The Secret of Clouds

by Alyson Richman

  I raised my hand. “I give you my word. I promise I’ll never betray anything you say . . . or write to me in confidence.”

  Yuri’s smile faded into a serious expression. “My dad is always saying, ‘You take care of the people you love.’” He looked at me. “I guess he doesn’t want me to worry that he and my mom are always having to take care of me.”

  A flash of translucence appeared in his face at that moment, the boy morphing into a young man.

  At his words, I felt my heart melt.

  Yuri put his notebook on the table.

  “So, can I have it now?” I asked. “I’ll read the rest of your entries when I get home tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” he said, but that strange sense of discomfort seemed to wash over him again.

  He closed the notebook and gave it to me. I slipped it into my bag.

  Yuri sat back in his chair.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Uh-huh.” He stretched the word out.

  “Well, then let’s get started on discussing Bridge to Terabithia. I’m curious what you thought of Jess and Leslie’s unlikely friendship.”

  Yuri again seemed distracted. I was having such a hard time reading what was causing him to be so anxious. We had seemed to be bonding so nicely over the writing exercise, but now I sensed I was losing him again.

  I took another deep breath and waited several seconds for him to regain his focus.

  “I thought it helped them both survive difficult circumstances.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “I also liked how Jess set goals for himself with his running. How he wants to earn his father’s respect through sports.”

  I nodded. “That’s right. And Jess doesn’t have an easy life, does he?”

  “No,” Yuri answered. “He’s got it rough. His friendship with Leslie helps him, though. She shows him so many things that he wouldn’t know about if they weren’t friends.”

  “That’s right! She introduces him to a whole other magical world.”

  Yuri shifted in his seat. “That’s the great thing about friends, I guess.”

  “Yes. You learn so much from them, right? You can gain a new perspective from all their experiences and even just by listening to them. Just like I’m learning from you right now, Yuri.”

  He forced a smile. I could tell he was still preoccupied by something, though.

  “Ms. Topper, would you mind if I have my notebook back for a second?”

  I looked at him quizzically. “Sure, Yuri. Is there something wrong?”

  “No, I just need to fix something.”

  I retrieved his notebook from my bag and handed it back to him. He opened it up and riffled through the pages until he found one that had been folded over to ensure it would remain private.

  But now he was smoothing the page back, so it became flattened.

  He closed the notebook and handed it back to me.

  “Thank you, Ms. Topper,” he said softly. “I guess with writing, sometimes you write things just for yourself. And then later, you realize if you really trust the person who’s reading it, it’s okay to share.”

  * * *

  • • •

  THAT night as I left Bill in the living room watching an episode of Law and Order, I went upstairs to read my students’ notebooks. I saved Yuri’s for last, knowing there was something in it that required my full attention. When I got to the page he had initially folded over only to later change his mind, it seemed to signify how far Yuri and I had come over these past few months. The flattened page was a symbol of trust.

  Sometimes I really hate being me. I love my mom and dad, and I know Dr. Rosenblum thought it was the right decision for me not to go to school this year after I got sick so much last year, but it seems to me like you only get to be a kid once in your life and I’m not getting that chance. I wish I could have even one friend my age. Someone I could really talk to about things I love, like baseball and even birds. I know I have my dad to talk to about baseball and Ms. Topper sort of likes baseball too, but it’s not like she’s a super-fan. She thought Mariano pitched a perfect game last season, but it really was David Wells. She’s a lady and can make mistakes like that I guess, but sometimes I just wish I could fly over to Ms. Topper’s classroom and be a bird, like a pigeon or something, peering outside her window, just to be close to other kids.

  As I read the words, I could feel Yuri’s pain lifting off the page. Knowing I was powerless to soothe a child’s suffering gripped me in the same way it had years before, when I saw little Ellie watching as the yellow school bus passed by her house. I so wanted to help him. But how?

  * * *

  • • •

  FOR the next few days I struggled over what to do with the information Yuri had chosen to share with me. I realized it would be a betrayal of his trust to show his notebook to Suzie or even my mother, as deeply as I craved their counsel. But I still wished I had someone to brainstorm with me about what I might be able to do to make him feel less isolated.

  It wasn’t until I was standing in front of my third-period class and my eyes fell upon Finn that inspiration struck. It was the Yankees hat on his head, which he had forgotten yet again to take off after recess, that sparked the idea.

  * * *

  • • •

  THAT afternoon as I left for Yuri’s house, I felt the fog of not knowing how to make his situation better lifting. I realized I might have found a way to soften his isolation.

  I waited until I finished my lesson with Yuri. Katya was standing over the sink, wiping up the counter.

  “We had a great session today. It’s wonderful to see how he’s completing all of his reading assignments and doing his daily writing entries.”

  Katya looked up and smiled. “He’s a good boy. He wants to do well. But of course, it is hard to be cooped up here all day.”

  It felt like a window of opportunity was opening for me, so I seized it.

  “It’s true. It’s hard that he doesn’t get to have any interaction with the other children,” I agreed sympathetically.

  “Even when he was at the other school, it was hard for him to connect. He is an old soul in some ways. Because of his condition, he has experienced a different kind of childhood, and he is more mature than some kids his age. I know he considers Dr. Rosenblum a friend.”

  I lowered my eyes and then lifted them to meet hers. “Well, truthfully, a doctor, as much as he is a part of Yuri’s life, can’t be the same as having a friend his own age.”

  Katya gave me a hard look. The room suddenly felt cold.

  “I’m saying this because I care about Yuri,” I continued, determined to help Yuri, “but would you ever consider having him visit the class, even if it’s just for one day? I know you and I discussed it a while back, and it would be such a treat for him.”

  Katya’s gaze softened. “I did ask the doctor about that recently, but he thinks it’s still too much of a risk to have him be near so many children at this point.” She took a deep breath. “It’s bad enough knowing there’s nothing we can do about the Ebstein’s anomaly and irregular heartbeat. But, in the eleven years we’ve had Yuri, we’ve always been vigilant about his immune system . . . protecting it is something we can actually control. His breathing has always been an issue, and even a little cold could have him running to the ER. And during the winter, there’s an even greater risk for colds or, even worse, the flu . . .”

  I had anticipated her answer. It was understandable, but I had also been thinking of a more creative solution, an alternative option.

  “Well, I certainly understand your concern. I do have another idea that might work, though. A compromise of sorts.

  “I wonder if I might be able to bring one of my other students . . . another really special boy, to one of my two sessions here each week,
so Yuri can have a little more interaction and our book discussions can be more involved. A third party would really help.”

  “You mean, bring him here?”

  “Yes, perhaps it wouldn’t overwhelm Yuri’s immune system if it was just one other child, and he took precautions to wash his hands like I do when I visit.”

  Katya was listening. I could see her pondering the possibility.

  “Let me think about it and discuss it with my husband and Yuri’s doctor.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “It does seem like a good compromise.”

  “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t think it would help Yuri, and I really have the perfect boy to invite.”

  I didn’t say his name aloud. But I knew right away the other child would have to be Finn.

  32

  AFTER her injury, Katya had recurring dreams where she was still dancing. In her subconscious, she was still a girl who could lift her ankle above her head, and could leap and pirouette. How she missed that weightlessness as she jumped, feet pointed and arms outstretched. In her mind, her body tapered like an arrow, so compact and precise, she could pierce the air.

  There were dreams where she was onstage and the strong beams of light focused solely on her, where she danced the roles of Stravinsky’s Firebird or Tchaikovsky’s swan. She wore feathers on her head and crowns with sparkling center jewels. She danced in a frenzy, her body morphing from woman to bird.

  When Katya awoke, there was always a moment of disorientation, a confusion between two worlds—one where she was still a dancer in Kiev, and one where she was an isolated immigrant in the United States.

  After Yuri’s diagnosis, she stopped dreaming of dancing. She didn’t sleep long enough to have dreams. She still slept, but only in fits and bursts. And even though Yuri was no longer an infant sleeping in a crib, but rather a middle-school-age boy, her impulse to check on him never went away.

  Sasha slept like a bear, his body curled toward the nightstand, his worry stopping the moment he shut his eyes. Katya envied his ability to turn off his mind and surrender to sleep. But her body woke every hour. Even after all these years, there wasn’t a night that she didn’t carefully peel away the covers and walk silently down the hallway toward Yuri’s door.

  Some nights, she even brought Yuri into bed with her and Sasha. After all, it was her husband who once told her he had met a scientist who told him that hearts had their own language. “Two hearts in close proximity can synchronize themselves,” Sasha explained. “Some even believe the closeness of another heart can heal a broken one,” he whispered to her long before they even had Yuri. So on those nights when Yuri slept beside her—her heart pressed against his back—Katya wondered if Yuri could feel her love pushing through his skin, willing her son to be healed.

  33

  IT was funny that such a small bit of news could make me so happy. Just knowing Katya was open to my bringing another student over to meet Yuri put a little spring into my step.

  As I drove down the winding country roads toward home, I was already thinking about the project I would assign the two of them. They were both sports lovers, so I thought about a newspaper project where I would ask them each to write a column about a specific event when an athlete had changed history. Jesse Owens running in the 1936 Olympics and Jackie Robinson’s experiences as the first black baseball player were possibilities. Any story about an athlete overcoming adversity was something I thought both boys would enjoy.

  By the time I pulled into our gravel driveway, it was dark outside. Bill wasn’t home yet, so I turned on the light and began making dinner.

  On the radio, Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ la Vida Loca” played, and I found myself doing a little salsa as I padded through the kitchen, searching for pots and pans.

  Half an hour later, after I simmered some garlic and onions, poured one of my mother’s jars of summer tomatoes into the pan, and boiled some pasta, I saw the lights of Bill’s car pull up to the house.

  “Hi, honey!” I hollered as I heard him come through the door and put his keys on the table. “Spaghetti and Mom’s sauce for dinner! I’ll be right there!” I was so excited to share with him the good news.

  I turned the flame down on the stove to let the sauce simmer and went over to kiss him hello.

  “Hey,” I said as I walked into the hallway to greet him. But the other words that were about to follow, the “how was your day” or “are you hungry for dinner,” immediately fell to the wayside. Bill was standing there with bloodshot eyes and his collar half-open. His typical crisp navy Brooks Brothers suit was crumpled and, strangely, he was wearing an old University of Michigan baseball cap. Even worse, he was wearing it backward.

  I walked closer to him, and I could smell the yeasty scent of beer coming out of his pores. I hadn’t seen him look that disheveled since his fraternity rushing days.

  Suddenly all the good feelings that had gone into preparing dinner, all the love from my mother’s home-grown tomatoes, had evaporated. Now, all I could see was my boyfriend of six years, who looked like a combination of a barfly and the crumpled, half-shaven detective Lieutenant Columbo.

  “Sorry I’m late. My buddy Ben came out to the Island for business, and then he surprised me at work.”

  “I made us dinner,” I muttered. “I had some good news I wanted to share, but maybe now’s not such a good time.”

  I watched as he pulled off his coat and draped it over the couch. “I’m all ears, Maggie. What’s the good news?”

  I was about to tell him, when I stopped. I didn’t want to sully my happiness with his pub breath.

  “Nothing. Just forget it,” I said as I turned my back on him and went to plate the dinner. He didn’t even seem upset that I was so annoyed at him. If anything, it felt as if he wasn’t listening to me at all.

  I heard him switch the television on, and I poured the pasta into the colander. But it had boiled for too long. It was soggy and lifeless, and I couldn’t bear to serve my mother’s tomatoes over it. So I refilled the pot with water and started over.

  34

  “HE was just decompressing a little after work,” Suzie said in Bill’s defense the next day at lunch. We were three weeks away from Christmas break, and I noticed she was already ushering in the holiday by wearing a bright red chenille sweater, black velvet leggings, and a very colorful snowman pin.

  “Don’t let it get you down, Mags. Men like a beer every now and then with the guys to blow off steam. It’s like women with chocolate cake.”

  “I wish we had some cake right now,” I said wistfully. Suzie and I hardly ever ate in the faculty room. The place perpetually smelled like microwaved leftovers and burned coffee. It was really disconcerting to open the refrigerator and see ancient cartons of milk or foam take-out containers with Post-its on them blaring Do Not Touch! You’d think that from all the Rubbermaid containers with teachers’ names blazing in red Sharpie marker, every teacher at Franklin was a kleptomaniac.

  One thing was undeniable. The faculty room was incredibly depressing and only worsened my mood. But it was too cold to eat outside, and my classroom was being used for student testing, so I tried to focus on my conversation with Suzie.

  “The thing is, Suze, I’ve been with Bill since sophomore year of college, but this is the first time we’ve actually lived together. I guess I just didn’t notice all the drinking and the endless television watching before. It used to be I’d show up at his dorm room or even his old apartment, and he’d always be ready to go out and grab dinner or see a movie . . . But now, I feel like the only thing that connects us is that we’re sharing a home together.”

  “Are you saying you now realize after six years of dating that you have nothing in common?”

  “Well, we both still like the Mets.” I shrugged, trying to make a joke out of it. “There always used to be some intelligence imbuin
g our conversations. He was this funny, witty guy who had an amazing knowledge of trivia and pop culture. But now when he comes home he just seems like a tired, old ex-frat guy. He’s twenty-eight going on seventy-eight.”

  “Yuck.” Suzie made a face. “I didn’t even like those guys when they were in college.” She lifted a forkful of casserole to her mouth. “I guess I always preferred the more bohemian types. You know . . . the kind that listened to the Grateful Dead and wore a rainbow macramé belt,” she chuckled. “God, Mags, the jocks always thought if they just put some James Taylor or Cat Stevens on a mixtape, they could have you on the spot.”

  “I guess I was an easy target. I lost my virginity to Bill listening to ‘Fire and Rain.’ I think Bill might still have that copy of James Taylor’s Greatest Hits sitting around just for that purpose.”

  “You did not!” she shrieked. “I’m never going to get that song out of my head now.”

  “I did. In fact, if he had lasted for a few seconds longer, we could have added ‘Sweet Baby James’ to that glorious memory.”

  Suzie groaned.

  “I’m glad I’ve now become unforgettable for you,” I said, clearly pleased with myself. Just then the bell rang.

  “Jesus, we’re going to be late for our classes.”

  We dumped our now-empty containers on the shelf in the kitchen before we rushed to our classrooms. Neither of us had written our names on the lids. Time would tell whether they would still be there when we got back or whether they would fall victim to the dreaded Franklin canister thief.

  “Slow down, Ms. Topper,” I heard a voice call out in a warm melody of concern.

  It was Daniel, who was standing outside the music room.

  He gestured toward my boot. My shoelace was untied.

  “Wouldn’t want you to trip and fall . . .”