The Secret of Clouds

by Alyson Richman

  She still wasn’t sure she understood completely what the prognosis would be for Yuri, even after Sasha had explained countless times what the doctor had said.

  “We must always watch him,” Sasha said over and over to her, but she was already doing that every day and every night. The lack of sleep had made her tense and irritable. Sasha could leave for work every day and have some distraction there, but she lived with a continual sense of panic that something might go wrong at home. That Yuri might find himself gasping for breath and she wouldn’t be able to help him.

  Finally, one Saturday when Yuri was nearly three months old, Sasha sat her down and was firm with her.

  “We cannot live in constant fear, Katya. You must accept what Dr. Rosenblum says. There are many grays to his condition. We can only wait and see how he develops. But we also have to learn to live in the present.”

  He took her into his arms, and he felt the lightness of her entire being falling into him. He tightened his arms around her as she began to cry.

  “He will get stronger,” he told her. “I promise you that little baby will grow into a perfect little boy.”

  She was now sobbing into his chest. All the emotions she had bravely pushed deep inside her over the past three months, in order to ensure she was giving every ounce of her strength to her baby, now dissolved as Sasha held her.

  When she finally finished, Katya felt the sunlight on her back streaming in from the window, and it restored her. Over the next few months, she saw Sasha’s words come true. Yuri somehow managed to grow stronger with each passing day.

  29

  SASHA had held on to each word the doctor had said about Yuri’s condition. He needed to understand every ounce of knowledge Dr. Rosenblum was willing to share with him. He wanted to dissect the information and put it back together again, slowly and methodically, so he could tell Katya without hesitation that he comprehended their son’s diagnosis and that he would do everything in his power to make sure Yuri received the best care.

  He remembered how the doctor had told him that an infant’s heart was the same size as its little fist, those five little fingers rolled tight. “Yuri’s heart, although now no bigger than a walnut, will grow as the child grows, always maintaining the size of his closed hand.” The doctor had lifted his own hand, letting it hover slightly over his desk, before making a fist. Now, as Sasha stood over the crib, with Yuri’s fingers shut tight and pulled close to his tiny mouth, he tried to imagine his son’s heart beating inside. He had read in a scientific journal about how patients with positive energy—who refused to succumb to despair—often had better outcomes than those with negative attitudes. Hadn’t he even heard on a radio show how one listener had called in and said he tried to visualize his cancer remission and that he could improve his prognosis by imagining a future that included good health?

  Sasha had always considered himself a man of science, but as he looked at his sleeping child, he found himself desperate for anything that would help improve Yuri’s prognosis. He took deep breaths and thought of the air reaching into his lungs and his heart pumping blood into his veins. He closed his eyes and began to imagine his own heart synchronized with his son’s. He would will it to grow stronger. The damaged ventricle wall would not deteriorate further, Yuri’s tricuspid valve would not leak, and the right side of his heart would not enlarge. Sasha realized that he had always taken the stance that he did not believe in a god. But secretly, he now knew that he would believe in anything if it could help save his son. If there was even the slightest possibility that his imagining an invisible thread repairing his son’s heart defect would help, he would seize the opportunity. If Katya asked him to go to church with her and pray on his knees for Yuri to secure him a clean bill of health, he would do it without protest.

  He opened his eyes and stared again at the little baby sleeping in his crib. Katya had dressed Yuri in footed pajamas with blue and white stars printed on the cotton. The mobile above dangled with a myriad of stars, a large white moon, and a yellow sun. The constellations of love, he thought as his eyes focused again on his child’s curled fist. When Yuri’s fingers loosened and a thumb found its way into his tiny mouth, Sasha took another breath. His body wrestled between fear and hope. He inhaled the sweet smell of a sleeping baby—the perfume of talcum powder and diaper cream—and placed his hand on the top of Yuri’s chest. He could feel his son’s beating heart through the cotton fabric, and its rhythm gave him comfort. And at that moment, Sasha knew his son was strong.

  30

  AFTER Yuri’s birth, Sasha struggled to feel useful and relevant, as there was so much that he now felt helpless about. He fumbled with changing Yuri’s diaper, and unlike Katya, he didn’t always hear his son’s crying. His wife always seemed to sense it, even before the noise pierced the air.

  During feedings, as Katya sat propped up on pillows in their bed, he watched her hold Yuri to her chest, observing her milk flowing from her breast into the baby’s pursed lips. Sasha was both humbled and awed by how nature bonded an infant to its mother so tightly. He longed to also be able to give something to his son that was unique to him.

  He soon learned that Yuri loved it when his father read to him. He would watch as Yuri’s pupils dilated with wonder at the sound of Sasha’s voice. He felt his own heart race with happiness each time Yuri offered him a smile. Over the years, Sasha tried a variety of new projects with Yuri to try to replicate those early sensations of pure joy. When Yuri was still a toddler, Sasha brought home Legos and a wooden castle with a full set of knights. He also gave Yuri a children’s microscope and attached a mobile of floating planets over his bed. But it wasn’t until he eventually introduced his son to baseball that Sasha found the one thing that would connect the two of them forever.

  * * *

  • • •

  YURI was five years old the first time he watched baseball on television. Sasha had been elated to explain it to his son, even though he was still relatively new to the game himself.

  He remembered that sometime around the fourth inning, Yuri had pulled out a sheet of drawing paper and crayons and begun sketching a television set with the image of a baseball field and players depicted on it. Just when he thought his son had finished the drawing, Yuri added two stick figures sitting on a couch in front of the TV screen, each with its own horseshoe-shaped smile.

  “It’s me and you, Daddy.” He beamed, handing the finished picture to Sasha.

  All these years later, Sasha still had that sketch taped to the wall next to his desk at the lab. Five-year-old Yuri’s signature on the bottom was big and lopsided, but every part of the drawing still made Sasha happy. The drawing documented when the bond between them was first sealed.

  * * *

  • • •

  YURI took to the game immediately. By six years old, he had a full understanding of the rules of baseball and how much quick thinking was involved in each play.

  Like his father’s, his mind could retain facts and figures easily, and soon he had memorized the names of all the Yankees and the numbers on their jerseys. By the time Yuri was seven, he could recite every batter on the team’s average, home runs, and RBI total.

  Sasha bought them matching Yankees jerseys and caps so they could dress in full pinstripe regalia every time they sat on the couch watching a game together. Katya, who had no interest in sports, served them snacks like cut-up kielbasa on mini rolls and chocolate babka for dessert, always trying to hide her smile and playfully chastising them for roaring too loudly.

  As Yuri got older and his heart condition prevented him from joining Little League or playing with children his own age at school, Sasha saw how baseball nonetheless saved his son, for Yuri could still be a passionate and dedicated fan. Sasha would take him to the Tri-Village flea market on weekends and buy him three or four packs of baseball cards. Yuri would then spend countless hours organizing his burgeoning card collection
into special albums with see-through flaps. He started to vary the way he would organize the cards. Sometimes he placed them in alphabetical order, while other times he decided to arrange them by team or by position. Sasha would bring home special Lucite protectors for Yuri’s most prized cards, which allowed him to display them proudly on his bookshelf.

  During baseball season, Sasha would often come home and see Yuri standing in front of the TV, imitating the nuances of each player’s batting stance or the way they prepared for their pitching windup.

  Sasha marveled at Yuri’s attention to detail. He would choke up his hands on an imaginary bat to imitate Derek Jeter and then slowly circle the bat behind him while waiting for the pitch. And for the diminutive second baseman Chuck Knoblauch, he would crouch virtually down to the ground with his bat placed almost horizontally and far behind the rest of his body. But Sasha was always the most amazed when he watched him imitate Andy Pettitte on the pitching mound.

  Yuri would take his Yankees hat and pull it way down over his brow and then raise his glove like a shield just below his eyes. Staring intensely ahead, he’d simulate Pettitte’s movements, first raising his hands over his head and then lifting his left leg into the air, so slowly and purposefully that, as he moved, Sasha was reminded of watching Katya, years before, display the strength and gracefulness of her ballet.

  He’s playing the game in his mind, Sasha thought every time he saw his son carrying out the ritual. Yuri’s eyes fixated on the screen, his focus so all-consuming that he probably didn’t even notice his father silently watching him. And it warmed Sasha to know about the wondrous gift he had given to his son, a love of something that defied his illness. When Yuri watched baseball, he was like any other boy. He was joyous and he was free.

  31

  WHEN I reached Yuri’s house later that week, the snowfall that had blanketed their driveway just days before was now a mixture of dark puddles and sand. But inside the house, I found Katya looking sunny and happy. Her honey-colored hair fell softly over her shoulders, and she wore a red sweater dress that showed off her dancer’s physique. I noticed she was even wearing a pretty matching shade of lipstick. She looked like an entirely different person with the added color.

  I was happy to see Katya looking so well, as I knew it meant that Yuri must be feeling stronger. It was funny how little it took for me to be so optimistic. A red outfit and some lipstick, and I already had Yuri fully cured.

  Even the fragrances in the house were different. I was a bloodhound when it came to scents wafting in from a kitchen. Typically, the Krasnys’ home smelled like simmering onions or was filled with the toasty aroma of kasha. But this afternoon, the rooms were rich with the perfume of butter and shortbread.

  “Smells like you’ve been baking,” I observed cheerfully as I pulled off my coat.

  “Yes, I made cookies.” She gestured toward the kitchen. “Yuri’s been feeling much better over the past three days. No complaints of a racing heart or being short of breath. So I wanted to celebrate a little.” She extended her hand toward the living room. “Here, let me bring you to him. I’ve left some cookies on the table for both of you.”

  We walked into the living room, and I was shocked to find him not bundled in his comfy chair but instead sitting cross-legged on the couch. He was dressed in sweatpants and an oversize Yankees jersey. This was the first time I hadn’t seen him in his pajamas. On the coffee table, I noticed a plate with three cookies and a scattering of crumbs.

  “Hey, Jeter,” I teased when I saw him wearing the shortstop’s number, 2.

  “Hi, Ms. Topper.” His eyelashes fluttered open as I walked into the room. Next to him, I could see the cover of his writing notebook.

  “Good thing I see your notebook out. I’m collecting them from all the kids this week to make sure everyone’s been doing their daily entries.”

  Yuri glanced over at his notebook and seemed to fidget slightly.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t been keeping up on your writing?” I chided playfully.

  “No, I have.”

  I sat down in the chair beside him and studied him again. I sensed something I couldn’t quite place that was suddenly making him feel uncomfortable, perhaps even anxious.

  Yuri must have realized I was picking up on something, so he deftly redirected his gaze to the plate of cookies.

  “You should try one. They’re really good.”

  “I was hoping you’d offer,” I said, lifting one off the plate.

  “My mom used my grandmother’s recipe from back in Ukraine. They’re one of my favorites.”

  “I can taste the butter. I just might have to steal another,” I confessed as I contemplated eating a second one.

  “You really should.” He pushed the plate toward me.

  “No, you need them more than I do, champ,” I said, pleased that a sense of ease had returned between us. “Finish them off.”

  He lifted the last few and popped them into his mouth one at a time. Finally, I saw a smile cross over his lips.

  “Okay, now that we’re done with our snack, let me ask you. Did you have fun with the latest writing assignment?”

  Hoping to ignite my students’ curiosity, I had instructed them to write about something they experienced in their life that had made them “wonder.” I was excited to hear what Yuri had written.

  He wrinkled his brow. “Actually, I did. It took me a while to decide what I was going to write about. But then after I let my mind wander a bit, it came to me.”

  “So you managed to get over your writer’s block. That’s great, Yuri.”

  “Yeah, the strange thing is, Ms. Topper, I never liked writing before. But now I notice I feel a lot better after I do it.”

  “Well, that’s really good news. You know what to say to make your teacher happy.”

  “I said it because it’s true, not to make you happy,” he answered flatly.

  I felt my face warm at his words. I heard Suzie’s voice in my head. The thing about kids, Maggie, is that they can tell right away when you’re trying too hard. Yuri didn’t want me to always be chirpy and full of positivity. I was sensing he wanted someone he could be real with and not have to censor his thoughts or emotions around.

  I took a few seconds to find my composure and give Yuri what he wanted. He wanted me to be honest with him.

  “Well, truth is important in writing,” I said slowly. “Pursuing it is the essence of why writers write and artists create. Michelangelo used his chisels to release a figure he believed was buried inside a block of marble. Monet used impressionistic brushstrokes to evoke atmosphere and light. Both of them were searching for ways to reveal something you didn’t see clearly at first glance.”

  Yuri’s eyes flickered. He was listening to everything I was saying, and I could feel it.

  “Writers use words in that same way. They are searching to find meaning in a world that’s often difficult and confusing. They pursue truth by questioning what’s around them.” I paused for a moment before continuing. “Am I making any sense?”

  Yuri smiled. “Yeah, a lot.”

  “Good. I’m relieved.” It was strange how quickly a teacher could sense when they were floundering with a student. It felt good to know that I was getting through to him now.

  “Sometimes the blank page is scary, Ms. Topper, and I don’t know how I’m going to fill it. But then I just close my eyes and write what I feel.”

  “That’s the beauty of it, Yuri. When you surrender yourself to the process and just start putting the truth down on paper.”

  Yuri nodded.

  “So let’s get back to your writing. Why don’t you read me what you wrote for your ‘wonder’ essay?”

  “Okay, if you insist.”

  “I do.” I smiled.

  Yuri reached for his notebook and searched for a few seconds to find the right page. H
e took a deep breath, lowered his eyes, and then began to read:

  “My Mother’s Shoes” by Yuri Krasny

  In my mother’s dresser drawer are a pair of pink ballet toe shoes. I found them one afternoon when I was looking for a safety pin and she was out at the grocery store.

  The shoes have long ribbons like the kind you find on a fancy present or on a little girl’s bow. I don’t know much about these shoes. But I do know that my dad said my mother used to be a really good ballerina back in Ukraine. My parents came over in 1987 and my dad now works in the lab at Stony Brook University, but my mother doesn’t dance anymore.

  Sometimes I wonder what my mother’s life was like before she got here. I like to imagine her on a big stage, the music playing as she does her leaps and twirls. I know it sounds bad, but I wonder if she would still be dancing now if she didn’t have to worry about me.

  I didn’t tell my mother I found her shoes. I looked at them for a few minutes and put them back in the drawer. They are her secret. But I wish I knew more about them and her life before she and Dad came to America.

  I listened to Yuri reading, savoring every one of his words. There are those rare, exquisite moments in teaching when you can almost feel your student’s thoughts, as though they were fingers reaching out to grab your hand. I would never know if Yuri had heard his mother and me speaking in the kitchen earlier about her dreams of dancing again. But in his one-page essay, his writing captured perfectly the mysteries of his mother’s past.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Those shoes do make you wonder about what other things people choose to keep secret.”

  “Yeah . . . but she probably doesn’t even realize I know about them. So don’t say anything to her, okay? I hate to have her worry about anything else.”