Mama reached for the wheelchair.
“Come on, Julian.” She pulled his chair away and I let his fingers slip out of mine.
Tía Lucy stepped over and kissed me on my cheeks. “I’ll have a word with her. Don’t get yourself down, okay?”
I nodded and wiped my nose on my sleeve.
“Isabelle?”
“Yes?” I blinked away my tears and looked over at her big brown eyes.
“How are you able to see all that’s possible?”
I shrugged.
“This is your gift, Isabelle. But not everyone sees what you see. Remember my visit last year? You opened my eyes.” Tía Lucy looked over her shoulder. “I’d better run, or your mother might leave without me. It’ll be okay, Isabelle.”
“Will it?”
“Yes, my darling niece.” Tía Lucy pulled me in for another tight hug filled with wet Chihuahua kisses. “It will.”
14
After school, I walked to the Y for my basketball practice. The middle school season was over, but I played on a club team at the Y with a lot of the same girls. The routine was identical week after week. We dribbled up the court and back, first with our right hands, then with our left. Half of our team practiced layups while the other half alternated between rebounding and squats. Next, Coach taught us picks and pass moves for the upcoming game. When we were limber, sweaty, and tired of drills, it was scrimmage time. With five minutes left in practice, Coach blew his whistle, and it was time for free throws.
I loved free throws. They were dependable, consistent, and safe. Standing at the line, I dribbled three times and balanced the ball in my hand—using only my fingertips, just like Coach had taught me. With the ball resting on the pads of my fingertips, I took a deep breath, crouched down, and aimed. I always ended with my follow-through. Icing on the cake is what Coach called it. I didn’t have to watch the ball to know it was going through. I never missed my free throws.
“Nice shot, Isabelle,” Coach said.
I nodded and returned to the end of the line.
“You were so brave today,” Anna leaned back and whispered.
“I wasn’t brave,” I said.
“Yes, you were.” She leaned in closer. “I heard that you helped your brother during his seizure. That’s very brave of you.”
“No, I wasn’t brave,” I repeated. “I was just doing what I was taught to do. It’s how I help Julian when he’s seizing.”
“I think I would have been scared. Or maybe frozen still,” she said.
We inched forward as each girl took a turn.
“Congratulations on your award.”
“Thanks.” I smiled.
“Hey, Anna,” Coach called out. “You’re next. Get ready.”
Anna spun around just as Coach passed the ball.
“All right, Anna. Remember what we talked about last time. Follow through. It’s like—”
“Icing on the cake,” she finished for Coach.
Anna dribbled the ball, crouched, aimed, and let go. The ball bounced around the rim and fell off the side.
“Close, Anna. Bend your knees more next time.”
When Coach looked over and saw that I was in front of the line, his eyes brightened.
“Isabelle, keep doing what you’re doing.”
I dribbled three times. I turned to the bleachers and imagined Julian was there, watching me play. I pictured his eyes. And for a split second, I heard his voice cheering me on—not his Las Brisas voice, just his everyday voice.
Taking a deep breath, I released the ball. The basketball left my fingertips and floated up in the air. It arched and fell, sliding perfectly through the hoop.
“Excellent, Isabelle. Great shot,” Coach called out.
“Thanks,” I said.
As I walked back to the line, I heard some faint applause.
“You’ve got a fan club,” Anna whispered.
I looked out across the bleachers. The usual faces were there: moms and dads, some younger brothers and sisters. And then I saw him, standing stooped by the door. His dark eyes staring into mine.
“Abuelito?”
“Who?” Anna asked.
“It’s my abuelo, my grandfather.”
Abuelito stood so still, like an Aztec statue carved out of stone.
“Ladies, it’s time for our huddle.” Coach blew his whistle and waved us in. He ended every practice with a huddle.
“Big game Sunday. Remember to practice your picks and rolls. Get your hand on a basketball, dribble and shoot for at least thirty minutes each day.” He looked everyone in the eyes and then finished, “See you in two days.”
We threw our hands in the middle and yelled: “Go Blue!”
I quickly changed out of my basketball sneakers and walked over to Abuelito.
“Hi, Isabelle. I’m here to give you a ride home.”
“You are?”
“I am,” he said. “You made all your baskets.”
“I always do,” I said softly.
We stood in silence as my teammates walked past. The silence deepened and I remembered Tía Lucy’s story about Abuelito’s magic hands, the soft scars buried deep inside his palm. I pulled my shoulders back.
“Maybe I have hands like yours,” I offered.
“No,” he said.
My cheeks grew hot. I squared my shoulders.
“I watched you, Isabelle. The way you dribble the ball, the way it leaves your fingers . . .” Abuelito reached for my hand. Tía Lucy was right; the inside of his hand was incredibly soft and warm. My hand didn’t stay nestled inside his for long. Abuelito uncurled my fingers. He inspected my dusty fingerprints and the lines in my palms. Then, with great effort, he closed his hand around mine. “You have your own hands, Isabelle, and they are magic. I am sorry I didn’t celebrate them sooner.”
“Gracias,” I whispered.
Abuelito didn’t let go of my hand when he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into a hug.
“I’ve wasted so many years,” he said, his stubbly cheek brushing against my forehead.
“Well, you’re here now,” I said.
Abuelito took hold of both my hands, lining his palms up against mine. His eighty-two-year-old hand was the same size as my twelve-year-old one. I squeezed his hand and he squeezed mine back.
“I won the audience-choice award today, at my science fair.”
“You did?”
I nodded.
“Yes. For my research, and for the wind turbine I made. I get to compete again in two weeks, at Regionals.”
“Will you show me your machine?”
“Maybe you can come see it at Regionals.”
“I’d like that.”
We walked to Abuelito’s car. The leather seats were worn and cracked. My thighs squeaked and burned as I slid across the cushions.
I hadn’t ridden in Abuelito’s car since Abuelita had passed away, many years ago. The car still smelled like lilies, cinnamon, and orange.
“Did you know that Julian’s going to play in an orchestra?” I asked as I buckled my seat belt.
“What was that?” Abuelito turned in his seat. Up close, his profile was striking.
I leaned in closer and raised my voice. “Julian is playing in an orchestra.”
“That’s interesting.” Abuelito nodded to himself.
“He’s going to play the tambourine,” I continued, waiting to see how Abuelito would respond. He paused and swallowed.
“Will there be a concert?” he asked, holding his keys in his hand.
“I don’t know.” I stopped to consider it. “But probably, since it’s an orchestra.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, I guess it’s a good time to get my hearing aid adjusted.”
Abuelito turned ba
ck around, his fingers wrestling with the car key as he tried to insert it in the ignition. The key ring slipped between his fingers and fell to the floor. He grunted, reached down, and fished around for the keys. Once they were in his hands again, he worked to separate the car key from the others, but they kept slipping.
“Let me help,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt and leaning forward.
Abuelito sighed and handed me the keys. I pulled the car key from the rest of the bunch and held it out for Abuelito. His fingers carefully pulled it from my grasp—like he was selecting the most delicate rose from a bouquet.
“Gracias, Isabelle,” Abuelito said as he started the car.
“De nada,” I said. “Anytime.”
“Why are you home so early?” I asked, pulling my backpack off my shoulders and dropping my gym bag on the floor.
“Hello to you, Isabelle! And hello, Abuelito.” Papa grinned at me and nodded at Abuelito. “I’d swapped shifts so I’d be busy next week when Lucia was supposed to visit. So now, I’m off for the next few days, and we get to spend quality time together. Lucia is thrilled.”
I stepped out of my shoes and peeled off my socks.
“Did Mama tell you about my award?”
Papa’s smile grew larger.
“You bet she did. Congratulations, mija.” Papa scooped my ball out of my arms and pulled me into a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Papá! I know you’re here,” Tía Lucy’s voice called out. “Come to the kitchen for some coffee.”
Abuelito nodded to Papa and shuffled toward my tía’s voice.
“He surprised me at practice,” I said.
“I think your tía had something to do with it.” Papa’s arms slipped from the hug and he stuffed them into his pockets. “Your mother and I have done a lot of talking. We’ve got some decisions to make, Isabelle. They won’t be easy.”
“Are you talking about Julian’s medicine?”
“I am.”
“Does this mean that Mama’s not mad at me anymore?”
Papa nodded.
As I stepped into the kitchen, Mama met me with a long, tight hug. Julian sat in his chair beside my seat. His smile was delicious.
“Julian’s doctor can’t change much right away, but we can take away his dinnertime meds and delay his bedtime ones.” She sat down across from me. Her smile was relaxed; her hand held Abuelito’s. “We’re going to have more appointments, and Isabelle, I’ll try to schedule them after school so you can come, too.”
Tía Lucy placed a tray of mole enchiladas in the center of the table, snatching Papa’s fork from his fingers.
“Now, before you dig into these enchiladas, I want you to pay attention to your tongues as they find the different spices. It took Santi and me eleven months to perfect—”
The microwave beeped.
“I must have forgotten something,” Tía Lucy said as she scooted from the table and opened the door. “Huh, that’s odd; it’s empty.”
Julian chuckled beside me. Once Tía Lucy sat down, he started up again. Tía Lucy leapt to her feet but paused when she reached the microwave. By then, Julian was laughing so hard he snorted and his toys tumbled off his tray.
“Julian! Sinvergüenza!” Tía Lucy scolded, though she couldn’t help but smile.
Julian seized just moments later. Mama turned to soothe him, Abuelito watched, while I counted. When the seizure was over, Mama looked up at me.
“Isabelle, why don’t you mark it?”
I nodded. “Ten seconds.” I pushed out of my seat and walked to the counter where the notebook was kept. When I marked it on the fourth line in the notebook, I noticed that there was a new column on the page.
“What’s this?” I asked. Mama walked over and wrapped her arm around my shoulder.
“I added a new column so that I’ll remember to take note of the good things that Julian does during the day.” She pointed to the lines already filled.
Threw a bull’s-eye during the science fair. Practiced tambourine for 20 minutes.
“How about you add: Tricked the Taco Queen?” Papa suggested.
“How about you can go without your slice of my flourless chocolate cake?” Tía Lucy asked, her eyebrow arching dramatically. Papa’s face drooped. Her chocolate cake was Papa’s favorite, though he hated to admit it.
While we ate the enchiladas, Mama and Tía Lucy discussed their favorite science fair exhibits and Abuelito described my jump shot. With our bellies almost full, Tía Lucy served dessert. Papa ate two helpings.
Julian’s yawns were soon too large to ignore. Abuelito kissed him good night, Mama gave him his meds, and Papa carried him to bed.
“Go on to bed, Isabelle,” Mama said as she tucked Julian in. “You’ve had quite a day. You must be tired.”
“Mama?”
“Yes, dear?”
Her large brown eyes looked up at me. They smiled from their corners, giving me courage.
“Can I sleep in Julian’s room tonight?” I asked.
Her fingers knotted together. She looked over at Julian and then back at me.
“You don’t want to sleep upstairs with Tía Lucy?” she asked.
“Can you blame her?” Tía Lucy popped her head in from the kitchen, giving me a subtle wink. “Big Betty has some congestion and her snores are something else. I’ve tried some of Santi’s nasal strips on her, but they don’t work so well on Chihuahua noses.”
“Big surprise,” Papa muttered.
Mama looked at me and shrugged.
“Why not?” She stood and kissed my forehead. “Say good night to your grandfather, and then go get your things.”
Abuelito stood by the door, a plastic tub of leftover enchiladas in one hand, a container filled with flourless chocolate cake in the other. Papa looked on with envy.
“Good night,” I said as my arms reached out for a hug. “Thanks for coming to my practice.”
“Good night, Isabelle. Thank you . . . for everything.”
15
That night was the first in a long time when I didn’t count down until bedtime. I wasn’t waiting for the darkness to deepen. I didn’t listen for silence to settle. I was already with Julian.
Branches tapped against his windows. A few cars swooshed by.
Julian’s hospital balloons drooped on their strings. Shriveled and puckered, they were still afloat—barely. My fingers traced the metal footboard of Julian’s bed. I watched his quilt slowly rise with each breath. Footsteps shuffled upstairs. Papa and Tía Lucy were laughing about something. I strained to hear, but their words were too far away. Mama’s voice joined in, followed by sharp Chihuahua barks. My lips parted in a smile. Doors pushed closed, floorboards creaked and eased. And then silence.
I stood beside Julian, whose breathing was steady and deep. I tucked my basketball trophy under his left arm and smoothed his quilt. And then I walked over to the dresser.
The pinwheel was still and Julian’s room smelled like mole enchiladas. I pulled open the bottom drawer and took out one of his sweatshirts. I slipped it on over my head and rolled up the cuffs. It smelled like Julian, warm and welcoming.
Standing on my tiptoes, I looked at the corkboard above his dresser where a collage of photos was arranged—Julian’s first day at his school, the two of us flying kites in the field next to my school. My favorite was a photo of us from the Halloween when Julian had dressed up like an ice-cream truck, and I had been an ice-cream cone.
I sat in Mama’s chair and leaned my pillow against the side of Julian’s bed. As my fingers slipped in between his, my eyes closed.
I woke up some time later. My neck was stiff. My fingers tingled. I looked for the pinwheel but couldn’t see it. Darkness had crept into Julian’s room. Shadows curled around the furniture. I watched them slip from the moon as it journeyed through the s
ky.
“I’m okay with this,” I whispered. With each heartbeat, my grip tightened. “It’s okay, because we have tomorrow, Julian. Dr. Holland will ease you off those meds, so you’ll be tired, but not as tired. We can practice your tambourine.”
I closed my eyes and let out a breath.
“I just thought I’d have a little more time with you in Las Brisas.”
Sleep did not come. Though every inch of me was tired, my hand would not release Julian’s. And then finally, in the early hours of the morning, when birds chirped to greet the sun before it crested the horizon, I smelled oranges—oranges warmed in the California sunshine.
“Belle!” Julian called out. “Are you here?”
I turned to him. His deep brown eyes opened wide, waiting for an answer.
“Always,” I said. “I brought you something.”
Julian looked over at his other hand.
“Your trophy.”
“I dug it out of my closet for you.”
“Promise me you won’t hide it anymore.”
“I promise,” I said.
“Your eyes are smiling,” Julian whispered.
“I know,” I said. “I’m not worried anymore.”
Julian slid off his bed and we sat together on the floor. I leaned into him and Julian wrapped his arms around me.
“Julian,” I whispered. “What if we just stay and talk? What if we don’t go to Las Brisas?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Julian said. “If you don’t go to Las Brisas, everything returns to normal.”
“Like Cinderella at midnight.”
“Yeah.” Julian smiled. “Belle, do you remember the time Mama found me on the floor? When she thought I’d rolled out of bed?”
Boy, did I remember that morning. Mama’s shriek had sliced through the house. It was a miracle the neighbors hadn’t come running. I had flown down the stairs to find Mama stooped next to Julian, who was laying half in the kitchen and half in his room.
Once it was clear he wasn’t injured, Mama and I had lifted Julian and placed him in his wheelchair. For the rest of the day, Mama took on the role of a crime scene detective. She reenacted all of the possible ways Julian—who could move his arms and legs a little, but had never been able to support his own weight—had managed to land eight feet from his bed. She measured and re-measured using a yardstick. She practiced falling out of his bed multiple times. In the end, Mama declared it a mystery, never to be spoken of again.
What the Wind Can Tell You Page 15