Chill Out, Josey!

by Susan May Warren

  I put my hand to my mouth to wipe it dry as I try and sort through my surroundings. Big window now reflecting a setting sun, black furnishings, cotton candy walls—

  “Mz. Anderson?”

  I roll my eyes around to get them working again, feeling lines from the blotter on the desk embedded in my face. And yes, I see that damp spot. Underfed Katrina is standing before me, wearing raised eyebrows. She seems just a tad annoyed. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but your driver needs to know if you want a ride home.”

  Driver?

  Oh yeah, our thug.

  “I’ll wait until Chase is finished.”

  I’ve been here all afternoon, right after I came back from my whirlwind shopping trip through the mall. Sherpas don’t need clothing. Sherpas wear blankets and sheepskin shoes. Good thing I brought my wool socks.

  “Mr. Anderson left with our project leader an hour ago. He told me to instruct your driver to bring you home when you awoke.”

  Chase left me?

  Left me?

  Her words erase all thought from my brain and my breath actually leaves my body as I blink at her. She waits, then finally raises one groomed eyebrow.

  “I ah…I guess, I’ll go, then,” I say. I stand and the room swims before my eyes. And I feel as though I’m walking through water—stiff and slow—as I move around the desk. My head is pounding. “When is he going to be back?”

  “I don’t know. They went to Gorkovich to visit the partner company.”

  I stare at her.

  “The village where the project is.”

  Oh.

  My stomach emits a growl. I put a hand over it. “I’m confused. Chase just left me here, with no word when he will be back?”

  She looks at me as if confused by my confusion.

  “Fine.” I smooth my formerly sorta-pressed white blouse and brush past her. Thug is waiting in the hallway. He says nothing as I hit the elevator button.

  But I feel a sort of pity radiate off him as we descend. Swell. Thug Pity.

  Darkness hovers over Moscow like a fog and by the time we pull into the pink palace, shadows have engulfed the courtyard. Thug escorts me up the elevator, which is a good thing because I don’t have a key. Yet.

  Tomorrow I will have my own key.

  Tomorrow Chase will realize that he shouldn’t leave me behind. That he needs me.

  Because this is my town. I am the one who knows how to barter for bread—or a fake Kate Spade handbag, whatever be the case—I am the one who can negotiate the subway, and I am the one who used to have friends in this town.

  Thug opens the door for me, and I turn and hold out my hand. “Klooch,” I say, remembering the word for key. Oh, and I’m the one who can talk Russian.

  Thug gives me the slightest smile as he takes it off his ring and hands it over. I nod. “Das Vadanya,” I say. “Spaceeba.”

  I close the door. The flat smells surprisingly fresh. I flick on the light. Draped across the family room on clotheslines that crisscross the room are our bedclothes, sheets and towels. What, did the Cleaning Fairy come while I was gone?

  My skin crawls just a little as I tiptoe through the apartment. The Cleaning Fairy also made the bed. A large black blanket with a pink begonia. It’s crowned at the head by two pink pillows.

  Chase deserves all this pink. I think I’ll find a nice pink stuffed teddy bear to put in the center.

  I return to the kitchen to find the borscht gone. In its place is a pot of rice with meat.

  Where am I?

  The flat is quiet, darkness pressing the windows. Outside, I see the brightly colored Ferris wheel in the center of Gorky Park, turning round and round and round, moving, but never really going anywhere. Just watching the world.

  I put my hand to my belly as tears film my eyes.

  I am not a sherpa.

  Chapter Eight

  Lost

  “Oh, Josey, I’m so sorry!” Chase’s voice drifts over the sound of birds and quiet conversations in Russian. I’m sitting outside, the sun on my face, leaves dancing at my feet and through the legs of the tables of my favorite little bistro—Venetsia—I discovered during my missionary term in Moscow. I’m nursing an orange slushy and nibbling a cucumber sandwich, and wearing my favorite pair of Gap, size 10 flare leg jeans and a black tunic under a denim jacket. And a new pair of espadrilles. Which tells me this is a dream because I love those shoes and somehow I know I don’t own them. Yet. Still, seeing Chase stroll up to me with a dozen red roses, kneel before me and look up at me with those blue, melt-me-now eyes entices me to sink back into my dream.

  Because, frankly, it’s so much better than the reality, which is Chase arriving home late last night and slipping in bed beside me without a word. That’s what I get for faking sleep.

  “Sorry for what, Chase?” I smile, because while I know exactly why he should be groveling, it’s good for him to admit it. I’m such a good, therapeutic wife.

  “For not seeing that you are perfect, that I need you.”

  “You do need me,” I say, but I’m magnanimous, because we’re newlyweds, and one little mistake I can forgive. Okay, well, two mistakes counting that pink-slip omission/lie. But I’m a forgiving person so I take my feet off the chair and take the flowers. “I forgive you.”

  He takes my hand. It’s warm, as is his gaze. Which reminds me…

  “I have something to tell you…I’m pregnant!”

  His mouth opens and just as I expected, his eyes fill with joy. He opens his mouth, probably to tell me how much he loves me—

  “Josey, why do my socks smell like pickles?”

  Nice Chase vanishes and in his place I open my eyes to snarly, red-eyed Chase holding his dark socks.

  I sit up. The sun is slinking just over the windowsill, a clear indication that I’m up way too early.

  A woman in my delicate condition needs her sleep.

  And, something to eat. Because now that I’m vertical, my stomach has decided not to join me.

  And that smell. I put my hand over my mouth as I climb out of bed. “What are you doing up so early?” I ask, pushing past him.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d get to the office early today.” Aside from the smell from his victimized socks, Chase is looking good, his hair wavy and semigroomed. He’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a pullover. Mr. GQ Anthropologist. I married a hottie. This cools my anger for him just a smidge.

  “There are more socks in the top drawer,” I say as I gesture to the bureau. “I’ll wash those.”

  Because, you know, that’s what I’m here for.

  Chase opens the drawer and finds new socks.

  “What are you going to do today?” Chase asks as he stands up.

  Oh, I thought I’d scrub the kitchen floor, maybe iron the sheets, and oh, bake some cookies right after I sew myself a new frock.

  Stop, Josey, says a voice inside, the one that keeps me from bursting into tears.

  I fold my arms, lean against the door frame. Hitch a shoulder. He comes close and kisses me on the cheek. “I changed money while I was out yesterday. I left it on the bureau.”

  Okay, now you can guess how that makes me feel.

  “Igor said he’d take you shopping, if you want.”

  I’m not a sherpa. I’m Pretty Woman. “I’ll be fine, Chase.”

  Yet, as I stand there in my Taz jammies, feeling slightly woozy, watching my man going off to his new life, I’m seeing the truth.

  Chase is obviously going to have to be educated. I thought he’d recognize my surpassing noble qualities simply by my servanthood and ability to pack our lives into two fifty-five pound bags. And a duffel. And two carry-ons. Especially, he should see it in my surrender of essential footwear.

  Clearly, I’ll have to be more proactive.

  Which, I think is actually Biblical, if I were to take a deeper look at the Proverbs 31 wife. I mean, she doesn’t exactly sit around the house, does she? How would she get all that flax for spinning, or buy the fi
elds, or even clothe herself in fine linen and purple?

  I wonder how I would look in purple?

  One thing I know. Deep inside I know that God has a reason for my being here. Other than Chase’s clean socks.

  I grab him just as he’s leaving and kiss him quickly. “When will you be home?” Oh, I hate that I just asked that. I’m hearing desperation in my tone. That will have to go.

  He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ll call you. Why don’t you pick up a cell phone while you’re out today?”

  He lets himself out and I make myself three promises:

  1. I will not let Igor drive me around town. I am a proficient subway surfer, and it’s time to get back on the wave.

  2. I will find something productive and useful and life-changing to do in Russia.

  3. I will outfit myself with decent footwear.

  The flat is instantly quiet but I refuse to let it sink into my bones as I grab a bagel and run a bath.

  Because underneath the Josey Anderson exterior lives the woman who caused Chase to follow her halfway across the world.

  He ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

  The sun is high and bright as I leave the flat. I see Thug/Igor sitting outside in his thugmobile and I lift a hand as I stride past him. He frowns at me.

  But I’m looking confident, so he must realize that I don’t need him. I am a seasoned Moscovite, and we in Moscow ride the subway.

  The Moscow subway system was designed as a bomb shelter, located fifty thousand leagues under the crust of the earth. With sculptured archways and ornately painted stations, the designers also hoped to make the average worker feel kingly. Bold.

  Cultured.

  Which is exactly how I will feel as soon as I get to GYM—pronounced Goom—the former state-run department store turned conglomerate of European and American chain stores—and buy some respectable footwear. (Because, you know, I got paid.)

  Good thing I didn’t spend every moment handing out Bibles last time I was in Moscow.

  Okay, I didn’t spend any time handing out Bibles—mostly, I taught English, but I would have handed out Bibles if I’d been asked. On my way to GYM I’m going to stop by Moscow Bible Church—my old digs—and check into teaching classes.

  Zis is a spoon. My old students fill my thoughts as I walk down the street, absorbing the smells of fall, the scent of greasy fried sandwiches, the enticing aroma of bread. I wonder if skinny Sergei who learned how to say I-ron is still attending school. Zhozey. His voice skims my memory and I smile. Sergei needed me.

  I find the subway entrance a half block down the street, next to an apteka—a pharmacy. I note it—not that I’d know how to buy even an aspirin, but still—and descend the escalators that bring me into the to bowels of Moscow. Standing at the brightly colored map, I chart my course.

  The main line of the metro runs in a gold ring around the outskirts, or what used to be the outskirts, of Moscow. Bisecting the gold line and snaking inward toward the middle run multicolored lines—purple, red, brown—last year I lived on the green line. This time, I’m on the blue line.

  I’ll have to ride to the gold line, switch and take the purple line to MBC. See how easy this is?

  Standing on the platform, I check out the other passengers. Mostly babushkas with bags of lumpy potatoes and umbrellas, there are also a few very well dressed ladies—the WorldMar variety—as well as mafia-dressed young men with high and tight haircuts. The Russian uniform is black, from the black leather jackets to the black pants to the squared-off shoes. I wonder how Chase would look in black.

  Chase would look good in a paper bag.

  I can hear the train coming a minute out—a rumble that fills the station, and then a whooshing sound that always sends shivers up my arms. I calculate the gulf between the platform and track and think…squish. Only, now that I’ve seen The Matrix, maybe I could jump out…

  The train swooshes in and the doors open. Passengers exit and I enter, grabbing onto the overhead rail because I don’t have my surfing legs yet.

  Okay, I guess I should explain surfing. My friend Caleb, who turned out not only to be the most interesting Christian I’d ever met, in his grunge attire and surprising knowledge of scripture, taught me to surf the first night I arrived in Moscow. Simply put, it’s about balance and anticipation. And enjoying the little things.

  Sorta Caleb’s life philosophy.

  But I don’t surf. Instead I hang on and count the stops. When I get to the gold ring stop, I get out and follow the herd up the escalators to the next level, where the gold ring line attaches.

  I’m on the next train before I know it, and it occurs to me that I forgot to confirm the number of stops to the purple line, and thus Moscow Bible Church. But I’m sensing the number three, so after three stops I get off, and again follow the masses, this time taking a left through the tunnels, and descend to the purple line.

  I get on and surf one stop down then up the escalators to daylight.

  Either Moscow Bible Church has turned into a Russian cathedral, or I exited too soon. Or too late.

  I stand there, watching traffic whiz by, hearing the guttural Russian that used to scare me and try to orient myself.

  I descend again and get on the purple line.

  Ride to the next stop. Getting out, I take the escalator to the surface.

  I see a bookstore, an appliance store and a sprawl of apartment buildings. No green-painted former-Komsomol-building-turned church.

  Hmm. Descending again, I ignore the accusatory look of the subway lady. Who always appears to be the same woman, regardless of what line I’m on. I think they must have been bred to be gulag guards. Now, in glasnost, they’ve had to find new occupations. Which gives you an insight on how it feels to go through the turnstiles, then down the escalators as they stand and watch.

  Feeling a little tired, and with my feet hurting just a little—which points to my need for better footwear—I get onto the subway again. Surf to the next stop.

  I dispel a flock of pigeons waiting outside the subway entrance. That and two homeless women who follow me with sad eyes as I stand there, confused.

  How can I be lost? This is my town. Only, it doesn’t look like my town anymore. Not with the sleek black five-story buildings where there used to be green ramshackle flats without running water. I stand there, then drop rubles into the hands of the women as I reenter the subway.

  I am studying the map when I discover my problem. I am not on the purple line. Or even the gold line.

  I’m on the red line. And near the end of it, if I am understanding the “Zdyes” and the arrow that pinpoints my location.

  Listen, no one has to know.

  I get back on the train and am relieved when it doesn’t empty one stop later, but continues on eight more stops toward the center of town. If I take it all the way in, I can connect to the purple line at the central station.

  Mafia boys are staring at me. Well, I know I look out of place. Russian women dress 24-7 as if they’re going to a nightclub. I’m wearing a pair of jeans and my Birkenstocks with wool socks. So sue me. I’m a pregnant, angry American woman. I dare you to say anything to me.

  I look away from them, and meet the eye of a babushka, who is holding a nylon bag containing bread. She gives me a smile, and then pats the seat next to her.

  Isn’t that sweet? I sit down and she nods.

  Then pats her stomach.

  My eyes widen. Is she psychic? Or am I showing already? Oh, kill me now.

  Thrown, I say nothing as I get up and exit, beelining it to the surface.

  Which doesn’t resemble for a second the central station I was hoping for.

  Where am I? To get my bearings, I exit to street level.

  I’m expecting the center of the city, with its sweeping architecture, the Czarist buildings with the columns and adornment, the smell of history. Instead I smell Russian shish kebab, called Shash-leek, which means I’m at least moderately close to an outside market. Concrete
buildings overhauled in pastel colors hint at new owners, but none of it looks familiar.

  Where am I?

  The sun is high, and traffic is heavy, honking and smelling of exhaust. I see schoolchildren in their uniforms crossing the street, which tells me that it’s at least near noon.

  As if on cue, my stomach growls.

  I’m trying to swallow my panic, but it fills my throat with an acrid taste.

  How can I be lost? This is my town. I surfed my way around Moscow for a year, back and forth every day from Moscow Bible Church, to Red Square, GYM, Moscow’s underground mall and McDonald’s.

  I can’t be lost.

  But then again, every subway terminal has about eight choices with connecting hallways to other choices and I was going on instinct instead of signs—the manly method of navigation, and we all know how that usually turns out.

  I walk out to a small plaza, check out the ads on a dilapidated kiosk. I see that the Rolling Stones were here in ’98. And Swan Lake not long after that.

  A woman walks by, pushing a pram. Inside, a baby peeks out from a snowsuit. I see cute pink cheeks, but the woman is in a miniskirt and high heels. Cute slingbacks.

  Maybe if I follow her, I’ll find GYM. At least I’ll have decent shoes when they find my starved and mugged body at the bottom of the Volga River.

  I set off down the street, and pass a cell phone kiosk. In Russia, cell phones are purchased with cards that load in minutes. I left my cell phone in Gull Lake. Suddenly Chase’s number burns in my pocket.

  But I will not call Chase.

  Will Not. I’d be in Siberia, freezing as snow covered my emaciated body before I called Chase.

  I walk farther. An orange bus passes me, burps out exhaust. I don’t recognize the number pasted in the back window.

  I’m lost. That thought thumps in my mind, and I walk another half block before I stop.

  I’m lost.

  I’m lost.

  I stand there and let Russia swirl around me, take me, overwhelm me. The sounds of foreign voices, the smells of dust and oil and grilled street food. The cool shadows of unfamiliar buildings, the wind that now tumbles leaves down the street.