“Have I ever not been?”
You could see her perk up immediately at the thought of feeding me. She gestured toward the kitchen table. I followed without protest as she began to heat up the food.
* * *
• • •
MY parents had one of those classic love affairs. The Irish boy from the Bronx fell in love with the dark-haired Italian girl down the street whom his parents had warned him about. My father always told my brother and me that like the Sirens of ancient Greece, our mother had entranced him with her voice even before he saw her beauty. One day, when he was onstage rehearsing with his high school orchestra, he heard a girl singing behind the curtain. Notes floated toward him that sounded so perfect and clear. Family legend has it that he put down his violin and went off to search for her. And when he realized the tall girl with the long hair and dark eyes was the one with the voice of an angel, he fell head over heels in love.
And although my father’s family initially resisted my mother, she eventually won over her future mother-in-law, not through her angelic voice or her cooking but rather through what the Irish call the gift of story.
My favorite was about my grandmother Valentina. Her American cousins had received a photograph of a petite Sicilian girl who looked malnourished and in need of a good home. When she finally arrived at Ellis Island, no one could make sense of the rotund girl who claimed to be their cousin. All the relatives whispered as they took the girl, who seemed to be bursting out of her clothes, back home to the tenement apartment near Arthur Avenue. They showed Valentina a room with a large metal tub where she could take a bath and change her clothes. The other women were rendered speechless as the fat little girl began to take off her coat, then her dress, then another dress, and then another. One by one all her layers of clothing were removed, and there stood the skinny child they now recognized from the photograph. They realized that instead of packing most of her clothes in Valentina’s suitcase, her mother had made her daughter wear all of them for the entire journey over. She could then fill her suitcase with all the other necessities, like shoes, underwear, and sweaters.
My mother had gifted her love of story to me. Showing me that storytelling had the power to connect us to others, that a good tale could even bridge the space between children and adults. Whenever a child needed soothing, she had an arsenal of tales ready to tame even the crankiest toddler. She would offer a saffron-colored cookie and then tell a colorful anecdote about her friend from Sweden who had shared the recipe with her, so that the story was yet another ingredient folded into the layers of flour and butter.
* * *
• • •
“DID you paint your new bedroom yet, Maggie?” She placed a warm plate of oozing mozzarella-and-ricotta goodness in front of me. “Do you want me to come over and help you?”
“The color’s actually growing on me, Mom, so I’m not sure I will need to paint it. I tell myself it’s not off-white but buttermilk, and somehow it doesn’t seem so boring anymore.”
“Aah, the soothing color of buttermilk,” she teased and sat down next to me. “You were always so good with words, Maggie. And you can always find the positive and the beautiful . . .”
I laughed. “I got that from you, Mom. If only I had inherited your gift with food, too.” I lifted my fork to my mouth and savored the warmth and melding flavors. In truth, I thought it was my mother who could discover beauty where one was least expecting it. Many times, I felt she had that effect on me. I had grown up always feeling awkward about my height, strawberry-colored hair, and freckles. But somehow my mother had the magical capacity to make me feel better about myself whenever she smoothed down the stray tangles of my hair or cupped my face in her soft hands.
“So, school starts tomorrow. You must be excited, Maggie.” I didn’t answer her for a second, and she picked up on it right away. I could feel her eyes on me as I drew my fork through the puddles of runny ricotta.
“I actually came here to talk to you about something,” I said, placing my fork down.
“Yes? What is it, honey?”
“Well . . .” I hesitated for a moment, trying to gather the right words. “On Friday, I went to drop off some of my supplies at school and get the classroom ready, and there was a note from the principal asking me to go down to his office . . .”
My mother’s face looked puzzled.
“No, it wasn’t like I was in trouble or anything. It was the opposite, actually . . . Principal Nelson wanted to offer me an extra assignment because he was so pleased with my work last year.”
“Isn’t that good news, Maggie?”
“Well, it’s not that black and white, Mom. He asked me if I’d consider tutoring a child at home in English language arts who isn’t healthy enough to be in the classroom this year. He was born with a heart defect, and he’s too weak right now to go to class with the other kids. The district is sending two teachers to his house to keep him up to grade level.”
My mother’s hand reached toward me and she covered mine with hers. “Oh, honey, this child needs you.”
I could feel my body stiffen. I blinked back tears. “I know, Mom. But I keep thinking about Ellie. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to go into a home with a sick child each week.” I sucked in my breath. “What if I can’t handle it?”
My mother shook her head and looked away from me. I knew talking about Ellie was difficult for her, too.
“What happened with Ellie was so terrible, Maggie,” she said gently. “And you were so brave with Ellie. You visited her all those times when she was sick even when it was hard to see her that way. You read to her. You did coloring books with her. Do you remember you even sometimes played school with her? Mrs. Auerbach told me you were the one person Ellie looked forward to seeing more than anyone.” My mother sighed. “I know now your father and I didn’t do you any favors by not telling you right away.”
I felt my expression tighten. This had long been a sore spot between my parents and me. I was away at camp the summer Ellie died. None of us could have predicted it would happen, of course, but she passed away while I was gone. My parents didn’t tell me until after I got home, nearly a week after the funeral.
“I never got to say good-bye,” I said, my voice breaking.
“We made a mistake. Your dad and I were young parents, and we didn’t want to ruin your summer. Whenever we told you, it wasn’t going to be easy.”
“It’s just one minute she was here, and then she was gone. Those first few months after she died, I kept on thinking I was going to hear her on her bicycle or see her on the porch with Mrs. Auerbach, waving to me as I got off the school bus.” The pain resurfaced, fresh and raw.
“And you’re afraid to get attached to this student?” My mother’s voice lowered. “That’s understandable, Maggie. But we can’t be so afraid of experiencing pain that it interferes with the things we love. Think about your dad, how much he suffers with his arthritis. I see him every morning putting his hands in a basin filled with ice before he starts his day’s work on the violins. But he doesn’t stop doing it, even when things are difficult. He can’t. And neither should you.”
She leaned in closer to me and rubbed my back.
“Do you know the child’s name yet?”
“Yuri,” I said softly.
“I think you owe it to yourself to at least make an effort for Yuri,” my mother counseled. “He’s cooped up in that house and not able to go to school like the rest of the kids his age. Think about what you could bring to his life,” she said gently. “And imagine what he might bring to yours.”
2
THE following Tuesday morning, as promised, I went to see Principal Nelson before classes started and gave him my answer.
“I’m thrilled, Maggie. You’re going to do a great job with Yuri.”
My face grew warm. I hoped he was right, but I felt plagued by unce
rtainty. I knew I had switched careers because I wanted to make a difference in the world and thought there was no better way to do that than by helping to shape a child’s life. But, suddenly, the stakes seemed so much higher than they had before. I couldn’t fail this sick little boy.
“I’ll let the family know you’ll be stopping by tomorrow to introduce yourself.”
“Sounds good,” I said and then hurried down the hall to get to my classroom before my first set of students arrived.
* * *
• • •
EVERY teacher, no matter the grade or how long they’ve been teaching, struggles these first few weeks of school. We have only a small window to connect with each child, and we need to form a good impression from the get-go.
Their muscles still cling to the memory of summer vacation—the sports at camp or lazy days at the beach. Most of them, particularly the boys, strain to sit still for the full period.
As one of the newer teachers, I still had great reserves of energy. In the morning, I transformed myself from bleary-eyed, coffee-deprived Maggie Topper in her petal pink cotton flannel pajamas into a caffeine-fueled teacher extraordinaire. I blow-dried my hair to a clean sheet of copper and wore clothes that I thought were professional but still had a bit of flair.
The unexpected revelation, I scrawled on the blackboard the first day I met with my sixth-grade English class. “We will learn when we’re least expecting to.”
“Cool,” Oscar said. “No homework, then?”
“Not so fast. We’ll be doing a lot of writing this year. There will be things you never thought of before you took your pencil to your paper.” I gave my desk a little tap. “Now, how cool is that?”
The classroom rustled. I saw Jack shift in his seat. Rachel tore a sheet of loose-leaf paper from her binder and crumpled it in a tight ball. A pencil rolled to the front of the class.
“In a few days we’ll begin making our writer’s notebooks. Each of you will be writing your own personal narratives in these books. They’re going to be reflective of all your thoughts. Your likes and dislikes. You’re even going to decorate the cover with images or words you think best define you.”
Some of the boys rolled their eyes. A few of the girls in the front were needlessly writing down every word I said.
“For those of you who are already half-asleep,” I joked, “wake up. Because this year is going to be fun.”
* * *
• • •
IT had been my mother who encouraged me to leave my job in PR and pursue a job in teaching. She took one look at me that spring after I’d been working nearly a year at Mellancamps Strategies and said, “Your eyes are looking dim, sweetheart. What happened to that sparkle I know so well?”
“It’s just not how I imagined it would be,” I complained. “I thought I’d like the frenetic speed of things in the office. The excitement of trying to help package the latest account. But everyone is angry half the time and yelling at each other . . . I feel sick to my stomach every day, nervous my boss is going to scream at me because I didn’t order enough bagels for the directors’ meeting, and I’m getting an ulcer over a job where I’m not even using my brain.”
My mother was quiet for a moment.
“You’re twenty-three, honey. You know you’re young enough to make a career change. One thing you never get back is your time . . .”
“But to what?”
She knew the answer before I even asked the question. She had seen me dress up since I was a little girl and put my father’s reading glasses on top of my head and use the easel in my basement as a makeshift blackboard. From the moment I first walked into kindergarten class, the classroom felt like my natural arena. I instinctively gravitated toward the desks closest to the teacher. I relished the proximity to this person who knew the answer to every one of my questions and, when they were talented, exuded an energy that radiated from every pore. Every day, I put my books on the classroom windowsill and pretended it was my own bookshelf. When I was in elementary school, I imagined I was the teacher. I sat with my back straight and my eyes alert, and I could transport myself into her seat or see myself standing in front of the blackboard.
“You can go back to school for your master’s. Apply now and see if you get in. It can’t hurt, Maggie. You’re a person who thrives on a real sense of purpose. That’s why you’re unhappy at your job.” She gave a little tap on my forehead. “Your brain is being wasted,” she said. “And so is your heart.”
* * *
• • •
I knew my mother was right. During my last year of college at Michigan, my friends were looking forward to their first jobs at banks or large corporations. Bill had accepted a job at a big insurance company that he had landed through one of his fraternity connections, and he couldn’t wait to start. But I loathed the thought of leaving school. I lived for it. I loved its various cycles. There was always a chance to do something new and learn something different the following year with another set of professors.
I didn’t look back once I started teaching. I loved the energy it gave me, the electricity that began as soon as I entered the classroom. It was so much more rewarding than marketing a new brand of marshmallows or a toothpaste that whitened your smile. Teaching was about opening children’s minds to infinite possibilities, to make them think and question the world around them. There were certainly some days that left me exhausted or irritated, but how many jobs could actually give you the opportunity to make an impact on a life? With teaching, I had finally found a sense of purpose.
* * *
• • •
THE following afternoon, after my last class was over, I prepared to meet Yuri. I opened up my big floppy bag and placed my notepad and folder in it. I had written up a handout for all my students that described much of what we would be doing that year. I couldn’t wait to get the children working on their individual writer’s notebooks. I was happy that, in less than half an hour, I’d have a better sense of Yuri and what our time together would be like. I had willed myself not to imagine how sick he might appear. I didn’t want to impress my memories of Ellie onto Yuri. I glanced at the address Mr. Nelson had given me and took a deep breath.
* * *
• • •
THE Krasny residence was only a fifteen-minute drive from the school, just past Moriches Road and not too far from the local farm where Bill and I had bought corn all summer.
The house was small, nearly the same size as our rental, but the exterior paint was peeling and it seemed to sag in a sigh of neglect. Outside there was a brick pathway that followed from the curb to the door. Dandelions poked out from the spaces in the cement joints, and the grass was covered in patches of clover.
I parked on the street and checked my face in the rearview mirror. I had been up since six a.m. that day, and my face clearly showed it. My fair complexion, with its smattering of freckles, looked sallow. The edges of my eyes were rimmed in pink like a tired rabbit. I wanted to make a good first impression, and a weary face surely wasn’t the way to get a new student enthused about schoolwork. I fumbled in my bag for my mascara and lipstick and reapplied my makeup quickly.
I reached over for my handbag, locked the car, and made my way toward the house, dandelions folding beneath my feet.
* * *
• • •
SHE didn’t introduce herself at first, the slender woman who answered the door. Her skin and bone structure were clearly Eastern European. I had never seen such pronounced cheekbones. Her wheat-colored hair was coiled in a tight bun.
“Hello,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Maggie Topper, Yuri’s English tutor.”
Her fingers were slender and cold; her eyes were shadowed in dark circles. She forced a brief smile. “I’m Katya, his mother.” She wore no mascara or lipstick, and I now wished I could tissue off the shade of Raspberry Glacé I had just applied.<
br />
“Please come in.” She ushered me inside, her speech revealing a distinct accent. It wasn’t that the words weren’t clear. It was more her cadence, which made her sentences come out in a halting, staccato-like rhythm.
Inside, the house was dimly lit. The scent of simmering onions floated in from the kitchen. The house had that same stifled air and heavy quiet that I had remembered when I visited Ellie, as though illness had made itself a permanent guest.
“Yuri is on the couch.” She gestured me toward the living room. “He’s a bit tired today. The math tutor came yesterday.” She walked toward the room’s threshold and then stopped. “Can I get you some tea?”
“I’m good, thanks. Just had my third cup of coffee.” I looked at her wrapped in her sweater. We were having an Indian summer, so outside it was close to 70 degrees, but Katya looked like one of those women who always seemed as if they were freezing.
“I think today Yuri and I can just get to know each other a bit,” I reassured her. “And don’t worry, I won’t give him any homework, so he can get his rest tonight.”
She forced another smile. “Good. He’ll like that.” Katya hesitated for a moment. “I guess I should mention, Yuri’s had a hard time lately. He really liked going to his old school, even though he missed a lot of days being sick. With the new move and being home all day, he’s been really down.”
“I bet,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to make our time together as fun for him as possible.”
Katya nodded and lifted her hand toward the hallway.
“Anyway, the washroom is on the left. We all must be vigilant about hand washing. His heart condition can sometimes make breathing difficult for him.” She inhaled deeply. “So even a little cold can be dangerous for Yuri.”
The Secret of Clouds Page 3