The Secret of Clouds

by Alyson Richman

  “What a beautiful name,” I said, slightly surprised by it.

  Katya smiled. “Yes. Violets bloom even in the snow.”

  And now I understood. The name meant everything. “Such a pleasure to meet you, Violet.” I extended my hand to her.

  She took it and squeezed my fingers. Her big blue eyes pierced my heart when she looked at me. For they were the same as Yuri’s.

  Katya smiled. “And I see you are expecting a little one of your own as well. Congratulations.”

  I looked down at my enormous belly. “Yes, I’m due July seventeenth.” She nodded, lifting the plate of cookies to soften the awkwardness between us. I took one of the shortbreads and put it on my plate.

  Katya gave one to Violet, then patted the little girl on the bottom and told her to go fetch one of her dolls from her room. “It took us some time to find the courage to try for another baby. The genetic testing and the early sonogram helped me gain my confidence. But there isn’t a day that I don’t think of him . . .”

  I looked outside. The birds were chirping. There were now three bird feeders on the deck, and suddenly my heart felt strangely full.

  * * *

  • • •

  “I’M sorry the letter was sent by accident,” I told her gently. “I wasn’t sure what to do when I found it again. I was planning on calling you over the summer to let you know I had it and to ask if I should send it to you, but this mistake at school took it out of my hands.”

  “Please,” she said, stopping me. Her voice cracked as she tried to force back her tears. “I just have to believe . . . that his letter was sent not by accident, but because he wanted to communicate with us again somehow. His words brought me so much comfort, you have no idea.”

  Her eyes wandered toward the corner of the room, the place where the big yellow chair had once stood. The old trophy from Finn was still there above the mantel, and on the bookshelves, I noticed several small framed photographs of Yuri. And by the sofa, on the end table, was an especially beautiful one of Sasha and Yuri wearing matching Yankees caps, their smiles radiant.

  I could sense that she still felt Yuri’s presence around her, and in a strange way, so did I. It was as if his spirit had remained here in the room along with us.

  “I’m so relieved, Katya. I had no idea what it said inside, and I didn’t want to cause you or Sasha any more pain.”

  The light in her face shifted. “Oh, you did just the opposite, Maggie.” She reached for my hands and gripped them in her own. “You can’t imagine how happy that letter made us.”

  A flood of emotions rushed through me. “I have always worried that you blamed me . . .”

  Her face softened as I said that, and her fingers tightened around mine. “I was just so lost in my grief when you came that last time. I was drowning.” She took a deep breath. “It wasn’t anything you did, not at all. The loss was just so . . . so big.” She brought a clenched fist to her chest.

  “I want to show you the letter, Maggie. You will see how much peace it has brought me and Sasha.” She pulled her fingers away from mine. “It’s full of everything that made Yuri so special.”

  She left the room and came back holding the envelope.

  “Please . . . ,” she said, handing it over to me. “When you read it, you will see Yuri again. His need to make sure we’re all okay. Not once thinking of himself.”

  I took the envelope in my hands, admiring the drawings one last time. Then I pulled out the letter:

  Dear Yuri,

  Congratulations on making it to 18 and graduating high school. I hope you are now six feet tall. I hope the Yankees are still champions and that Dr. Rosenblum found a cure for my heart defect and I am off to play baseball at college.

  I hope my dad has won a lot of science prizes for his work at the lab. And I hope my mom has put on those ballet shoes she keeps hidden in her drawer and is dancing again. But the most important thing I hope for in the future is that we are always together as a family. Today, when Ms. Topper told us to write a letter to our 18 year old self, I looked up at the sky outside my window, and I thought: “I hope every family has its own cloud in the sky. Wouldn’t it be nice if no matter what happens here on earth, that cloud is reserved for your family. When we die, we’ll all go there, and wait for those we love to join us on the family cloud.”

  These are my thoughts.

  Sincerely,

  Yuri, 11 ½ years old. December 1999

  I placed the letter down. I could hear Yuri’s voice lifting off the page. Six years after his death, it returned to me as clear as a bell in my ears. There was a prescience to Yuri’s words. As if he needed to know there was an alternate plan if something happened to him. I thought of the magical realism of Shoeless Joe, the fact that Yuri and I had discussed at length how Kinsella had dreamed up the possibility of a baseball diamond in the middle of a midwestern cornfield, populated by a team of all-star ghosts. “Anything is possible if you imagine it,” I told him. And now as I read Yuri’s letter, I saw he was dreaming of the possibility that a family cloud could actually exist. He needed to believe that one day, he would see everyone he loved again up there in the sky.

  I put the letter back into its envelope.

  Katya reached out to find my hand and squeezed it. “To think there might be a family cloud with him waiting there for us . . . It’s just . . .” Her voice cracked. “It’s just such a beautiful thought.”

  Minutes later, she stood up and went into another room. When she returned, she was carrying something I recognized immediately. Covered in tattered old magazine clippings and Magic Marker drawings on its front, it was Yuri’s writer’s notebook.

  The timeworn images rushed through me. Strangely familiar, yet eerily from another time. I saw the faded yellow photograph of a ballet dancer. An image of a glass laboratory beaker. A Russian Orthodox saint. A Jewish star. An evil eye. All those Yankees baseball cards. Derek Jeter, now half-unglued and practically separated from the black-and-white marble cover. My eyes found the familiar slice of pizza, a chocolate sundae, the haunting sticker of a broken heart, and the boyish hopefulness of the cottony white clouds.

  But there was another addition I hadn’t seen before. At some point he had added a photograph of him and Finn on their graduation day from Franklin, their arms slung across each other’s shoulders, their smiles radiant.

  Katya came back to the sofa and sat down. “For years, this was one of the most precious items I had of Yuri. To see his words inscribed in the pages, his thoughts and his ideas preserved there. To have this tangible piece of him was such a gift. But now I have his beautiful letter, too.”

  Tears were falling down my face. I couldn’t say the words I was thinking, because they were caught in my throat. But what I wanted to tell Katya was that everything about Yuri was beautiful—his laugh, his eyes, his words, and his soul.

  Katya took Yuri’s letter and slipped it into the notebook. “I will always have his words,” she said, her voice breaking again. She patted the book’s cover with her palms. “And it keeps me close to him.”

  And then she reached for my hand and covered it with hers. “I have you to thank for that, Maggie. Because of your teaching, I now have two things that came from Yuri that I can always take hold of and cherish. That I can reread whenever I need to feel close to him. You helped capture what was in his heart.”

  Epilogue

  THE days pass in such a different way now that I’ve had Georgie. There are some afternoons when the hours go by so slowly, when the day slips into patterns of feedings, diaper changing, and maintaining a routine for an infant who depends on me for nearly everything to keep him clean, safe, and fed. When my father comes to visit, he brings the violin he made for himself, and he puts it on the ground so Georgie can touch the varnished top with his hands and run his fingers over the strings. I see age transforming my parents i
n a way that is in sharp contrast to my ever-changing son. With each passing month, he grows stronger and reaches more milestones, the gurgling sounds of infancy now replaced by a few monosyllabic words. But my mother hasn’t been able to work in the garden because of back pain, and my father, still battling arthritis, seems to walk slower and more carefully now, as if he’s afraid he might misstep. I tell Daniel I feel life’s going in two directions, the aging of my parents against the miracle of our son’s growth. Both equally fragile, both striking the chords of my heart. I want to cup my hands and hold everyone close and keep everyone safe and healthy, though I know there is only so much I can control.

  Then there are days when I’m holding Georgie in my arms and I wonder how I will tell him about where he got his name, that in Russian his name would translate to Yuri. I want to tell him about a boy who loved baseball. Who had a heart so big and a smile just as wide. I want to tell him when he’s older that we are blessed every day we are able to spend with the people we love. But I also want to tell him that, should we ever become separated, his mother believes the words of a twelve-year-old boy who once wrote them in a letter to himself—that in the sky above us, every family has its own special cloud.

  Acknowledgments

  The Secret of Clouds is first and foremost a love letter to all the teachers I’ve had in my life who contributed to making me the writer I am today. From my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Goldberg, who one day placed a blob of paint on a piece of paper and instructed me, “Write a story about what you see,” to my creative writing professor at Wellesley College, Laura Levine, I’ve had so many wonderful teachers who helped to shape my mind and open my eyes to the world around me.

  The late James Swink, my English teacher for all three of my years at Harbor Country Day School, was the first to encourage me to keep a writing journal. He always used to say to me, “Alyson, when you’re a writer . . . ,” and never “if you’re ever a writer . . .” This year when my son, Zachary, was assigned To Kill a Mockingbird as the summer reading for his ninth-grade English class, I reread the novel and recalled Mr. Swink’s voice in my head—his beautiful Southern accent sounding aloud the passages that he so loved. That is the thing about a good teacher; their voice and their wisdom become forever imprinted in us.

  I came to have a new appreciation and even deeper respect for teachers after my two children, Zachary and Charlotte, started going to school. Every day I saw their teachers’ selflessness and enthusiasm to instill the love of learning into young minds. Susie Meisler, Judy Biener, Ilene Brown, Erika Brignoti, Michelle Melara, Camille Tedeschi, and Kelly Krysinkski are just a few of the teachers my children have had over the years who awed me with their dedication to their profession.

  The Secret of Clouds was initially inspired by a dear friend and teacher, Christina Tudisco, who described to me how every year she assigns her class to write letters to their eighteen-year-old selves, and that she holds on to the letters until the week that class eventually graduates high school. Although the character of Yuri is wholly a fabric of my imagination, I know there were situations where a few of Christina’s students sadly did not make it to their senior year. Knowing that these letters could serve as a time capsule by preserving those children’s hopes and dreams of a future that would never arise moved me deeply.

  I am grateful to a handful of other dedicated teachers who shared their experiences with me and were kind enough to read and comment upon prior drafts of the book: Patricia Nowak and Angela Bruner shared with me their teaching experiences in 1999 and also introduced me to the work of the literacy educator Lucy Calkins and Teachers College Reading and Writing Project; I am especially thankful to Allison Von Vange and Michele Webb, who read several drafts of the novel and made sure it rang true. As well as early readers MJ Rose, Suzanne Sheran, Andrea Peskind Katz, Robbin Klein, Jardine Libaire, Victoria Leventhal, Nikki Koklanaris, Michelle Chydzik-Sowa, and my father, Paul Richman. An enormous thanks also to my agent extraordinaire, Sally Wofford-Girand, who has been a cheerleader for my writing for nearly twenty years, and to everyone at Berkley, especially my editor, Kate Seaver, who pushed me harder with this book than she has with any other. Also, as with all my novels, my husband, Stephen, is the first pair of eyes to read every chapter and serves as my sounding board. Without his love and support, none of this would be possible. You will always be the dark-haired, light-eyed boy in all my novels.

  Also, I am indebted to dancer Nicoleta Moldavan for sharing stories about her childhood studying ballet in her native Romania when it was part of the Soviet Union’s communist bloc. To Guy Fletcher and Philip Mollenkott, thanks for your assistance in helping me concoct a credible dance injury for my character Katya.

  For assisting me in my research and understanding about Ebstein’s anomaly, I wish to thank doctors David D’Agate, Sean Levchuck, and Doug Luxenberg. By sharing with me their knowledge of pediatric heart conditions, they helped to ensure that my descriptions of Yuri’s experiences were as medically accurate as possible. And for relaying colorful details about their lives in Ukraine post-Chernobyl, I am very thankful to Lana Dovna and Vadim Shtrom.

  Lastly, so much of my son is in this book. Without him, I would never have been drawn into the world of baseball that he so loves. I am indebted to Rob Steinert, who in teaching my son pitching over the years has also imparted to him many other worthwhile lessons about life and team sports. I also wish to thank Sam Menzin, who graciously detailed for me his childhood passion for baseball, which began the same time as my character Yuri’s. His knowledge and enthusiasm were infectious, and I will always recall with great fondness our zealous wild-goose chase to fact-check some of the Andy Pettitte references in the story.

  But it was my sweet, sweet Zachary who, after his great-grandmother passed away, whispered through his tears that he hoped every family had its own cloud and we would all end up on ours one day. He breathed the heart and soul into this book. I love you.

  Questions for Discussion

  Maggie and Yuri’s teacher-student relationship is the heart of The Secret of Clouds. Do you have a teacher who left a lasting impression on you or made a permanent impact on your life?

  How do music and dance serve as different forms of language for the characters in The Secret of Clouds? Think about how music is embraced in Maggie’s home and how it ultimately draws her to Daniel. How is it different from Katya’s family’s attitude toward her dancing? Does the fact that Katya is a ballet dancer influence her romance with Sasha?

  How do the Topper and Krasny households communicate through food? What are the cultural differences? What are the similarities? Does food play a role in your family’s traditions and holidays?

  Maggie’s mother tells her, “We can’t be so afraid of experiencing pain that it interferes with the things we love.” What are the different painful obstacles that the characters face, and how do they overcome them?

  There are several references to butterflies in the novel. Why do certain characters identify with butterflies? Sasha also describes the butterfly effect to Katya early on in their relationship. Can you think of an example in your life where one individual meeting changed your destiny?

  Do you believe Yuri’s heart defect was caused by the Chernobyl accident or was just a random case of bad luck? Does the author imply there were certain things that increased Katya’s risk of having a child with a birth defect?

  How do Katya and Sasha approach Yuri’s diagnosis differently? How do their experiences as parents differ? How does each of them deal with the strain and fear of having a sick child?

  How does Sasha’s faith transform over time? How is the conflict between science and faith explored in the novel? How do Sasha and Katya’s beliefs differ on this issue?

  What role do sports play in The Secret of Clouds, and how do they unite the various characters in the novel? What makes baseball such an att
ractive sport for Sasha and Yuri?

  Both Florence and Katya have family stories that they don’t share readily with others, yet these histories impact how they are perceived by others. Did you have greater sympathy for these characters once you learned about their past experiences? Do you know people in your life whom you saw differently and more empathetically once you learned something they don’t often reveal to others?

  Do you think there are individuals who are destined to become teachers because of certain qualities that they possess? What traits do you think contribute to making some people more suitable than others for the profession? Is teaching a calling? Have you been drawn to a certain profession? What made you a perfect fit for that job?

  Interview with Alyson Richman

  In the past you’ve always written historical novels. What inspired you to a write a more contemporary story? What themes did you know you wanted to explore?

  The Secret of Clouds is indeed my first contemporary novel, but I didn’t consciously set out to write a more modern-day story. Instead, the material actually found me. Just like with my earlier novels, the book was inspired by a true-life story that haunted me and that I couldn’t shake from my mind. A dear friend of mine who is an elementary school teacher told me about a letter she had kept for several years as part of an old class assignment. The letter, which was written by a sick child who later tragically died, was inadvertently mailed back to the boy’s parents before my friend had had a chance to alert them that it was on its way. I felt that so much of that story warranted further exploration: the dedication and passion of an educator, the unique relationship between a teacher and a bright and curious yet physically weakened and isolated child, and the unforeseen comfort that a piece of paper—written in the since-departed child’s hand—would later bring to all who had known him.