What the Wind Can Tell You

by Sarah Marie Jette

  “Aye! Hernando, what are you eating?”

  Papa leapt to his feet and stood in front of the table, his eyes searching for my mother.

  “Inez, you said the Taco Queen wouldn’t arrive for another week! I traded some shifts so that—”

  “So that what?” Mama asked drily, wheeling Julian into the kitchen.

  “So that . . .” I couldn’t tell if Papa was searching for the right words or the wrong words.

  Tía Lucy’s eyes narrowed as she carefully placed the box on the kitchen table.

  “It just means we’ll have even more time together, Hernando.” Tía Lucy smiled as she peeked at the plate hidden behind his back. “Chanchito, this is disgusting.”

  She grabbed the plate, which was filled with waffles, hot dogs, and French fries covered in swirls of mustard and maple syrup. Mama stepped away from Julian to inspect Papa’s plate.

  “Yes, that is disgusting. Hand it over.”

  Tía Lucy’s eyes sparkled. Papa frowned.

  “Now that your hands are free, you can go get my things. And the groceries. Papá is coming for his birthday dinner, no?”

  Papa nodded as he trudged out the door, pausing only to kiss Julian on the top of his head and me on the cheek.

  “Isabelle,” Tía Lucy began, scooping Big Betty from my arms, “your mother told me all about your science fair project. I can’t wait to see it.”

  “Julian has helped a lot.”

  “I’m sure he has.” Tía Lucy batted her long eyelashes as she watched Mama wheel Julian to the kitchen.

  “He inspired me,” I said.

  “I know,” she said.

  “Lucia!” Papa interrupted. “Why do you need to pack so much?” He pulled two enormous suitcases into the living room, sweat dripping down his brow.

  “I just do.” Tía Lucy winked.

  “Nando!” Mama called out.

  I knew her voice. Julian was seizing. Papa put the suitcases down and hurried into the kitchen.

  “Isabelle?” Tía Lucy said, putting her hand on my shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  “How is Julian doing?”

  “Didn’t Mama tell you?” I peeked into the kitchen.

  “She did. She told me what she sees. But I want to know what you see.”

  I watched Papa soothe Julian. Once he was finished seizing, Mama gave Julian a kiss and pulled out the notebook.

  “How many today?” Papa asked.

  “Five,” she said.

  Tía Lucy wasn’t watching them. Her eyes were on me.

  “He’s not the same at all. He’s asleep all the time,” I said. “I miss him.”

  I started scratching Big Betty’s ears in her favorite counterclockwise manner. Mama knelt beside Julian as Papa stood and walked back out to the car.

  “Julian’s seizures interrupt his day,” Tía Lucy said.

  “Yes, but now his days are interrupted by his sleeping,” I said. “Before, Julian had anywhere between fifteen and thirty seizures a day, but in between, he was awake and alert. I want his seizures to go away. I really do. But I don’t like this.”

  “Have you told your mother how you feel?” Tía Lucy asked.

  “Look at her, Tía. She’s so relieved.”

  Mama stood at the counter staring at the seizure notebook. A few months ago, the pages were filled with so much ink that they curled in from the edges.

  “Isabelle,” Tía Lucy leaned in and whispered into my ear. “Do you know why I came early?”

  “Because of Uncle Santi’s restaurant. That’s what you said.”

  “Oh, that’s part of it. Trust me, he’s a nervous wreck when a new restaurant opens. I should know; this is his seventeenth. But that’s not the real reason why.”

  I stopped scratching Big Betty’s ears and turned to Tía Lucy.

  “I bought tickets to come when I heard about Julian’s big seizure, because I wanted to help out my dearest sister. I wanted to check in on my sweet nephew. I wanted to be here for my father’s birthday. But most of all, I needed to be sure my darling niece was getting the attention she deserves.”

  Papa stumbled into the house, four shopping bags in his arms, and a stalk of celery in his mouth.

  “I thought you were outside too long. What have you eaten?” Tía Lucy scowled.

  “Not too much,” Papa mumbled as he chewed.

  “Place those bags in the kitchen, Chanchito. I’m making Santi’s famous Fajitas in a Flash for dinner tonight. I hope you haven’t eaten any of the ingredients.” Tía Lucy marched over to Julian and placed Big Betty on his lap. She draped his arms around the little dog’s round belly. “My darling Isabelle, I want to hear more about your science fair project, but right now, your mom needs help in the kitchen.”

  “I’m off to work,” Papa declared, flakes of Parmesan cheese drifting from his mustache. He leaned in and gave me a one-handed hug. “Save me some of that birthday cake.”

  “Good night, Papa.” I hugged him back, ignoring the mango he was hiding from Tía Lucy.

  “You should clean up your room, Isabelle. At least put all your dirty laundry in the hamper.” My mound of laundry was more like a mountain range. “And don’t forget to set up your things for tonight. You know how your tía keeps you up late talking. You might be too tired later on.”

  Panic seized my chest as I watched Papa leave the house. I had forgotten about that part of Tía Lucy’s visits. I never minded sleeping in a sleeping bag in the corner of my room, but that was before Las Brisas. My heart raced.

  “Inez, slice the onions so they are as thick as your finger,” Tía Lucy advised. My eyes burned as I walked into the kitchen.

  “Can I sleep in Julian’s room tonight?” I asked my mother.

  “Isabelle,” Mama said. She took a deep breath and blinked quickly. The strong scent of onions filled the kitchen. “Where is this question coming from? You know I don’t like his room getting cluttered. Now, go set up your things as usual.”

  “Thinner, Inez.” Tía Lucy peeked over Mama’s shoulder.

  “You said as thick as my finger,” Mama protested

  “I must have meant my finger,” Tía Lucy said with a shrug.

  Upstairs I dragged the hamper out of the bathroom and left it in the hallway outside my room. I balled up my laundry. From across the room I made a dozen T-shirt jump shots, sprinted down the hallway for a few behind-the-back slam dunks (sweatpants), and finished with left-handed three-pointers (socks).

  Once my room was clean, I pulled my sleeping bag out of my closet and found my pajamas in my dresser drawer. I unrolled my sleeping bag. Every time I shifted my weight, it felt like the floor was a violin playing out of tune. There was no way I was going to sneak past Sanchita and Big Betty. They’d bark and alert Tía Lucy.

  I chewed my fingernail and searched for a solution as my mother’s voice and the smell of spices drifted up the stairs.

  “I’m putting Julian in his room to rest.”

  That’s when I knew Abuelito had pulled into the driveway.

  Abuelito always leaned into the door, pulling at the knob, sending shivers down my spine. I imagined the old wooden door pushing back with all of its weight. It scraped the floor and screeched, like the time Papa backed over our recycling bins and they lodged under the car. Papa drove me all the way to preschool before he realized what had happened, and it took him the entirety of my school day to pull them back out.

  From my bedroom, I felt the thumps of Abuelito’s clomping shoes and the utter silence that followed each step. That is, until the Chihuahuas found him.

  “Surprise!” Tía Lucy called out.

  Peeking around the bend in the steps, I watched Tía Lucy kiss Abuelito on his stubbly cheeks. She buzzed around him like a famished mosquito, helping with his coat, his cap, and his shoes. Tía Luc
y helped slide his feet into a pair of slippers. Mama brought him the small cup of coffee he always asked for but never finished.

  I made my way down, sat on the last step, and waited. Abuelito sat at the table with his hands resting on the top of his cane, sipping coffee, adding more sugar with each sip. Mama rambled on about this and that, talking about Papa and my grades. The routine of the visit was the same as every other Abuelito visit.

  I craned my neck and looked into Julian’s room, where Julian sat. Mama always parked his chair in just the right spot. She could view him from the stove while she stirred a pot of frijoles, or from the table where she made small talk with Abuelito.

  I pulled my knees up to my chin. I looked at the clock and the too-many hours until bedtime, puzzling over how I’d devise my escape route to Las Brisas.

  “Isabelle, stand up,” Mama’s voice commanded. “Your grandfather’s here. Come over and wish him a happy birthday.”

  “Happy birthday,” I said.

  I didn’t walk to the table first. I stopped and stood at the threshold of Julian’s room. Julian was less droopy than before. His evening dose was just over an hour away. His afternoon medications were wearing off, and his energy was returning. His right hand slowly pushed dried beans around his tray, carving shapes and writing abstract letters with his fingers.

  “Isabelle,” Mama called again. “Come sit down.”

  I took one last peek at Julian and sat down at the table beside Abuelito.

  “Inez, it’s time,” Tía Lucy instructed, nodding at the skillet. Mama took it from the stovetop and placed it on an oven mitt on the table. Uncle Santi’s fajitas looked more glorious than a Thanksgiving turkey.

  “Where’s the boy?” Abuelito asked my mother.

  “Julian? He’s in his room,” Tía Lucy said.

  He’s always in his room when you come over, I thought.

  “What brings you here? It’s not June,” Abuelito asked Tía Lucy.

  “I thought I’d surprise Inez and the kids with a little visit. And I couldn’t miss my father’s birthday!”

  “Surprise? That seems silly to me,” he grumbled.

  Tía Lucy tsk-tsked.

  Mama continued to hurry about the kitchen. She set the places at the table and scooped the frijoles. Tía Lucy served up our plates while Mama wheeled Julian over.

  “Hey, Julian,” I said. His eyes searched for me. I waved and he gave a groggy smile.

  Abuelito wasted no time digging into his meal while Sanchita shivered in Papa’s seat. Tía Lucy snuck bites of chicken and tortilla to Big Betty. She caught me watching.

  “Now you know why Betty’s so big. It’s because I can’t say no when she gives me her look. Isn’t that right, Big Betty? Show me the look.”

  Big Betty turned her head all the way to the side, so her pointy ears tickled her chubby Chihuahua shoulders. Then she turned her head again to the other side.

  Mama’s plate remained empty as she swiveled her seat around and connected Julian’s feeding tube.

  “Time to eat, Julian,” she whispered.

  Abuelito took a big bite, rocked himself out of his seat, and meandered to the kitchen window. He chewed, gazing out at the wind socks and pinwheels. Once Julian’s machine began pumping, Abuelito’s back straightened and he returned to his food.

  “You didn’t make these tortillas. They taste like someone made them with their feet,” he grumbled.

  Mama rolled her eyes.

  “Aye, Papá! I didn’t have time,” Tía Lucy said. “But I’ll make some this week and bring them over.”

  “They’re from the supermarket,” Mama explained.

  “They taste like cardboard.”

  “Your grandmother made the best tortillas,” Tía Lucy explained. “She saved the best ones for Papá.”

  Abuelito nodded and continued eating.

  Mama served herself and scooped more frijoles onto Abuelito’s plate. I watched the gray and silver stubbles ripple on his neck. I watched the way he balled up his paper napkin in his hand until it was brown and greasy and perfectly round. I watched the way Mama sat too straight, her eyes flicking between Abuelito, Tía Lucy, and Julian, and sometimes me.

  Every now and then, Abuelito stole a glance at Julian; he’d make it casual, like he was checking the time on the clock or pretending as though he’d heard something coming from behind. His eyes lingered.

  Tía Lucy didn’t notice. She was focused on feeding Big Betty.

  Mama didn’t notice. She was too busy concentrating. During Abuelito’s visits, Mama’s special gift of foresight kicked into high gear. She could sense seizures well before they happened, as if she could feel the tremor approaching. Sure enough, before I realized anything was amiss, Mama leapt out of her seat and attended to Julian.

  As Mama softly whispered to Julian, the wrinkles around Abuelito’s face grew more pronounced, lines worn into sandstone. You could get lost in those wrinkles.

  “That makes six today,” she said, and marked it in Julian’s notebook.

  “Papá,” Tía Lucy said, placing her hand on Abuelito’s arm, “has Isabelle told you about her fabulous engineering project?”

  I dropped my fork and looked up at Abuelito. The surprise on his face must have matched mine.

  “I—I haven’t told him. I just started it this week,” I stammered.

  Abuelito ate another bite, his interest fading. Tía Lucy sat up straighter.

  “Your granddaughter has created a wind turbine that serves up popcorn.” Tía Lucy winked at me. “It sounds amazing. She’s presenting it tomorrow in the early afternoon. I’m sure she’d be honored if you could come.”

  “I can’t. I have an appointment.” He slurped some coffee.

  “That’s too bad.” Tía Lucy took a delicate bite and turned to me. “Your grandfather could build anything he wanted when he was a young man.”

  “Lucia . . .” Abuelito grumbled.

  “He was also incredibly athletic.” Tía Lucy leaned in and whispered, “It’s hard to see that in him now.”

  Mama returned to her seat and ate quickly as Tía Lucy cleared the table. Soon, they carried over a chocolate cake glowing with dozens of candles. Abuelito’s eyes reflected the flames, but didn’t brighten. It took him three tries, but he finally blew all the candles out.

  “Ochenta y dos . . .” he muttered in Spanish as Mama started slicing.

  Mama didn’t meet his eyes. She handed out pieces of cake, and then returned to the counter to mix Julian’s medications. Tía Lucy took a bite of the cake, a puzzled look on her face.

  “Papá? Why are you still counting?” Tía Lucy shook her head. “Your grandson is right there!”

  Abuelito didn’t look to where Tía Lucy was pointing. Instead he took a bite of his cake.

  Tía Lucy’s words echoed in my mind and my nose twitched.

  “What’re you talking about?” I asked, turning to my mom and to Tía Lucy.

  “Oh, it’s just your abuelito, still in the dark ages.” Tía Lucy took an enormous bite of cake and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “He’s waiting for a boy.”

  “A boy?”

  “Lucia . . .” Mama warned.

  Tía Lucy responded by leaning in close to me, though her voice was much louder than a whisper.

  “Your abuelito always wanted a brother, to play ball with, but instead he was blessed with six sisters. Can you imagine his disappointment? Every birthday he wished for a brother. Isn’t that right, Papá?”

  Abuelito grunted and took another bite of cake.

  “When he was married he wished for sons, but your abuelita gave birth to two daughters—your mother and me. No sons. So, every birthday he’d count the years and the waiting continued.” Tía Lucy paused to take another bite. “He’s still sore at Santi and me, because our babies aren’t the human
kind.”

  “But he has Julian.” I pushed my cake away. “Mama?”

  Mama’s eyes met mine. She shook her head.

  I peeked at Julian and turned back to watch Abuelito take another bite of cake. Tía Lucy watched me closely, the flame now burning in her eyes.

  I stood up and marched over to Julian.

  “Julian.” His head was resting on his shoulder. “Julian, please wake up.”

  I shook his shoulders gently. His eyelashes lifted.

  “Can you hear me, Julian?” I asked. Once open, Julian’s eyes searched for mine. When they found me, they opened wider. And he smiled. “Let’s play some catch.”

  Mama kept Julian’s box of therapy toys in the back of his closet. I swung the door open, stooped down, and dug around until I found a tennis ball. I squeezed the ball tight as I walked into the kitchen.

  Abuelito straightened and looked over at me.

  Tía Lucy turned her chair to get a better view. Mama closed the caps on half a dozen medicine bottles and walked over to me.

  “It’s time for his medication, Isabelle,” she said.

  “No, Mama. Not yet.”

  “Isabelle.” She stepped closer. “Julian’s medication is—”

  “I know, Mama. I know how important it is for him. I’ve known that my whole life. But I want you to wait. Just wait five minutes.”

  “Isabelle . . .”

  “Inez.” Tía Lucy draped Sanchita across her shoulders and placed Big Betty in my mother’s seat. “Let Isabelle explain.”

  I smiled at Tía Lucy and cleared my throat.

  “Julian’s awake and I want to show you something. I want to show Abuelito something.”

  “No, Isabelle.” Mama shook her head. Her eyes were deep with disappointment. “His medicine can’t wait. You know that. And your grandfather is about to leave.”

  She brought over the syringe, lifted up the hem of Julian’s pajama shirt, and connected the syringe to his feeding tube. At the table, I watched Abuelito shield his eyes. When Mama finished, she looked at me again, the disappointment still showing on her face.