What the Wind Can Tell You

by Sarah Marie Jette

  Tía Lucy stepped forward. Her large designer tote pulled at her shoulder as something inside strained against the buckle.

  “Isabelle, my darling. This looks magnificent. You should be very proud of yourself.”

  I blushed as two wet noses peeked out from her bag and sniffed the air.

  “Can I move Julian closer?”

  Mama hesitated. Tía Lucy nudged her and then my mother nodded.

  I pulled Julian’s chair beside my turbine, angling it so he faced the tarp with the bull’s-eye. I spun the turbine blades and watched the cups climb and fall. I tested a few balls and watched them roll down to the bottom of the tarp, slip into the jug, get scooped up by a cup, ride up the pulley, and tumble onto Julian’s tray. Everything was in working order.

  Except Julian.

  I leaned close to his ear.

  “Julian,” I whispered. “Julian, can you hear me? Could you wake up? Can you try?”

  His breathing stayed the same. It didn’t deepen. He didn’t shift. I placed my hand on his arm. My hand slipped into his and I gave him a squeeze.

  “Julian.” I took a deep breath and looked up. “Mama?”

  “Yes, Isabelle.” Her eyes darted to Julian, and then her shoulders relaxed when she saw his sleeping face.

  “Was Julian sleeping all day?” I tried to keep my voice flat, but she grew stiff anyway.

  “It’s a side effect. You know that,” she said.

  “What’s wrong, Isabelle?” Tía Lucy stepped over.

  “Julian’s a part of my demonstration. He is supposed to throw the tennis balls and my turbine will collect them. But he’s asleep. He’s always asleep.”

  Mama opened her mouth to say something as the lights dimmed.

  “Good morning,” my principal called out on a megaphone, her voice swelling the way only a middle school principal’s voice can swell. “Welcome, families, to the tenth annual seventh- and eighth-grade McKinley School Science Fair! Please ask a lot of questions. Our junior scientists have worked very hard, and are eager to teach you what they’ve learned. When you finish, place your vote for the best presentation in the basket beside the podium. Science teachers will vote on one seventh-grade finalist and one eighth-grade finalist. The audience-choice finalist can be from either grade level.”

  I squatted next to Julian’s chair. I massaged his hand. I sang Papa’s silly morning song in his ear.

  “Good morning, morning, morning. Good morning, Julian.”

  His eyelashes twitched. I deepened my voice to make it sound more like Papa’s.

  “The sun is up, yellow like a duck.”

  His head pulled away from me, fighting to stay asleep.

  “Ducks that quack . . .”

  “Isabelle, what on earth are you singing?” Tía Lucy whispered, stifling a shudder.

  “It’s a song Papa sings to us. I’m trying to wake Julian up.”

  She looked over at Mama, then to the neighboring students before scooping Sanchita out of her bag. She moved Sanchita close to Julian’s face. Soon, he was covered in Chihuahua kisses. That did the trick. Julian’s right eye pulled open and the left one soon followed.

  “Inez, come with me. It might be easier for Isabelle to get started if she has a little space.” Tía Lucy slipped her arm through my mother’s and led her away before my mother could object. But Mama turned around, shooting me one last look. Goose bumps climbed up my arms. I rubbed them off.

  “Okay, Julian.” I stooped down and looked directly at him. His eyes were open, but kept threatening to close. His head swiveled on his neck. He pulled his arms close to his chest. And then, he smiled.

  “Let’s do this,” I said.

  I switched on my table fan and watched my turbine come to life. Julian’s right hand crawled across his tray. I poured my tube of tennis balls onto the tarp. They rolled down the slope and lined up, awaiting the cups from the turbine.

  A few parents and a group of sixth graders gathered around.

  “Welcome to my presentation on wind energy. My hand-crafted turbine uses wind power to deposit these tennis balls up onto my brother’s tray.”

  My audience ducked down to watch a tennis ball ride up inside its mermaid cup. The turbine spun and the belt moved smoothly. When Julian’s fingers found the first tennis ball, his smile grew large. He pulled his arm back and threw the ball at the bull’s-eye.

  Thud!

  The ball hit the yellow ring, fell to the tarp, and rolled back in line with the other balls. Applause rang in my ears.

  The next ball rolled onto Julian’s tray. His left hand found it and slowly brought the ball over to his right hand. The transfer was clumsy. I looked up at Julian’s face. His eyes were closing.

  “Julian, you can do this,” I whispered.

  He blinked a few times, pulled his arm back, and threw the ball.

  Smack!

  He hit the orange ring.

  “Nice job, Julian!” I patted his arm. “You got closer to the center this time.” I turned to the growing crowd. “For this display, I’m using an electric fan. But my turbine is designed to use the wind to power its movement. It currently serves two additional purposes: popcorn dispenser”—I held up a photo of Papa awaiting a serving of popcorn—“and a paint machine.” I lifted the second belt with the attached paintbrushes and a sketch of how the turbine would operate.

  The audience smiled as I turned to Julian.

  The third ball was on his tray. The ball kept slipping from his hand. The fourth ball was nearing the top of the belt. When he finally had the ball in his grip, he pulled his arm back and it tumbled out. I bent down and picked it up.

  “That’s okay.” I held his hand and tucked the ball into his palm.

  The fourth ball rolled across his tray and the fifth ball slipped into its cup.

  “You can do it, Julian. No rush.”

  He looked up at me, his foggy eyes half hidden by droopy lids. His deep brown eyes held mine. They creased in the corners. And then they opened wide. Too wide.

  That’s when it happened.

  Julian’s eyes rolled back, and his head jerked to the side. His arms retracted. The tennis ball stayed tight in his fist—for a moment—and then it popped out and tumbled to the ground.

  In that instant, my brain switched from presenter to protector. I stepped to Julian’s chair, knelt down, and whispered into his ear: “Cálmate. I’m here with you.”

  One second.

  “You’re okay. Julian, can you hear me? Don’t worry.”

  Two seconds.

  “I’m with you. Cálmate. It’s okay.”

  Three seconds.

  My heart wasn’t pounding; it was trying to escape. My ribs felt bruised and beaten as they kept it prisoner.

  Four seconds.

  His arms shook, his legs trembled.

  Five seconds.

  “Julian!” A voice shrieked. Mama’s voice.

  Six seconds.

  His body jerked against his chair. Julian’s beautiful, black eyelashes fluttered.

  Seven seconds.

  Julian exhaled deeply and then his muscles relaxed. His head rolled on his shoulders into my awaiting hands. I gently leaned him back into his headrest. I pressed my lips against his forehead and said one last: “It’s okay. I’m here.”

  Mama rushed over and squeezed between the two of us, knocking tennis balls off his tray and onto the floor where they bounced against my feet and under the tables.

  “Isabelle! What happened?” she scolded. Her face was more anguished than it had been on the morning of the big seizure. Her eyes were wide and wild, her lips pale and thin.

  “Julian had a seizure.”

  “Yes, but what did you do to him?”

  “Nothing, Mama.” I shook my head. “I didn’t do anything.”

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nbsp; “I knew he shouldn’t have come,” she muttered, brushing her hand along Julian’s cheek.

  “Excuse me.” A father stepped from my crowd. “Should we call an ambulance?”

  “No,” Mama said.

  I looked up at the man, whose eyes moved between Mama and Julian.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Julian has a kind of epilepsy. He has seizures all the time.”

  “I’ll go get the nurse,” he insisted, and rushed off before we could object.

  Mama stood up slowly and released the brakes on Julian’s chair.

  “We’re leaving, Isabelle.”

  “But, Mama.” I took a deep breath to calm my trembling. “It was just one seizure. He’s my assistant—and my inspiration. I want him to stay.”

  “Isabelle, this isn’t about what you want. Don’t you understand? Julian almost had an entire day free of seizures. He’s had no seizures all morning. It was a mistake to leave him with you. Just ten minutes in your care and he has a seizure. It was so . . . so careless.”

  Someone coughed. Mama closed her eyes and inhaled.

  I wiped away my tears, leaned forward, and nuzzled my nose against the top of Julian’s head.

  “Mama’s taking you home to rest,” I whispered. “Thanks for all of your help. I’ll see you after my basketball practice.”

  “Pardon me,” Mama said to the students and parents, pushing Julian’s chair away from me. As she inched forward, Julian’s left arm fell to the side of his chair. He reached out and his hand found mine. His fingers laced between my fingers, forming a tangled knot.

  Mama turned and looked at me, and then down at our hands. Julian pulled his head up. It took great effort and a few tries. His eyes slowly opened, first the right, then the left. Julian’s right hand turned over on his tray. His fingers uncurled like a blooming flower.

  “Yip!” Sanchita had appeared at my ankles, her tiny teeth gripping the fuzz at the top of a tennis ball. I snatched Sanchita and draped her across my shoulders. I pressed the tennis ball into Julian’s hand.

  And that’s when I noticed that my audience had grown bigger. They were watching Julian; they were watching me.

  “Julian wants to stay,” I said.

  “He needs to rest,” Mama said firmly.

  “Please, Mama?” I asked.

  She gave me a long look. Finally, reluctantly, Mama’s hands released from his chair.

  I stepped forward and brought Julian back beside my turbine.

  Julian pulled his hand back slowly. His arm quivered with effort. When he released the ball, it tumbled just past his chair, far from the bull’s-eye, but the applause was louder than before. Mama turned to the crowd, her cheeks pink.

  The crowd watched the next tennis ball roll down the tarp, into a cup, and climb up the belt. Julian’s left hand squeezed mine as his right waited for the ball. I cleared my throat, looked out to my mother, and then to our audience.

  “I studied wind because of Julian. He loves it. He loves the way it feels. He loves watching the wind instruments in our yard.

  “I designed this turbine to do other things, but I changed it last night so Julian could play with his tennis balls on his own, without needing help from anyone else. I don’t mind giving him a hand, but it’s also important for Julian to have opportunities to do things on his own. He can do so much, but with tools like this, he can do even more.”

  I watched Julian. I watched the creases at the corner of his eyes deepen as the next tennis ball left his fingertips. I witnessed his black hair fluttering backwards—like the frill of a cockatoo—from the draft of the fan. Each time his head drooped to his shoulder, he pulled it back. He fought the fatigue, which trailed his every move. I looked at my mother, and at the parents, students, and teachers who had crowded in closer to the turbine.

  When the ball finally hit the bull’s-eye in the center, Julian ran out of energy. His right hand fell limp on the tray. But his smile remained long after his eyes had closed and his snores had settled into a steady rhythm.

  There was applause, gentle applause. A few parents gave me a thumbs-up. Others patted Julian’s arm.

  “Isabelle! Sorry we were held up.”

  Mrs. Harris rushed forward through the crowd with the school nurse at her side. She placed her hand gently on my shoulder. “There were some critter escapes in the biology section. We heard your brother had a seizure!”

  “It’s okay,” I said, looking over to my mother who stood silently beside us. “He gets them all the time.”

  “Are you sure?” Mrs. Harris asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Tía Lucy came rushing in behind them, her eyes opened too wide, like an owl at dusk.

  “I tried to come as soon as I could, but some poor boy’s ant farm cracked and I didn’t want to flatten his ants with my heels, and then there was a snake escape on the other end of the cafeteria . . . ” Tía Lucy’s hand rested on my mother’s shoulder. Mama turned her head away. “Inez, what’s going on?”

  “Julian had a seven-second seizure,” Mama said, letting a sob escape.

  “Isabelle?” Tía Lucy turned to me.

  “Julian got a bull’s-eye. I’m serious. He got it all on his own. You should have seen it. He was so happy.”

  “We were so close.” Mama turned to Tía Lucy. “So close to a day without—”

  “Smiling?” I interrupted.

  Mama pulled a tissue out from her pocket. She wouldn’t look at me.

  I continued. “He was smiling, Tía Lucy. He got those wrinkles next to his eyes. You know those wrinkles? He was smiling because he tried again and again to get the bull’s-eye. And he finally did.”

  Tía Lucy’s eyebrows crept to the top of her forehead. She looked over at my mother, at Julian, and then back at me.

  “Julian fell asleep with a smile on his face. It’s gone now, but his left dimple was so big.”

  Mama shook her head as she stepped closer to Julian’s chair. “Isabelle,” she said, sadness pulling at her eyes. “He was so close—don’t you see?”

  “Yes, Mama.” I nodded. “He had one seizure so far today, and maybe he could have had none.”

  “Isabelle, I don’t think you understand what we’d give up if we stopped this new medicine.”

  I thought of my nights with Julian in Las Brisas, swimming together in the ocean, playing basketball, talking. If things changed, I might never go back there.

  “You’re wrong, Mama. I know what we’re giving up. We’re giving up what I’ve always wanted . . . but it’s not enough. We need to think about Julian.”

  She shook her head and smiled. It was a sad smile. A small, sad smile.

  “But Mama”—she held up a hand to stop me from speaking, but I continued anyway—“Julian almost had a day without smiling. Without playing, without laughing. Without having fun. He threw a bull’s-eye!”

  “You’re not listening, Isabelle. The doctors are treating his seizures.” She sighed deeply. “This is the next course if we want to try to be rid of them forever.”

  “Excuse me,” Tía Lucy interrupted, peeking inside her purse and then up at my shoulders. “How did Sanchita get here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, stroking her chin. “She came by after the seizure and brought me a tennis ball.”

  Big Betty tried to squirm her way out of the bag, but her belly couldn’t get past the clasp.

  “Inez.” Tía Lucy stepped closer. “You can discuss this later. Let’s walk around a bit more, so Isabelle can continue her presentation without us taking up all her space. We seem to be scaring away observers.”

  Mama reached for his wheelchair. “But Julian is—”

  “Julian is sleeping. What’s there to worry about?”

  Once again, Tía Lucy lured my mother away. This time, I presented my turbine without Julian�
��s assistance. I showcased my design plans. Audience members threw tennis balls and high-fived when they hit the bull’s-eye. I never once let go of Julian’s hand.

  With five minutes left in the school day, my principal dimmed the lights and stood at the podium.

  “Attention, scientists and guests! I am now closing the votes. Your teachers will quickly count the ballots and, in a moment, I will announce the audience-choice award winner for the science fair. In the meantime, I would like to congratulate Peter Beaulieu for winning the eighth-grade award, for his detailed research on the history of vaccines. And for the seventh grade, Eloise Williams has been awarded the prize for her research on snail fossils.”

  My principal pushed the microphone away as she consulted with the science teachers.

  Tía Lucy and my mother returned. Mama stood on the other side of Julian, Big Betty tucked in the crook of her arm as she absently scratched her ears.

  The principal pulled the microphone close again and tapped it a couple of times.

  “May I have your attention, please? Now for the audience-choice award. This vote is usually a tight race, but not this year. It is my honor to congratulate Isabelle Perez for earning nearly two hundred audience votes for her detailed research and her incredible wind turbine.”

  She paused as applause filled the cafeteria.

  “Isabelle chose to engineer a project which opens up possibilities. She will join Peter and Eloise at the Regional Science Showcase in two weeks.”

  “Did you hear that, Julian?” I knelt down beside him. “Julian, I’m going to Regionals! We did it!”

  “Congratulations, Isabelle!” Tía Lucy pulled me in for a tight hug. Sanchita licked my arm.

  My mother, still on the other side of Julian, wiped her eyes.

  “Inez . . .” Tía Lucy began.

  “I thought it was going to be a great day for Julian.”

  I looked over at my mother. The back of my throat burned and my nose began to run.

  “Inez, shame on you. It is a great day.” Tía Lucy pursed her bright red lips. “Your daughter has won a prize for all of her hard work, and your son threw a bull’s-eye. And if it’s only seizures you care about, Julian has had just one.”