Mama’s coffee, tiptoed to the fridge, and opened the door.

  “Close it!” Mama snapped, without turning around.

  “Inez, I was just getting something for Isabelle,” he protested.

  “You already did.” Mama pointed to the bowl of cereal on the table. “Don’t try to fool me.”

  Even though Mama had weaned Papa from his competitive eating years ago, Papa regressed whenever Julian had a hospital stay. When Julian came home, Chanchito returned. Like a little piggy, he made it his job to clean out the fridge—not with sponges and wipes, but by eating anything he could when Mama wasn’t looking. In years past, I had caught Papa slurping down condiments, like balsamic dressing and mayonnaise, or gorging himself with long-lost leftovers edged with furry green mold. Chanchito didn’t care. Because of this, Mama kept careful watch over the pantry and the grocery bill. She replaced broken bathroom scales and enacted daily weight checks. But Papa’s hunger was unstoppable.

  He snapped the door closed and paused for a moment.

  “Papa?” I began, sliding into my seat.

  “Yes, Isabelle?” He turned around slowly, slipping a garlic bulb into his pocket.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the cenote?”

  Papa raised an eyebrow.

  “What cenote?” he asked.

  I tucked my hands under my thighs and looked at Papa closely before continuing.

  “The cenote you and Mama went to before Julian was born.”

  Papa looked at me like he wasn’t seeing straight. Maybe he was wishing he was at work. Papa’s eyes shifted from Mama, to me, and then settled on Julian, who sat in his chair by the kitchen sink, fighting to keep his eyes open.

  “I haven’t thought about that place in years,” Papa began. “Right after Julian was diagnosed . . . those were the nights I walked around the house with him in my arms, and I’d just talk. I started telling him stories, and I told him about our trip to see Francisco and Luis when your mother was pregnant. That’s when I had the ceviche-eating contest, right, Inez?”

  “Yes, I remember,” Mama said, looking up and rolling her eyes, Julian’s tubes squirming like jellyfish in her hands.

  “Seven bowls of ceviche in under two minutes. Not my best record, but it was too delicious. I had to slow down to enjoy it.” Papa smiled and patted his stomach.

  “Tell Isabelle what happened after you ate all that ceviche,” Mama said, reaching for her mug of coffee.

  “She doesn’t need to hear about that,” he grumbled.

  “Oh, yes she does.” Mama sighed and continued. “Isabelle, what your father is hiding from you is that, yes, he ate seven bowls of the world’s best ceviche in less than two minutes. But what followed was seven hours of throwing up.”

  “Yuck.”

  “Yes, Isabelle. Yuck.”

  Mama patted Papa on the shoulder. For a moment, his eyes looked far away, lost in the memory of the ceviche and its aftermath. And then, Papa turned and kissed Mama on her forehead.

  “Inez, remember the butterflies at Teotihuacan?”

  “How could I forget?” Mama turned to me. “After your father recovered, we traveled to the ancient city of Teotihuacan and climbed the Pyramid of the Sun.”

  “You climbed, I crawled,” Papa corrected.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Mama smiled. “It was a nice reward for our effort, seeing the butterflies at the top of the pyramid.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Well . . .” Papa paused for a moment. “La Pirámide del Sol is over two hundred feet tall. Butterflies were the last things we expected to see once we reached the top.”

  “But that’s what we saw, Isabelle. Dozens of butterflies, spinning in circles at the top of the pyramid,” Mama concluded. “It was magical.”

  Mama reached into Julian’s basket and placed a sheet of bubble wrap on his tray, placing his hands on top of it.

  I cleared my throat. I wasn’t finished.

  “You told Julian about the cenote. Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, my voice softer than I wanted.

  Papa returned his eyes to mine and took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry, Isabelle. I just forgot about it. So much has changed in our lives. Those old memories were just pushed aside. Sometimes I forget that those moments even happened.”

  “Isabelle,” Mama began as she sipped her coffee. “How did you learn about the cenote?”

  “Julian told me,” I said.

  Papa’s left eyebrow, the extra bushy one, raised up high. He turned to my mom and they both stared at me.

  “Julian told you?” he asked.

  Mama stepped closer and placed her hand on my forehead. I shook her off.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “But Isabelle, Julian can’t . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked

  at Julian, his shoulders pulled down at his sides, his eyes half open and unfocused.

  I wanted to ask more, but with the way Mama and Papa were looking at me, I thou
ght it best to leave well enough alone. I poured milk into my bowl of cereal and dragged my chair over next to Julian.

  “Come on, Julian, let’s pop these bubbles,” I said.

  5

  After school, I dragged my science fair equipment and research out of the kitchen, down the back ramp, and into the garage. It took a few trips, but was totally worth it. Our garage wasn’t attached to the house, and didn’t really have enough space to park our cars, so Papa and Mama used it for storage.

  I left the door open for some air—it got too stuffy otherwise—and placed a sheet of plywood over a stack of plastic bins, creating a large work surface I wouldn’t have to clear off at dinnertime. Less than a week before the science fair, I needed to think big.

  I tugged my science notebook out of my backpack. On one page was a sketch of the merry-go-round from Las Brisas. I left off the animals and benches, but drew the circular base attached to gears and chains, which were all connected to a motor. On the next page was a sketch of a bicycle—two vertical wheels connected with gears and chains to a different power source: a wind turbine. The turbine was a larger model of the pinwheels Julian and I had already constructed.

  In my sketch, large cardboard blades spread open at the top of the wind turbine, like a proud lily. I imagined the wind blowing the cardboard blades, not only spinning them, but also pulling a belt attached to the two bicycle wheels.

  I yanked my toddler bike from its hook. Rummaging through barrels of recycling, I found some large sheets of cardboard.

  In a box labeled Isabelle Birthday, I unpacked a stack of plastic cups. Mermaids swam along the edges. My fifth birthday party had been mermaid-themed, and Mama had accidentally ordered two hundred cups instead of twenty. As a joke, Papa brought them out each year for my birthday celebration. Because my birthday parties were usually small, I assumed I’d celebrate my mermaid birthday into adulthood.

  Using a yardstick and sidewalk chalk, I drafted blades for my turbine onto sheets of cardboard. With a hammer and a nail, I punched small holes into the sides of four cups and started to thread shoelaces through the holes.

  Mama’s car crawled up the driveway and pulled up close to the open side door.

  “What’s going on in there?” she said as she got out of the car.

  “I’m making a turbine for the science fair.”

  Mama nodded absently.

  “Your table is on top of the summer clothes.”

  “Sorry,” I said, peeking underneath. “I’ll be done by the end of the week.”

  Mama opened Julian’s door and eased him into his chair.

  “Hey, Julian,” I called out as Mama wheeled him over.

  “Let me see your plans,” Mama said.

  I spun the notebook around to face her. Mama explored the images, measurements, and notes while I studied Julian’s face, breathing, and posture.

  “How was his day?” I asked.

  Mama looked over at Julian.

  “He’s still adjusting to being home.” She patted his hand. Julian stirred, but his eyes remained closed. “It was a long day for him, even though his teachers took things slowly.”

  She started wheeling Julian toward the house.

  “Mama, can Julian stay out here with me?” I called out.

  “Isabelle,” Mama said, turning around. I knew that look on her face. It was the post-hospitalization look, the overly cautious, Julian-might-break-again look. Fine lines appeared on her forehead, while the skin under her eyes grew puffy.

  “Did he have a lot of seizures today?”

  Mama shook her head.

  “No, not many. He’s at seven.”

  I adjusted my ponytail. She looked toward the house.

  “For a little while?” I pleaded.

  Mama looked at me, down to my notebook, and then over at Julian.

  “You’ve got him for ten minutes.” She kissed Julian’s cheek.

  “Only ten?”

  “Don’t push it, Isabelle.” Her voice was guarded. “Be sure to call if you notice anything.”

  “I will.” I pushed Julian beside the table and heard the kitchen door close behind me. Even though his eyes were closed, I bent down so our eyes were level and my words came close to his ears.

  “All right, Julian. This is what I’ve got so far: cardboard turbine blades, my old bike, shoelaces, mermaid cups, and . . . now I need some sort of belt.”

  I tipped the plywood off the bins of clothing and pulled out a T-shirt. Using Mama’s lawn shears, I cut the bottom off, creating a three-inch-wide loop.

  “Julian. Julian, can you hear me?” I put my hand on his and watched his face. “Can you hear me through your sleep? Let me tell you my plan. I’m going to use this fabric as a belt. When it’s wrapped around the wheels, it will spin and work as a pulley.”

  I leaned on the bike to hold it in place as I pulled the fabric into position. Reaching for Julian’s hand, I placed his palm on the fabric belt and gave the wheel a gentle spin.

  “See, Julian? The wheels are pulling the fabric around. Next, I need to find a way to secure these cardboard blades to the axle. When the wind blows, they’ll move the wheels and then the belt.”

  I reached for Julian’s other hand. I waited a moment, my eyes on his sleepy face.

  “Julian?”

  He exhaled. I shook his wrist. “Was that a yes exhale or just an exhale?”

  Julian inhaled and exhaled.

  “Come on, Julian.” I stroked his hand. I lifted a cardboard turbine blade and fanned his face, blowing his curls up and everywhere. His breathing changed, adjusting to the force of the wind. His head turned back and his arms lifted up.

  “Julian, wake up,” I urged as I fanned him harder. Finally, his head pulled up and his left eye peeled open. When he saw me, he smiled. I smiled back.

  “Julian, feel this.” I moved the pulley once again. His fingers reached for the moving fabric. “I’m planning on attaching some mermaid cups to the belt, so when the turbine moves, it will scoop up something—like popcorn for Papa.”

  I watched Julian’s hands for a thumbs-up sign. His fingers moved into a fist, and it looked like his thumb was trying to move out of his hand, but before he gathered enough strength, his arm fell to his lap.

  “Oh, Julian.” I put my project down and knelt beside him. His mouth twitched into a tired smile, but he held my gaze. “I think the engineering will work. I want it to do something useful, but fun. I don’t think I have enough time, but wouldn’t it be cool if I attached it to my old scooter so it could move with the wind? What do you think?”

  Julian’s thumb uncurled from his fist.

  “Isabelle, time is up!” Mama called through the kitchen window.

  “Thanks for listening to me, Julian,” I said, as I wheeled him up the ramp.

  Mama met me at the door. Her eyes scanned Julian from top to bottom.

  “Everything okay?” she asked, in a voice that made me wonder if everything was.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I said.

  “What do you mean, you guess?” She squinted and squatted, checking Julian from all angles. “You know we don’t guess with Julian.”

  “I—I didn’t mean . . .” I turned my eyes to Julian. “He’s fine, Mama. He just—he just seems tired.”

  “That’s fatigue, Isabelle. It’s the side effect that I told you about. Remember?” She looked at me and then back at Julian. “No seizures?”

  “You know I would have told you.”

  “I’m just double-checking.”

  “I would have told you and marked it in the notebook,” I said, my voice softer.

  Mama nodded, more to herself than to me.

  “Forty minutes until dinner; you coming in?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ve got to construct some more.”

&
nbsp; “Sounds good.” Her eyes returned to Julian. “Julian’s had only seven seizures today. It’s early, Isabelle, but maybe this means that the medicine is starting to work.” She bit down on her lip to keep from saying too much. “I’ve got to finish making dinner.”

  I nodded. The screen door snapped shut as I returned to the garage.

  I tied the mermaid cups to the fabric loop. Once they were secure, I affixed my bike to my worktable using duct tape. I slipped the blades onto the axle on the rear wheel and gave it a test spin. The blades lasted two seconds before they wiggled their way off the axle.

  “Humph.”

  With my fingers pressed against the blades, they stayed put, but every time I moved my hand, they flew off like maple seeds. I tried a wad of duct tape, but it didn’t stick right.

  “Hey, what about . . .” I turned to where Julian had sat, the space as empty as an echo. I left my supplies in the garage and ran into the house.

  “Julian,” I called. He blinked slowly as I approached. “I need something to hold the turbine blades down, something like . . .”

  Inside his basket I saw a tub of putty. I pulled it out and waited for his thumbs-up. Julian looked at me with dreamy eyes and blinked slowly, like a satisfied cat. I leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Julian.”

  “Did you get what you need?” Mama asked from the stove.

  “Yes.” I held the putty out for her to see. “But now I need popcorn.”

  “Dinner will be ready soon.”

  I walked over to the stove.

  “It’s for science.”

  Mama’s left eyebrow raised, her lips pulled to one side.

  “I’m serious,” I said.

  “Okay.” She reached for the jar of kernels. “But you know how your father gets. If he gets feisty, I’m blaming you.”

  She put a pan on the stove to pop some corn for me.

  I ran back to the garage and pinched the putty onto the axle. I plugged in a small fan and pointed it at my turbine. The cardboard blades shuddered and then spun, pulling the mermaid cups along the belt.

  “Isabelle!” Mama called from the back door.