“Sometimes people get a little distracted during the holidays,” she added in Bill’s defense. “But I know how much Bill enjoys all the seafood we make for our Italian Christmas. Seven courses of happiness,” she said, and I could hear in her voice how much joy it brought her to cook for all of us. “So if he likes that, then he can’t be all bad . . .”
I loved how she always channeled my grandmother and great-grandmother Valentina when she cooked at Christmastime. It was as though the memories of them were pressed into the flour and egg mixture as she rolled out the sheets for the ravioli. She hummed her mother’s favorite songs as she dusted powdered sugar over her cannoli. Food is love. I heard her favorite words echoing in my ears.
And yet, I knew that so many languages of love existed. Some forms, however, were more obvious than others. But if you took a step back sometimes, you could find it in the most unlikely places. And the discovery of it was often the greatest reward.
39
SASHA never told Katya that he had recently discovered an article in a scientific journal that mentioned how mushrooms absorbed radiation from both the atmosphere and the soil in which they grow. Katya had always loved mushrooms. She added them to eggs, mixed them with barley, and sautéed them with bits of chicken and ate them with rice.
Back in Kiev, he loved the sight of her returning from the market holding a basket of produce just harvested from the forest: wild oniongrass, fiddlehead ferns, and berries when they were in season. He remembered how that autumn, several months after the nuclear reactor accident, she remarked that the man at the market said the mushroom crop had been more plentiful than ever that year.
Katya knew enough to stay away from the strawberries that were as large as chicken eggs and the apples that grew in unusual gourd-like shapes. But mushrooms and blackberries, she couldn’t eat enough of them.
A few years after Yuri had been diagnosed, and after perestroika had begun in the USSR when information about the children affected by the nuclear fallout was finally released, Sasha made a list.
The water she had bathed in. All the mushrooms she had eaten. The sunburn she had in the early days before we knew a nuclear accident had occurred. Sasha looked at the list and convinced himself that these were all elements of a tragic scientific equation that had ultimately produced Yuri’s heart defect.
Katya’s sister, Yulia, was now grown up and worked as a nurse in a hospital near the Belarusian and Ukrainian border. “There’s so much cancer here,” she told him. “All these strange tumors . . . and so many babies are being born with a hole between the two lower chambers of their heart. I’ve seen so many cases of Ebstein’s anomaly just like Yuri, even though it’s been over ten years since the nuclear accident. And, Sasha, there’s nothing we can do to help them.” Through the telephone, he could hear her clicking her tongue thousands of miles away.
“The doctors say they never saw this amount of problems before Chernobyl,” Yulia whispered. “Even though the government officially denies the connection.” She never told any of this to Katya when they spoke on the telephone, and Sasha also kept the troubling information from his wife.
“She already blames herself,” he told his sister-in-law. “But she did nothing wrong. The government told us we were all safe.”
“The women of childbearing age must have been the most vulnerable,” Yulia confided in him. “I see the consequences of it every day. A whole new generation born with so many problems.”
He always tried to convince himself that they were lucky they had gotten out of the Soviet Union when they did. That he was now employed at a prestigious university lab and that their health insurance provided them and Yuri with the best health care around.
But at night, whenever a sense of restlessness took over him, Sasha would tiptoe into Yuri’s bedroom and just stare at his sleeping boy. He remembered that, when Yuri was an infant, his crib was placed within arm’s reach from their bed, and Katya slept with one eye open, afraid that he might stop breathing during the night. After they had moved him to his own room and into a big-boy bed, Sasha would often wake to find her sleeping on the carpet next to Yuri. His perpetual guardian of safekeeping.
Even now, they often eclipsed each other in the night, two ships making their rounds to Yuri’s bedroom just to make sure he was breathing soundly in his bed.
But time had transformed Yuri from a delicate little infant into a handsome young man. It was undeniable that his health was fragile, but he still was like the other boys his age in many ways. His bedroom was decorated with posters of his favorite Yankees players. A mobile of the solar system hung from the ceiling. On his nightstand, he proudly displayed the signed baseball that Sasha’s boss had gotten for him.
The moonlight streamed into the room, and Sasha marveled at his son. He was a miracle to him. His beautiful skin, his perfect features. His bubbling curiosity and warm sense of humor.
Sasha loved him with so much ferocity that it sometimes felt like a sharp, shooting pain in his heart.
From the moment Yuri was born, Sasha had promised his Katya that their son would triumph over his diagnosis.
But he never once let his wife know his deepest secret, that he was no different than she was. Sasha, too, worried every day that something might happen to their beautiful boy.
40
TWO days before Christmas break, my desk was littered with presents from my students. I had never realized how badly I must have needed a bath before I received this treasure trove. Brightly packaged boxes of soap, bottles from Bath & Body Works, and neon-colored loofahs enveloped me in a cloud of conflicting perfumes.
There were a few sparkling exceptions. Lisa Yamamoto had given me a gorgeous bento box with lacquered chopsticks, with a note that said she thought I’d think this could be a nifty new lunch box to bring to school each day. Roland McKenna gave me a box of chocolates. And from Finn, I received a ceramic coffee mug with “World’s Best Teacher” emblazoned on the front.
I had bought a box of chocolate lollipops in the shape of snowflakes to give out to all my students. While they were at recess, I attached a little note to each of them that read Happy Holidays in bright red marker.
The kids were still in the gym for recess when Suzie came into my room for a quick chat. I looked up from one of my notecards and smiled at her.
“Hey, just thought I’d check up on you. The other day you seemed a bit down.”
There were small bells attached to her sweater, and she sounded like a wind chime when she walked.
“You’re Jingle Bells today?” I teased her. “When are you going to be Rudolph? Tomorrow, on the last day of school?”
“Gotta have a sense of humor, Mags,” she said, pulling at the pockets of her cardigan. “All the kids’ eyes were on me today when I showed them how to make plaster of Paris. The bells are taking full credit, of course.”
“You crack me up.”
She came closer and picked up the wrapped presents from my desk. “Looks like the art teacher gets hosed on Christmas presents, that’s for sure.” She picked up a bottle of rose lotion with a bow around its neck. “I’m impressed.”
“I guess they think you smell awesome already. Feel free to take something.”
Suzie grabbed a bar of soap and brought it to her nose, inhaling the strong, synthetic fragrance.
“The truth is, the handmade notes are what I love the best. Forget the ones in perfect script that so eloquently express their gratitude. I know their mothers wrote those.” I shook my head. “No, I love the ones like this . . .” I lifted Lisa’s card, which had her signature origami crane pasted to the outside.
Dear Ms. Topper,
You make school fun. It doesn’t even feel like school in your class. I hope you enjoy bringing your lunch in this bento box and maybe even learn to use chopsticks! Thank you and Merry Christmas.
Love,
Lisa
“Or this one.” I showed her Robert’s.
Dear Ms. Topper.
Merry X-mas. You’ve been super nice this year, so I hope you get lots of presents. Here’s one from me. You don’t have to share the chocolate with your family, if you don’t want to. It’s all for you.
From,
Robert
Lastly, I showed her the one from Finn.
Dear Ms. Topper,
Thanks for asking me to do writer’s workshops with Yuri. He’s cool and I’m happy to help out. I’m hoping he gets stronger so we can hit some balls outside together this spring.
Your student,
Finn
Suzie looked amused. “From the mouths of babes.”
“Right? I want to save each one. Maybe I’ll put them in the file with those letters I had them all write to themselves. That cabinet in my basement can become my own personal time capsule.”
She laughed.
“What are you going to get Bill this year? Anything good?”
I made a face. “I’ve been stressing out over it. I have no idea.”
Suzie’s hand floated over the sea of presents on my desk. She paused on one of the handmade cards that was taped to a bath caddy.
“Why don’t you make him something homemade? Screw expensive presents. Write him something from your heart. You said it yourself, the notes from your kids are the presents you like the best.”
“I’m not sure he’d appreciate the sentiment,” I told her as I taped my final holiday card on its chocolate lollipop. “I think he’d prefer some Mets tickets or a Beer of the Month Club . . .”
“How about a James Taylor mixtape?” She burst out laughing.
“Seriously, what about you, my dear? What’s on your Christmas list this year?” she queried. “Something with a little sparkle?”
“You know, Suze, honestly . . . if I could have anything, it would be what Finn wrote in his note.” I sighed. “I’d love the chance to see Yuri play some baseball.”
41
SOMEONE had left one of the doors to the auditorium open, and the sound of the school orchestra playing “Ode to Joy” floated through the hallway. I knew the melody from the days when I had butchered the notes so terribly on my first—and last—violin, when my father quickly realized I had not come close to inheriting an ounce of his musical talent.
The music was strong and lifting. I had fifteen minutes before my next period, and I found myself being pulled into the back of the room, strangely comforted by the mixture of the different stringed instruments.
The children’s heads were bowed toward their sheet music, their arms gliding the horsehair over the strings. Even if I could never master playing the violin, I still felt my body responding to the music, as though triggered by something warm and familiar.
At the front of the stage, on a little wooden podium with his back to the empty seats, stood Daniel. His baton dancing in arabesques.
He moved like he was in a trance. One hand held the baton while the other gesticulated freely, its fingers coaxing melodies into the air.
I watched as he turned to the different sections of instruments, signaling one group to soften their playing and another to increase theirs. His shoulders hunched over the music stand, his dark curly hair bobbing with each note.
I could have watched him for hours, with the intimacy of observing something beautiful and private. He had transformed from the funny, sweet new substitute teacher into something more abstract, more interesting. An artist, lost in his craft. I couldn’t help myself. I felt that I had witnessed magic.
42
I had lingered in the auditorium until the last minute before the bell rang, savoring the music and the sight of seeing another side of Daniel. As the sounds changed from a performance to the rustle of sheet music being shuffled into folders and feet tapping the back of metal chairs, I rushed to my classroom to teach my last class before the winter break.
The students were restless. Conversations about who was going where for the vacation were intermingled with media-fueled paranoia about Y2K. I heard Oscar mention how his father was stockpiling cash out of fear that his bank account would be wiped out in a cyberattack. Lisa said her parents had filled their basement with gallon jugs of Poland Spring water, flashlights, batteries, and a suitcase full of dried ramen. It occurred to me that Bill and I had done nothing to prepare for any possible calamity. I looked over at my desk filled with more gifts of cellophane-wrapped body wash and moisturizers, and knew that no matter what happened on January 1, I would be clean and smelling pretty.
Fully aware that my job as a teacher was to create a classroom free of fear or anxiety, I knew I had to put an end to all these apocalyptic Y2K scenarios the kids were sharing and try to focus their energy on something more positive.
I attempted to regain their attention by asking them to write a list of their New Year’s goals. “I’ve got quite a few of my own,” I said as I walked through the maze of desks, watching as they pulled out their notebooks. “I’m going to put on the top of my list that I’m going to listen to my inner voice more. You know what that means?”
“Your conscience?” Lisa answered.
“In a way. But more like my inner compass. I want it to keep me focused on my best path.
“I’m also going to try to stop eating so many cookies.” I patted my stomach.
The class laughed. “Okay, now all of you have fifteen minutes to write up your list.”
They hunched over their desks and began writing. I looked over at Zach’s list and it made me laugh. Be neater, it read. He was the student who always came to school with his shoelaces untied, his hair uncombed. He never threw a single paper out from his Trapper Keeper, and his desk always felt sticky even after the janitor came the night before. I tapped on his shoulder and he turned around.
“Good one,” I said, and I gave him a thumbs-up.
* * *
• • •
AFTER the final bell of the year rang, I watched as the students rushed outside, their peals of excitement ricocheting through the halls. I wasn’t supposed to have a lesson with Yuri the day before we all broke for vacation, but I wanted to stop by anyway to give him his chocolate lollipop and my holiday note. I didn’t want him to miss out on anything I did for the other children if I could help it.
I had spoken to Katya briefly on the telephone, and she said he was having a lazy morning. He’d had an EKG the day before, and he was tired from the day out.
“He’d love to see you, though, so come anyway. We have a little something to give you.”
I drove down the familiar back roads from Franklin to the Krasnys’ home. The ancient elm trees with their heavy, twisting boughs were padded with the most recent snowfall. Somehow, my commute to Yuri’s house seemed less harried underneath this downy white canopy than it typically did. A squirrel scampered across the road, and I slowed down to make sure it got safely across.
There was a warm glow of candles in the front window of Yuri’s house, and I realized as I walked closer to the front door that it was a Hanukkah menorah. The plastic white candles even had fake melted wax in the mold.
“Happy holidays,” Katya said as she opened the door for me. She looked festive in a red sweater dress and black tights. I was dressed like a Wookiee from Star Wars, with a big hat with fur trim and an oversize parka. I stomped the snow off my boots and walked inside.
“I see you’ve embraced the complete holiday experience,” I said, now feeling ten pounds lighter after peeling off my outerwear. I pointed to the tree and the menorah.
She laughed. “Yuri likes to celebrate both holidays so he can get extra presents. Typical kid. The more gifts to open, the better.” Katya feigned disapproval, but you could tell she was charmed by Yuri’s abundant enthusiasm.
“And I like it because, a
s I told you last week, we could never have had any religious festivities like this back in Ukraine.” She lifted her hand and smoothed back her ponytail. “I’ve made some progress with my Jewish atheist husband . . . At least he’s now an agnostic.”
I chuckled.
“Ms. Topper?” Yuri’s voice emerged. I looked over and saw him standing next to the Christmas tree. He was wearing soft fleece pants and a long T-shirt. “Come look at this!”
I walked down the two carpeted steps that led to the small living room. I had seen their tree on my last visit with Finn, but this time there were several presents arranged underneath it.
Yuri reached down and picked up a small rectangular one that was wrapped in shiny red and gold foil.
“This is for you. Merry Christmas.” He was beaming.
The present felt heavy, like it might be a book. I immediately thanked him and walked with him over to the sofa. I carefully tried to peel off the tape so I could keep the wrapping paper pristine. It felt like good manners not to tear it open like a savage.
I looked down and saw he had given me a beautiful leather journal. It was chestnut brown, elegant and stately. The edges of the paper were even trimmed in gold. “I thought you might want a grown-up writer’s journal of your own,” he said sweetly.
“This is the most beautiful journal I’ve ever seen,” I insisted, bringing it to my chest. “I’ve never had anything like it. Thanks so much, champ.”
His cheeks flushed a soft pink. “There’s a note inside, too.”
I opened up the journal and saw the small envelope. “Should I read it now?”
“Nah, read it later,” Yuri answered. “I just wanted you to know it’s there.”
I smiled at him and then leaned over and gave him a hug. I had never hugged Yuri before, and in my arms, I could feel his sparrow-thin bones. He was so fragile, I worried I could have broken him in two.
The Secret of Clouds Page 15
