What the Wind Can Tell You Read online

  Julian’s eyes were as radiant and bright as the lights they tracked. The disco balls in the ceiling scattered rainbow squares across his face. The music swelled and the ride slowed. When the carousel stopped, I waved the lanky teenager over and handed him the last of my tickets.

  On our second turn, I didn’t hear the music or see Mama and Papa slip in and out of view. I only watched Julian. His hair fluttered in the swirl of the ride. His eyes darted back and forth. He was so happy. My stomach twisted and I wished I had saved more tickets to share.

  In Las Brisas, Julian and I stood watching the ornately painted horses glide up and down. When Julian opened the gate, the ride slowed down and stopped for us. I looked over my shoulder. There wasn’t a fifteen-year-old at the controls this time. Like every other ride at the fair, there was no one at the controls.

  “Which pony do you want?” I asked as we stepped onto the platform.

  Julian’s hands lightly traced the horses. He walked past a glittery blue unicorn, a brown spotted stallion, and a painted horse sporting a glazed cowboy hat. Julian stopped when his eyes settled on something a short distance away.

  “Let’s sit together on that bench,” he suggested.

  Julian walked me over to a silver bench, decorated with jewels, horseshoes, and golden butterflies. This time I sat in the corner and Julian sat next to me. I rested my head on his shoulder as the carousel started to spin. I watched the animals rise and fall on their posts, moving with the gears mounted high on the ceiling. I watched the lights flash and swirl. Leaning against Julian, wrapped in his sweatshirt, with the sound of his voice fresh in my memory, everything felt perfect.

  And then, ever so slightly, the ride began to slow. All around us, the fair grew quiet. Rides stopped moving; lights quit blinking.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “It’s time to go home,” Julian said.

  “Already?” My heart pounded in my chest. My hand gripped the side of the bench, turning my knuckles white.

  “It’s getting late, Belle.” Julian’s voice was soft as the sounds of the fair faded. “You need to go back to bed and get some sleep.”

  “But Julian,” I said, looking into his deep, brown eyes, “I don’t want to leave you.”

  Julian’s hands folded over mine, warm like a fresh tortilla.

  “You aren’t leaving me. You’re always with me back home.”

  The lights dimmed until there was only silent, still darkness. I closed my eyes and when they blinked back open, the darkness was familiar. We were back in his room. Julian lay behind me, in his bed. I slipped my fingers out from Julian’s and massaged my arm. It felt as though the blood from my fingers had pooled in the crook of my elbow. My knees snapped as I stood up from Mama’s chair and leaned over Julian.

  “Good night, Julian,” I whispered.

  His chest rose and fell with measured breaths. I smoothed his quilt, pulled his sweatshirt over my head, and tucked it back into his drawer. I peered closely at the pinwheel. I blew on the crinkled blades and they refused to spin. My fingers moved in to pick it up. With goose bumps sprouting on my arms, my hand hesitated. I shook my head, and with legs still jittery from Las Brisas, I tiptoed out of his room.

  As I slid into bed, I glanced at the clock.

  It was 3:18 in the morning.

  3

  Mama woke me from a dead sleep, the kind where your head’s too heavy to lift because your neck is still snoozing, the type of sleep where you’ve laid motionless for so long, your joints are locked and your body has sunk deep into your mattress. It was like I’d made a snow angel in my sheets, except my angel was caught in mid-motion, frozen in place.

  When I opened my eyes, the lights were on, the curtains were pulled back, and Mama stood next to me with my blankets in her hands. She had a look of wonder on her face.

  “I’ve been calling you for twenty minutes,” Mama explained.

  “I . . . I was having some strange dreams,” I whispered.

  Mama shook her head and dropped my blankets before returning downstairs. I peeled myself off my mattress, glancing briefly at my full-body imprint. I quickly changed out of my pajamas and then stumbled down the staircase. As my hand slid on the railing, I started remembering . . . Julian’s voice, his smile, the look in his eyes. I hurried down the last few steps.

  I loved Sunday breakfast. On weekday mornings, I had three jobs: pack my lunch, fix my own breakfast, and pour a perfect cup of café con leche for Mama. I did all that while Mama got Julian medicated, fed, and dressed for school. Any time remaining, Mama spent in the bathroom, slapping on makeup and tying back her curls before racing us out the door.

  On Saturdays, our house was filled with physical, occupational, and other therapists. Papa worked a double shift while Mama and I spent the day coordinating all of Julian’s appointments, and learning new tricks.

  Sunday mornings were a weekly oasis. No therapists, no responsibilities. The house was free of well-intentioned professionals. On Sunday mornings, Mama spoiled me.

  At the thought of food, my stomach rumbled. In all our excitement together at the fair, Julian and I hadn’t eaten a thing. The smell of carnival food was ever present, but we’d never indulged. And that got me thinking about last year.

  It had all been Papa’s fault. He had an obsession with fair food—the type of love that a fresh tortilla has for butter. Fair food, in all its greasy glory, unleashed the part of Papa that Mama tried to keep hidden.

  As a high schooler, Papa had worked part-time in the packaging department of an Oscar Mayer factory. When they discontinued their spicy pork rind–flavored dogs, Papa brought home caseloads and hosted a hot-dog-themed block party, complete with a speed-eating contest. One minute and twenty-four hot dogs later, Papa knew he was on to something. Later that year, he organized the first annual hot-dog-eating fundraiser at his high school. It took weeks to round up enough kids to compete, because after practicing at home for a few months, Papa was a head taller and fifty pounds heavier than all the other students. In the end, Papa competed against the mayor of his town, the football coach, the police chief, and the senior lunch lady.

  On that fateful March morning, standing before platters of steaming franks donated by the hot-dog factory, Papa finished off his plate in just under 120 seconds—two quick minutes. Papa had eaten sixty-five hot dogs and their buns. He finished it off with a large squirt of mustard. More than four hundred dollars were raised for the prom and Papa earned his nickname. Even now, in some circles, Papa is still known as Chanchito. Papa, never one to limit himself, branched out to local and regional eating challenges. It didn’t matter what it was or how long it had been in the fridge, with stopwatch in hand, Papa gulped it down.

  Years later, Papa met my mother at a local talent showcase. He demonstrated his speed eating (twenty-five beef tacos, five quarts of cottage cheese, and one gigantic watermelon, all swallowed in five minutes), while my mother recited the names and birthdates of the two hundred audience members, after glancing at the list only once. They tied for first place, and tied the knot five months later.

  Once they were husband and wife, my mother helped guide Papa to more healthful hobbies. She allowed him one day of indulgent eating each year (not counting Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, since those are times when it’s okay to overeat, with all the chocolate, turkey, and tamales). Papa chose the county fair as his place to splurge. Before each visit, Papa mapped out his route, researching and rating the best dough fryer, the greasiest sausage griller, and the slushiest Slurpee mixer. When we reached the entrance to the fairground, standing under the hay-bale archway, Papa bowed with gratitude and led the way.

  Last year, I devoured an entire fried Italian sausage—peppers and all (Papa ate four), I split a bucket of onion rings with Papa (he ordered three more for himself), I gobbled up a sugary piece of fried dough (Papa ate five total),
and even though I was full, I topped off the night with a caramel apple (Papa asked for a peck—which only confused the young woman behind the counter; he ended up eating six).

  While Papa and I chewed, slobbered, and crunched, Julian sat there beside us, his feeding tube pumping his stomach with the same old, same old, teased by the smells of carnival food and by my smacking lips. I loved every bite—even though that night, like every year before, I ended up curled on my bed, trying to sleep off a bellyache. My stomach gurgled loudly, but not quite as loudly as the moans coming from Papa in the bathroom.

  In the kitchen, Mama sat right in front of Julian. The big black curls of her thick hair hid his face, but I didn’t need to see in order to know what she was doing. Her movements were so practiced, like a reflex. Mama was attaching Julian’s feeding tube to his belly.

  I slid into my seat. My fingers tapped the tabletop. I ached for Mama to move out of the way. My eyelids twitched, but I was too afraid to blink. When the soft breathing of the feeding machine pulsed in my ears, I knew she was almost done.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect when Mama stepped away. Maybe Julian would start talking and reminisce about the fairgrounds. Maybe he’d wink at me and then retreat to his usual self. Or maybe he’d be propped up in his chair, greeting me with his morning smile, the same as always. With his feeding machine harrumphing in my ears and my stomach grumbling, reality sank in.

  Mama finally moved away, revealing Julian. His hair was brushed to the side, his dark curls packed in a neat wave. Julian’s tray was filled with bells, tension balls, and other toys, but his hands were folded on his lap. His head drooped on his neck and his eyes were closed.

  “Is Julian asleep?”

  Mama didn’t respond, passing me a bowl of cereal and a spoon.

  “Gracias,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I took a bite and looked back at Julian. His eyelids slowly opened. I swallowed.

  “Hey, Julian,” I said, sliding my cereal over, scooting to the chair right next to his.

  Julian’s eyelids twitched as he fought to keep them open. I searched his face for a smile.

  “Did you sleep well, Julian?” I asked, again looking for some sort of acknowledgment.

  “You slept well,” Mama said.

  “Yeah, sound asleep,” I answered as I leaned in closer. I watched Julian’s chest rise and fall with each breath. I lifted his hand and swept it across the toys laid out on his tray, ringing some bells, crinkling some paper.

  “Julian . . . ,” I whispered, tapping his shoulder. “Hey—Julian.”

  I leaned across his tray and waved my hand in front of his eyes.

  From the basket beneath the table, I picked out his maraca and slipped it inside his open palm. With his hand in mine, we shook the maraca a few times. His grip didn’t tighten and his arm felt heavy.

  I leaned in closer and watched as his eyes closed.

  “Julian, wake up.” I shook his arm gently at first, then harder. “Come on, Julian. It’s morning.”

  “Isabelle,” Mama called out. Her voice wasn’t angry, but held a warning. I let go of his arm, straightened my back, and scooted my chair over a foot. “Please eat your breakfast and give Julian some space.”

  “Why is he—”

  “Isabelle, Julian is tired. It’s his new medication.” Her voice grew sharp as she sat down beside me and opened her yogurt. “Now, stop staring at your brother, stop bothering him, and eat your breakfast.”

  I felt my cheeks get hot.

  “I wasn’t trying to bother him . . .” I sloshed a few soggy spoonfuls of cereal into in my mouth. The memory of last night burned. I swallowed and gathered the courage to look back over at Julian.

  I knew I had to be quick. I filled my spoon with cereal and guided it to my mouth. Chewing as casually as I could, I snuck another glance in Julian’s direction. Just as my eyes caught his face—his long slender nose, his high cheekbones—his head straightened, his eyes blinked open, and Julian stared right at me—eye to eye. He looked at me with such deep concentration, I gasped. And just as suddenly, Julian closed his eyes and turned his head away.

  My spoon took flight. It left my fingertips, flipped in the air, and crashed to the floor. In the same instant, my hand fell into my bowl of cereal, knocking it over and onto my lap.

  “Isabelle, what is with you this morning?” Mama’s voice trembled. I knew that voice. She was worried. But once she got a look at my face, she frowned and handed me a rag.

  I was smiling.

  That look was a sign from Julian. He couldn’t talk to me. Of course he couldn’t! But that look, those seconds that passed between us, told me everything. I checked the time. It was 8:32. I sighed. There were too many hours and minutes and seconds until bedtime.

  I pulled the rag from Mama’s fingers and sopped up the cereal. I was too late; it had already soaked into my clothes. But I didn’t mind. My heart was beating too fast, my mind racing in circles.

  Julian knew. I knew. Nothing else mattered.

  “Pancakes or French toast?” Mama asked as she bent down, picked up my spoon, and slid a clean plate in front of me. I paused to consider the choices.

  “French toast.”

  Mama pulled a loaf of fresh bread out of the pantry and began slicing.

  “Isabelle . . .” She paused.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  She turned to look at me. Her eyes were unsure, questioning.

  “Do you remember if Papa put Julian’s robe on him last night?”

  I stole a quick look at Julian before answering. His hand still held his maraca, and his breathing was steady.

  “Maybe,” I said. “I . . . I don’t remember.”

  Mama reached for the egg carton in the fridge. I closed my eyes as the image of Julian pulling on his robe flooded my memory. When she spoke next, it was more to herself than to me.

  “His slippers were on, too . . .”

  I tucked my head down, afraid that Mama would see my face glowing—burning with excitement.

  “Have you finished all of your weekend homework?” she asked. Her eyes flashed between Julian and me.

  “I just have my science fair project.”

  I lifted my plate and balanced it on my fingertip, spinning it slowly, like the merry-go-round. The plate reflected the ceiling light as it rotated around. And then I turned it on its side, my fingers pressing against the center. Using my thumbs, I turned the plate like a wheel.

  That’s when a breeze toyed with my hair, brushing it against my cheeks and pulling my curls away from my face. The faint smell of popcorn drifted past. My hands froze and the plate stopped its spinning. The air around me grew still.

  “What in the—?”

  “Isabelle?”

  I put the plate back on the table and took a breath.

  “I—I think I have a new idea, something to add to my project.”

  “Are you sure you have enough time?” Mama cracked an egg and tossed the shell into the trash.

  “It’s okay.” I smiled. “Julian helped me with the research; he can help me with this part of the project, too.”

  She nodded and turned back to her cooking. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla filled the kitchen.

  “Before you begin construction, Isabelle, I’ll need help bringing the summer clothes out of the garage. I looked at the forecast and it will be warming up this week.” She slid slices of papaya and pineapple onto my plate. I smiled.

  “Why would I put his slippers on?” Mama said softly to herself.

  And then, as urgently as the smoke detector in our kitchen, Julian’s feeding machine started beeping.

  Julian’s eyes opened with alarm. I stood up and switched the machine off. I pressed the clamp, readjusted the tube connected to Julian’s belly, released the clamp, and switched it back
on. It all took about ten seconds.

  “There you go, Julian,” I said. He gave me a dreamy smile of thanks.

  Mama had taught me how to work Julian’s feeding machine when I was seven, when she thought I was old enough to help out. I was ready long before. After years of watching Julian seize, listening to the beep, beep, beep of his feeding machine, watching Mama and Papa juggle all that comes with having a kid like Julian, I wanted to help. I wanted to make Julian feel better.

  Just as I sat back down, the machine let out one long, loud beep before continuing its measured pump.

  Mama peeked at Julian and turned away. She had her “It’s going to be one of those days” look on her face. My heart dropped. That look was always spot-on. Mama could sense the good days from the not-so-good days without fail. That was another of her special gifts—foresight.

  “Look at this, Julian,” I said, pulling my chair over and crinkling one of his foil balls. His drooping eyes slowly opened and his arm reached up. He clasped the ball in his right hand and rotated it between his fingers. I opened up a package of putty and rolled it around in my palms. “Want to help me with my project today?”

  His mouth twitched. His eyes opened wide. Julian smiled and I smiled back.

  “Feel this, Julian.” I tucked the putty into his left hand and watched his fingers close around it.

  Mama returned her full attention to my French toast and I brought my bowl to the sink. As I rinsed the bottom of my bowl, I froze. This time it wasn’t a beep that I heard, but a muffled cough, a gag, a choked reflex.

  “Darn it!” Mama shut off the stove and moved the frying pan to a cool burner. She sat down with a thud in my chair next to Julian. I knew the tone in her voice and I knew that cough. Julian was seizing.