“But you need to live your life and honor that boy in a way that does justice to his memory.” Her voice was strong and firm. “Don’t replay his parents’ private grief in your mind over and over like a record. Maggie, it’s not yours to play.”
* * *
• • •
HER words pierced through me, and as difficult as they were to hear, they also awakened something inside me. I began to think of life differently, trying to readjust my sense of timing. I strove to live more in the present and appreciate all that was around me. I tried to honor Yuri’s spirit by throwing myself even more into my classes and my students. I thought of him every time I pointed out the images of the Colosseum or the pizza slice on my writing workbook cover. And I thought of him every year I assigned Shoeless Joe to a boy who loved sports, and I could almost hear his voice in my ear as we discussed which passages were the most moving.
And there were other smaller gestures that I made to connect me with Yuri’s memory, ones that made my life a little sweeter, a little slower, and inspired me to savor the world around me. I bought a bird feeder and put it outside my kitchen window. It was simple and unpainted, a classic wooden house with a perch and a round open door. And when a beautiful red cardinal or a dazzling blue jay came to feed, I thought of Yuri every time. The birds’ visits felt like a reassurance—that his spirit continued to exist around me—just as their majestic wings spread open and they flew confidently back into the sky.
* * *
• • •
LIFE, as it does, continued forward. Daniel moved into the cottage after Christmas, and the months that followed were nothing like my earlier experiences there with Bill. The house came to life with the sound of his instruments. Not only my father’s violin but also the old banjo he had played in college and the ukulele he was trying to learn how to play. We bought extra shelves for our bedroom and lined them with our favorite books and CDs. The house, which had always seemed quaint, now felt full and more complete; it had begun to feel like a true home.
One afternoon that spring, I sat in one of the white painted Adirondack chairs in the garden, reading a book under the shade of the linden tree. The air smelled of lilacs and freshly cut grass. I put my book down when I saw Daniel walking toward me.
“Maggie Topper.” He said my full name and gave me a smile that could have melted a glacier. He was holding something in his clenched fist. Before I had a chance to speak, he got down on bended knee and asked me to marry him.
I will always associate the scent of lilacs with Daniel’s proposal and his warm kiss afterward. When he slid the ring onto my finger, I looked down at the slender platinum band, the circular stone flanked by a perimeter of pavé diamonds. A small circle of perfectly cut white stars.
“I had been planning to propose last winter, but it seemed wrong to not let you mourn Yuri properly.”
I kissed him again, my eyes glistening with emotion. How did I get so lucky to find this man with a beautiful heart and a musician’s soul?
“Yes, I will marry you, Daniel O’Reilly,” I whispered into his ear as he wrapped his arms around me. That afternoon, as the wind blew the lilac blossoms into the air and the robins jumped across the grass, I felt the cycle of life swirling around me, intoxicating and invigorating. That same blending of nervousness and anticipation I’d felt as a young girl on the first day of school.
69
OUR wedding took place on a warm sunny day in early July. My mother cut fresh flowers from her garden and made me a garland of baby pink roses, lavender delphiniums, and white snowdrops. She opened up her own wedding dress and lengthened the skirt with edges of antique lace so I could wear something with family history, her nimble fingers wanting to press love into everything that ushered me into my new life, including all the food for the reception, which she served on my grandmother’s hand-painted dishes on a long table lit with candles in the backyard of our cottage.
We drank from flutes of champagne and danced to Van Morrison, Daniel pulling me close and singing “She’s as sweet as tupelo honey” in my ear. We made love the next night in a small inn in Vermont with the French doors of the balcony wide open, our bodies illuminated by a bath of pure white stars.
* * *
• • •
AFTER four years of marriage, Daniel and I were ready to start our family. I had never thought about having children when I was with Bill, but now it was something I wanted badly. I had spent my twenties surrounded by other people’s children, as had Daniel, and once we entered our thirties, baby fever hit us both hard. We started to imagine the extra bedroom as a nursery. I paid a visit to my gynecologist and left feeling healthy and strong. I took folic acid supplements every morning and even started purchasing my favorite children’s picture books whenever I was at the bookstore.
At night, Daniel would indulge me, and we’d play a game of trying to come up with names for our unborn progeny. Juliet if it was a girl and George if it was a boy, because that was the English version of Yuri. We imagined our combined features. His wavy locks, my dark eyes, his musical talent, and my family’s height and appetite.
The first few months we started trying for a baby were like a second honeymoon. We couldn’t wait for school to be over each day. The garden was abloom with the flowers I so loved. The fireplace was finally getting to enjoy some time off, after having served us well over the winter. We made wonderful dinners of pasta and grilled vegetables and avoided drinking too much wine. We ate alfresco and watched the fireflies light up the lawn. We didn’t know exactly when we’d hit the jackpot and see the pink sign on the pregnancy test, but we vowed to have fun until it appeared.
But then after Christmas, after nearly eight months of trying, I began to suspect something was wrong. I was now thirty-three and certainly not on what I considered to be the older spectrum for having a child. A second visit to my gynecologist turned into a more elaborate discussion of having blood work done to see whether I had any hormonal imbalances. A sonogram was also suggested, to see whether my ovaries might be polycystic or whether endometriosis could be to blame.
However, the doctors could not determine any medical reason that prevented me from conceiving. Daniel was then tested, and nothing could be found on his end, either.
Still, month after month, my period arrived and my heart sank with every cycle. The constant roller coaster of thinking that this was finally going to be the month for the egg and the baby we were waiting for made me an emotional wreck. As soon as I felt a pulling pain in my abdomen, I immediately went from thinking the embryo was implanting itself to fearing I was going to miscarry before I even had a positive pregnancy test.
* * *
• • •
IF you have one friend in your life who will come running to your house at a moment’s notice, a friend who can hear the pain in your voice or even in your breathing when you try to reach them on the phone, if you have a friend who knows you that well and loves you that much, then consider yourself one of the luckiest people on earth. That person for me was Suzie. More than a friend, she was a lifeline and beacon of positivity and hope when all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed with a hot-water bottle and a half-empty box of Kleenex.
“It came,” I would say, and she knew that that little bit of blood would once again usher in a new flood of tears for me. Another failure. Another cycle without a baby. There were days she found me behind the school parking lot, near one of the large trees that bordered Franklin’s property, and she would withdraw tissues from her sleeve and blot away my tears. She also provided my alibi for the other teachers when I found myself having to call in sick after the ovulation drug Clomid left me feeling nauseated and faint.
Daniel did not know the words to comfort me, but he tried in his own way. My frustration welled inside me, silencing me in a way that I had never before experienced. We had exhausted our savings on two rounds of in vitro, and I began to fear that we would n
ever make it out of this dark hole. The worst-case scenario suddenly seemed real: Daniel and I might not ever have children of our own. That reality, so awful and gut wrenching, swallowed me up whole. Whereas I used to rejoice at the news of a fellow teacher announcing her pregnancy, I now loathed every woman who seemed healthier and fitter than I was. I envied everything about them. I felt like I had been consumed by an ugly green monster, one with a hideous, jealous soul.
I took Suzie’s advice and tried acupuncture. I ate spinach and other greens rich in folate and vitamins B and D. There was no longer pretty lingerie from Nordstrom or home-cooked meals of silky pasta in butter and sage before we slid between the sheets. I didn’t have the energy for seduction, and foreplay between Daniel and me was reduced to wielding a digital basal thermometer and me demanding he perform on command. But nothing worked. There once was a time, when my cycle began anew each month, I felt anything was possible, but now all I felt was despair.
* * *
• • •
MY mother, desperate to help, suggested something so ridiculous that I wasn’t sure whether to be angry at the sheer ludicrousness of her proposal or to hug her for being willing to try just about anything to help Daniel and me conceive. She had read about an island off the southwestern coast of Italy called Ischia, a place of sacred waters where—legend has it—the Sirens used to bathe when they couldn’t conceive. In her voice, the island emerged as a beacon of hope. And then she pressed two plane tickets to Italy into our hands.
At the end of August, with Daniel’s fingers grasped in mine, we flew over the Atlantic, and I tried to let go of my hopes of having a family. I knew my mother’s wish was to somehow encourage us to heal as a couple. So I surrendered to the fact that this trip would at least be the first step to restoring us. We traveled first to Rome and then on to Naples. We ate pizza crafted by wiry men who pulled out beautiful, charcoal-dusted discs on their wooden paddles, with runny mozzarella made from buffalo milk and tomatoes warmed in the sun. From there we took a ferry to Ischia, where the water of the legendary gulf was as warm as bathwater, and the scent of lemons lifted off the air.
I fell in love with Daniel for the second time on that trip. I saw his face transform when he heard Vivaldi’s music wafting in from the small stone church in Trastevere. I marveled at his passion for all the craftsmanship by the local artisans and his insistence we buy a small wooden Pinocchio to take home as a souvenir for my father. Suddenly, the possibility that we would be a white-haired, wrinkly old couple without any children of our own did not seem like such a death sentence. I now saw myself as lucky to have met someone to share the world with, and with whom I could still experience a life full of love.
But on the way back home, Daniel told me I looked different to him. I didn’t want to say anything, but secretly I felt something inside me had changed. My whole body seemed warm and content. And most strange, I had an unfamiliar sensation, as though I had swallowed a butterfly.
* * *
• • •
THE following spring, I was close to being full term. I had a big, round belly and breasts, and all I wanted to do all day was lounge in bed and eat mozzarella with my feet kicked up on a stack of pillows and a hand-held fan blowing on my face. I had long since passed those first few months of nausea, and my mother had taken to feeding me and her unborn grandchild with even more unbridled enthusiasm. Every craving I had she indulged. Daniel had already put on ten pounds from sharing her extra trays of lasagna and manicotti with me.
Quietly, I rejoiced that all the pieces of my life that I had been hoping for had finally fallen into place. Daniel had taken a job at a new school and had even received an unexpected raise in salary. But more importantly, we were both excited that after trying for so long to have a baby, we would soon have the summer off to savor the first months of parenthood.
We had already finished the last touches of the nursery, converting the spare bedroom by filling it with white pine bookshelves and a rocking chair with a blue-and-white-gingham seat. My dad had come over and helped Daniel assemble the crib, the two of them humming softly to themselves as they fitted all the pieces together.
When they were finished, my mother and I pulled the cotton sheets over the small mattress and tied the bumper around the edges. Both of us found it hard to believe that soon there would be a baby sleeping in this perfect little nest.
The pregnancy had made me more emotional than ever. It wasn’t just the influx of hormones flowing through my body. It was also that I felt something surging in my heart from the love I felt for this child swimming inside me, kicking at night and pushing with his little fist or foot against my middle. “The weight of love” is how I described it to Daniel. I was nervous. I was excited. I was worried. I was elated. Every day, I felt my connection to our baby grow stronger.
That June, I still had less than three weeks left before the baby was due, and with the nursery completed and the drawers to the wicker dresser filled with clothes from my baby shower, I was able to finish up the school year at Franklin without too much stress. It was hard to believe that Yuri and Finn’s class would be graduating the following weekend from high school. The majority of them would be going off to college, their adult lives beginning.
I had kept my promise to all my classes that I would keep the letters they had written to their future selves. This year marked the first time I had former students graduating, and I was looking forward to mailing them back the letters that they had written when they were twelve.
I spilled out on the cement floor the contents of the folder labeled Class of 2006—Yuri and Finn’s class—which had been stored in a filing cabinet in my basement. I gently fanned the letters across the floor. They say that a scent can trigger old memories that had remained dormant. But as a teacher, just seeing the names and handwriting of my former students now awakened a flood of memories. I saw Lisa Yamamoto’s perfect penmanship and her drawings of flowers all over her envelope. I pulled out her letter, and three carefully folded paper cranes fluttered like paper snowflakes to the ground.
Dear Lisa,
Congratulations on being 18 and graduating high school. I hope when you read this you will have grown six inches and have gotten lots of college acceptances. I hope you wore a great dress to the senior prom and had the best date ever. I hope you have already traveled to Paris, but if you haven’t, I hope you go there soon. I hope you have your driver’s license too, so you can go to all the places you want without your parents having to take you. When you’re 18, I hope you’re on your way to being a fashion designer and that you never give up on your dreams.
From your 12 year old self,
Lisa Yamamoto
I smiled and placed the letter back in the envelope. Then I reached for another. Oscar Letino’s was unmistakable. The boy had the worst penmanship in the class, but he always was full of energy and had a smile on his face. I opened his letter.
Dear Oscar,
Congratulations on being 18. I hope when you read this you’re six feet tall and have six million girlfriends. I hope you got to go to the homecoming dance with Stephanie Besuto and that she let you kiss her.
I hope Ms. Topper doesn’t really keep this letter because I’m going to be soooo embarrassed if she did.
From,
Oscar Letino
Zach Gordon’s was next.
Dear Zach,
Congratulations on turning 18 and graduating high school! Hope you’re having fun and getting ready to go to the University of Virginia, where you will be pitching and playing point guard. I hope your supermodel girlfriend treats you well when you two get married and have 5 kids. When you read this letter, I hope you’re feeling awesome.
From,
Zach
Rachel Mendelsohn’s letter was covered in drawings. I had read in the school newsletter that she had been accepted to the Rhode Island School
of Design. Her letter, written in purple ink, was short and sweet:
Dear Rachel,
I hope when you’re 18 you’re off to a better and more interesting life. I hope you rocked high school and got to take the AP photography class that you need to be recommended for. I hope you have the coolest art portfolio ever and that you got into a great art school. Here is a drawing of how I hope you look when you graduate from high school.
From your 12 year old self,
Rachel Mendelsohn
On the bottom of her paper, Rachel had drawn a picture of herself in all black clothes, holding a big portfolio exploding with artwork, and a paintbrush in her mouth.
Then I found Finn’s letter.
Dear Finn,
Congratulations on graduating high school. I hope you had an amazing year and it would be great if you made the varsity basketball and baseball teams. Hopefully, you were team captain, too. I hope that you have made Mom and Dad proud and gotten into a good college. I hope that a surgery was discovered so Kelly doesn’t need her brace anymore and can run with me outside. I hope when you go to college, you’ll do well and then get into medical school and find a cure for Kelly if one hasn’t happened already. I hope you’ll become a doctor and improve people’s lives.
Finn
I started to cry. There was so much in this letter that I hadn’t processed when I first read it six years ago. Finn hadn’t yet met Yuri when he wrote it, but his incredible empathy was there from the start.
* * *
• • •
YURI’S envelope was the only one that was sealed. It was covered in drawings of baseball players and Derek Jeter’s number 2. I felt my baby kick when I touched the envelope. My pulse quickened as the rush of life whirled through me and an elbow pushed into my ribs. It hit me hard that as my own baby stirred inside me, I clasped an envelope written by the first little boy I had ever loved.
The Secret of Clouds Page 27
