Chill Out, Josey!

by Susan May Warren

  “Yeah, Chase. I’m fine. Just…I love you.” I wrap my arms around him, and for a long moment, all is well with the world. Or at least, I can talk myself into believing it.

  H’s hours are very convenient to my current crisis. With her getting off at the Hungry Wolf at 3:00 a.m., and me sitting up late at night, the computer on my lap, we’re able to IM during our power hours.

  : You haven’t told him yet? You’ve been there over two weeks already!

  : You should have seen him! His hair all tousled, whiskers on his face. And he was wearing Scary Pants. That’s his equivalent of eating a full bag of chocolate chips. I couldn’t add to his stress level. And since then, well, it’s only gotten worse. He’s tired and worried and sometimes doesn’t come home until late.

  : Didn’t you say that every woman at WorldMar has that needy female pheromone? Are you sure Chase isn’t…

  : NO! Of course not. Besides, his partner is named Bertha. How much safer can you get?

  : Just don’t fool yourself, Jose. Even Chase…well, you know.

  : Listen, we’re good. Yes, he’s tired, and working a lot, but that’s going to get better. Everything’s perfect.

  : Here’s me pointing out that at least ONE thing isn’t perfect. Is it possible he already knows about…The Thing That Cannot Be Named—Yet? And is afraid to talk to you about it?

  : Of course not. First, I’m not showing. I don’t think, although twice now I’ve had babushkas make room for me on the metro, which makes me wonder. Secondly, Chase will be thrilled when he finds out.

  : Of course he will. Which is why you’re SAVING the news.

  : Waiting for the best time.

  : Not to point out the obvious or anything, but you can’t hide it forever. Besides, what if you get sick, or have complications?

  : I’m good. I feel great, I’m taking my vitamins, and I’m studying the book I stole from Jasmine. I’m right on track for the third month or thereabouts: fatigue, the need to use the biffy more frequently, nausea (which also adds to the biffy trips), food cravings. (I’m out of bagels, and nearly through the chocolate chips. Thankfully, I’ve been graced with a now-named food fairy who delivers Russian food to my fridge every day.) Finally, I’m not the slightest bit irritable, which I guess is supposed to really be an issue this month.

  : You sound like a midwife. By the way, have you found a doctor?

  : Better! I have my own personal nurse. Well, I will when I tell her. I’m volunteering with her at a local orphanage. It takes me about two hours to get there—I have to take the metro to the end of the red line, then get on a bus and ride forty-five minutes to a village outside Moscow. The orphanage is located tucked just inside the town, a two-story building ringed with a rusty chain-link fence. Inside, the place is stark, with ancient furniture, But still H, it’s incredible. The teachers painted flowers on the walls, and there are about fifty kids, from babies to age five, and their huge eyes follow me everywhere I go. I’m supposed to raise money so I took a bunch of pictures, but mostly I get on the ground with them and play games or go into the baby room and cuddle the babies. They’re so adorable, I just want to take them all home.

  : You have your own souvenir.

  : It’s just that I can’t help wishing they had parents. The orphanage is so poor, and they feed the babies with these huge spoons about seven times the size of their tiny mouths, and all they get is kasha and thin milk. They’re all skinny and pale and weigh about as much as Amelia, even the five-year-olds.

  : That’s horrible. By the way, I saw Jasmine and Amelia in the grocery store a few days ago.

  : What were you doing in the grocery store? I thought you were a frozen-pizza-only girl.

  : Rex wanted lasagna.

  >

  >

  >

  : Are you still there?

  : Just getting a visual on you making lasagna. What’s going on?

  : Nothing.

  : I’m telling you, if you get married or something without telling me, I’ll kill you.

  : Listen Queen Secret Keeper, I don’t have anything on you.

  : I’m serious H. Marriage is for keeps, at least in my book. Are you ready for this?

  : I’m not ready to talk about this. But I think I love him.

  >

  >

  >

  : See how much trouble that gets us into?

  Russia has stellar public transportation. Besides the metro, which stretches to all corners of the city, there is the trolley bus, attached to overhead cables; the tramvai, an aboveground train on tracks; and the regular old bus.

  The big difference between the various forms of transportation is the ticketing process. For the metro, tickets are purchased at kiosks or machines and inserted into the turnstile or given to Gulag Woman. For the trolley, tramvai and bus, money is collected by a woman I’ve come to call The Bus Lady. Usually a little down on her luck, The Bus Lady is normally dressed in the equivalent of Chase’s Scary Pants, only in brown polyester. She wears an old dirty parka, and slings a handbag from the 1970s over her shoulder in which she keeps both the money and a roll of tickets. She doesn’t make eye contact as she collects the money and my heart goes out to her, just a tiny bit, every time I hand over my rubles.

  I’ve had occasional nightmares where I’m somehow mistaken for the Bus Lady.

  The one constant in all the forms of transportation is etiquette. Babushkas in front, mafiosos in the back, students and children in the middle. And pregnant women any seat in the house. I see this played out as I sit with Daphne on our biweekly excursions to the orphanage in Gorkovich. A woman roughly the size of a wildebeest gets on the bus and the babushkas sitting near the front practically beat a young man sitting nearby from his seat, barraging him with angry Russian until he rises and offers wildebeest woman his seat.

  I think babushkas were the most well-kept secret during the cold war. I certainly would think twice about attacking a country filled with sixty-year-old women built like prizefighters.

  And when I’m eight months out and ready to pop, I’m going line up behind the nearest available babushka and let her fight my battles.

  I wonder if they rent out. Like when I deliver the news to Chase…

  But no babushkas notice me today, despite the fact that I’m holding a box of formula I found at the corner apteka. I purchased the entire supply as well as a package of disposable diapers I stuffed in my backpack.

  I’m feeling very motherly.

  And not so very happy that this morning I couldn’t button my jeans. I slipped into a pair of yoga pants, which then limited my footwear to a pair of hiking boots. I feel like a tourist.

  A fat tourist.

  A fat underdressed tourist. Because, when I walked outside today and waved to Thug, the brisk early November wind lifted the collar of my jacket and I realized something horrifying.

  My parka, which adequately covered my body last time I braved the Russian winter, doesn’t have a chance of covering my bulk this time around. I’m going to be a fat, underdressed, frozen tourist. With ugly footwear.

  Beside me, Daphne is a chatterbox. In the month since we’ve started visiting the orphanage, or working in her office at her mission headquarters, which are much poorer than WorldMar’s, I’ve learned her life history, and more. An Iowa farm girl whose parents died young, she has an affinity toward orphans. Her mission is to place the babies with the various adoption agencies who work out of Western Russia.

  I’m hoping to place every baby in the one room I’ve been assigned. Natasha, Pavel, Ryslan, Boris and Sasha. Their skinny little bodies wiggle with joy when I come in the room, and their toothless grins turn me to mush. I wash them, try and soothe the cradle cap off their heads, feed them with normal-sized spoons that
I bring with me every visit and generally hold them. Most importantly, I pray over them.

  I figure it’s the best start I can give them.

  Which has also propelled me to pray for Junior.

  And, myself. The deceiver. Please God, help me find a way to tell Chase!

  I like Daphne. She’s petite and energetic, and she loves Caleb. Evidently, they met at a Bible study. She wears a lot of pink. Pink camouflage, which I think may be a contradiction in terms. Pink T-shirts. Pink jeans. And her hair is short and gelled.

  I can’t think of a better match for Caleb.

  Apparently, Daphne can’t, either, because she’s making a lot of plans.

  Which, I’ve discovered, include me. Because as we’re riding she suddenly goes quiet and twists her hands on her lap.

  I hate long stretches of quiet, don’t you? Makes me fill it. Usually with something stupid.

  “Josey, will you mentor me?”

  Methinks Daphne has the same propensity. “Mentor you?” I look over at her, and the meekness in her eyes throws me. Excuse me, but I’m like…three months older than her. Why would she think—

  “You’re already married, and I just want to be ready when—if—Caleb asks…” Her voice trails off. And there’s that silence again.

  “Um…what do you think I could teach you?” Because, while I might be an aspiring Proverbs 31 wife, currently I have a black mark on my résumé.

  “I don’t know. Patience? Maybe how to submit?”

  Submit? I’m not exactly sure—

  “I hope it’s okay, but Caleb told me all about how you came over to Russia when you loved Chase and let God be in charge of your heart and your future, and I thought that probably you could teach me a few things about faith, and surrendering.”

  Uh, I think Caleb got the Cliff’s Notes version of my first tour of Moscow. Apparently I left out the part where I ran away from Chase and my love for him, how I dated a male supermodel and for a long time thought I looked good in leather, and finally nearly lost Chase because of my inability to commit.

  But, come to think of it, at the end, I did some good surrendering. Maybe I could teach her a few things.

  I offer a slight smile. “Sure, Daphne, I’d be…honored.”

  “Oh, thank you, Josey!” Daphne hugs me, again. Actually I’m getting used to this. Feels somewhat like having Jasmine around.

  Jasmine! Right after I tell Chase, I’ll have to tell her. I’m not sure who will be angrier. Guess I won’t be getting any kringle care packages.

  “Are you going to celebrate Thanksgiving?” Daphne says, changing the subject.

  “Chase says that WorldMar is having a Thanksgiving dinner.”

  I can’t help but notice the way her expression falls.

  “What?”

  She needs so little encouragement to unload her every thought. First thing I teach her…how to keep secrets.

  Or, maybe that’s not a good trait. But isn’t a little mystery good in a marriage?

  Okay, yes, I know, I’m reaching, but I feel not only fat and underdressed, with poor footwear but also like pond scum. Every day as Chase kisses me and heads off to work, there I am, smiling, me and Junior, hoping he doesn’t look too closely at how I fill out the Taz jammies.

  So far, he’s also been too busy to…well, you know. Which means he hasn’t seen me naked. I guess that’s a good thing.

  “Well,” Daphne says, “I wanted to serve Caleb a nice dinner, but I’ve never cooked a turkey and I was hoping…” She clasps her hands together and peers up at me.

  What? I stare at her, eyes wide. Memories of smoke and chicken Kiev keep me silent.

  Her smile fades. “That’s okay. I understand. Of course, you want to spend it at WorldMar.”

  With the Underfed? Where I can stand out as the American Glutton? I think not.

  Besides, I, unlike Daphne, have reinforcements. Namely Jasmine. Maybe if I go to her for help, she’ll be less likely to strangle me. And perhaps, with a turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy under his belt, Chase will be too full to chase me to Mongolia.

  Oh, who am I kidding? As Chase’s wife, I’m at least partially required to attend the Thanksgiving Day function. “How about if I come over earlier, help you stuff it and put it in the oven.” I say. Because, after all, I am the Proverbs 31 wife. I can figure this out. Besides, even if Jasmine bails, I have all those Martha magazines. At the very least we can hand make the paper placemats, fold some stellar napkins and make peppermints from scratch.

  “Oh, Josey, Caleb’s so right. You’re terrific.”

  Yeah, I know.

  Chapter Ten

  You’re wearing that?

  Dear Josey,

  I’m using e-mail! I’m at the library, and the librarian here helped me set up an account so I hope this e-mail address is right. Amelia is beside me, sleeping. She’s nearly four months old.

  When Mom told me (through your punky friend H, who she saw at the pharmacy) that you wanted to know how to make turkey and stuffing, I nearly burst with pride. I knew that Berglund genes lurked inside you. But first, some news!

  Milton and I have decided to buy a house. It’s super swell of Mom and Dad to let us stay above the restaurant, but we decided we need our own place. And I found us the perfect house! You know that cute yellow Cape Cod across from the community church? The one with the red door? Yep, that’s the one! And the owner dropped the price because it has been on the market so long. It’s got the cutest little bedrooms upstairs for Ammy (and hopefully a brother someday) and we’re going to update the kitchen with the money we saved on the price. Best of all, I made friends with Carla, our Realtor (remember her? She was in your class, I think, but dropped out of school to have a child?) and she’s started coming to church! We close on December 23, which is a horrible time to move, but will make a super Christmas gift! And we don’t have to do a thing to it—the previous owners painted the place in a beautiful shade of salmon, and both Milton and I love it so much, we’re keeping it just as it is! Oh, by the way, Kathy, your landlord, says that your old apartment might be available when you get home. She says the current tenant is getting married?

  Anyway, I wish you were going to be here for Thanksgiving and especially Christmas. We’re going to take a picture of Amelia on Santa’s lap. But I know that you and Chase are following your adventurous hearts and having the time of your lives. I just miss you, is all.

  Okay, here is: How to cook a turkey at the bottom. It’s super easy, I promise! And, if you want, I have a delicious Parker House roll recipe. Just let me know.

  I love you.

  Your sister, Jas

  I should tell you that my sister has a sort of blind spot when it comes to my things, like the fact she married the boyfriend I brought home from college. Yes, I’m profoundly grateful for the way it all turned out, but still, she’s starting a dangerous trend here. I suppose I should cut her some slack because it’s not as if I told her about the Cape, or my designs on it. But don’t you think that she should have sensed it, in a sort of sisterly bond? Yeah, me, too.

  I’m trying hard to look on the bright side. Like, I am no longer nauseated every second of the day. Which should be decreasing my trips to the biffy. Sadly, no. And, to make things even better, I hate food. Well, most food. You wouldn’t have to tie me up and stick toothpicks under my nails to eat a bagel or anything. But basically, right now food sorta turns my stomach. American food, Russian food—my stomach isn’t discriminatory in its rejection. Overall it’s a condition I’d always secretly hoped for, but I have to say, the timing stinks. Because I spent the morning—after scouring the city for two weeks trying to find a turkey—stuffing and cooking the most beautiful gobbler since Squanto’s time, and the smells should have turned my appetite into overdrive. But all I could think about was the fact that I have to find something to wear to Chase’s party tonight. And how I’m no longer a size…um, ten. In fact, I’m definitely pushing twelve, or even fourteen, and I don’t
even feel pregnant.

  I just feel fat.

  I think I hate my life.

  The upside is that I did Jasmine proud with the turkey, and Daphne thinks I’m some sort of kitchen diva, and when she hugged me, again, I felt as if at least someone knew I was alive.

  Not Chase, of course. Who hasn’t dragged himself in earlier than ten every night for the last two weeks, including Saturday. He even worked on Sunday, which forced me to attend Moscow Bible Church, my old stomping grounds, alone, with Caleb and Daphne. I kept an eye out for my friends Rebecca and Matthew Winnamen, fellow missionaries. But when I asked about them, Caleb informed me that they were stateside. For counseling.

  I’d like to go stateside. For counseling. And maybe a pizza with pepperoni and mushrooms and green peppers. Bet that would turn my appetite back on. Chase brought home a “pizza” the other night. Tuna pizza. With a hardboiled egg in the center. I tried to warn him when we moved here not to buy street pizza. Someone should listen to me if they don’t want their wife to lock herself into the bathroom and cry for an hour.

  I’m trying not to cry now as I stare at my closet. My suave Italian boots still fit, but my only pair of black slacks won’t close, and I can forget about buttoning anything north of there.

  My choices:

  Yoga pants, which I’ve taken to wearing everywhere.

  Chase’s Scary Pants

  A pair of Chase’s dress pants.

  Or, better yet, Chase’s Levi’s, the faded ones that hang so well on him, a tank top, and one of his dress shirts.

  Think he’ll notice?

  When I was sixteen, I went through a creative dressing phase. Some of my more notable outfits included white shorts paired with black boots and a pink shirt tied at the waist. Yeah, I know, but I was young and hopefully most people have forgotten by now.