Chill Out, Josey!

by Susan May Warren

  I nod, my hand moving over Junior. Protectively.

  Hopefully.

  Then, as my world turns to Siberia around me, Chase turns, marches past Bertha, gets in the elevator and leaves.

  Chapter Twelve

  The World Poker Champ

  I met Chase on the first day of kindergarten. His family had just moved in down the road, and we met at the conglomeration of mailboxes, where Steve, our bus driver would pick us up. Chase made a snide remark about my Care Bears lunch box, he had only a soggy paper bag lunch, for which I gave him a whack over the head. He told me his father was a ninja, I informed him that mine played goalie for the North Stars.

  It was a match made in heaven. We began to spend every hour in competition/courtship. Crafting castles and tunnels in his sandbox. Racing on our bikes down Bloomquist Mountain, making tree forts. And gradually, we began to unveil the truth. Like, how I always wanted to be a cowgirl, but since we didn’t have a horse, I had to ride the ponies down at the yearly county fair. And he told me how he didn’t really get hit in the face with a baseball to cause his shiner.

  But I guess, despite all this time learning each other’s secrets, we’re still lying to each other, at least a little. Because it’s clear to me that I’m not the only one hiding pertinent information.

  If I worked with, say, Orlando Bloom, or Matthew McConaughey, wouldn’t I owe it to Chase to at least mention that? C’mon, even happily married women aren’t that blind.

  The truth is, I never gave the idea of Chase cheating on me much significant play in my imagination. Not that Chase isn’t a red-blooded American male, but frankly, he’d been chasing me my entire life. After all that commitment, he didn’t seem the type to get sidetracked.

  Until today.

  As I sit in our quiet, dark flat, watching the candles burn to a nub, my mind is stuck on two things:

  1. The way Bertha said, Chase, as if she knew him better than I did.

  2. The betrayal on Chase’s face when he realized I’d been hiding his son/daughter from him.

  I could be in big trouble here.

  But I’m pregnant. Clearly I wasn’t thinking with all my zeros and ones—and that’s normal, according to H, who says that four billion brain cells are lost with each pregnancy. I think I’m due a little slack here, with all those brain cells dying each day. I plead pregnancy as my defense.

  I set up the tree—using a pot I found in the cabinet that could make soup for fifty. Then, I drape it with the twinkly lights. Finally, I sit on the sofa in the darkness, waiting for the lock to turn.

  Hoping the lock will turn.

  Please, God, don’t let him be with Bambi…er, Bertha.

  I pull a blanket up over my body, tuck my nose down inside it, put my hands over Junior and wish I never left Gull Lake. Never left my Cape Cod; my office at the Gull Lake Gazette; Jasmine’s kringle; my mother who, despite her devices to drive me crazy, has been a mother for nearly twenty-five years with some success. I’ll bet she can teach me a few things.

  My thoughts return to the day Jasmine birthed Amelia. To the look on Jasmine’s face when Milton wrapped his arms around her, around their daughter. Her expression spoke of peace. Contentment.

  My throat burns. What was I thinking? That I was doing Chase a favor by lying to him?

  We’re going to be parents.

  As the dark seeps into the windows, the night lit by only the twinkle lights, my musings turn to Mary and Joseph. And a thought occurs to me—Mary was in my shoes, exactly. She didn’t know how to tell Joseph that she was divinely pregnant, knowing he might not be exactly thrilled. In fact, she went on holiday to her cousin Elizabeth’s, leaving God to sort out the situation with Joe.

  And just when Joseph, who really wasn’t a bad guy but planned to be merciful to the betrothed who he thought had betrayed him, was going to break it off with Mary, God intervened and set Joseph straight.

  I think I need a little God intervention here.

  What am I thinking—I need total God intervention here, because I’ve done a stellar job of screwing up our first year of marriage. One might even use the word…surpass.

  I close my burning eyes and let the tears drip out.

  I awaken to the sun on my skin, warming me. I’m on the sofa, curled into a ball, still wearing the velour pants, the blouse. The lights still burning on the tree. The flat no longer smells of turkey, or even banana pudding, but pine. I sit up, and pad to the bedroom, my heart thumping.

  I’m alone.

  On Christmas morning.

  But, as I feel a tickle inside me, I realize…. not quite alone.

  You are my hiding place, you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.

  The Psalm I read yesterday rises from the ashes of my hopes and fills my mind.

  I will instruct you and teach you the way you should go. I will counsel you and watch over you.

  Even in Russia? Even after I’ve made a mess of everything?

  For some reason, as I stand there, feeling Junior awakening, staring at my empty life, I’m not afraid.

  God can fix this.

  Just as he fixed Mary’s problem. Here’s hoping Chase got a midnight visitation—a divine visitation.

  “Lord,” I say aloud. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. That I tried to do things my way. From now on, you’re in charge. I trust you.”

  The doorbell buzzing makes me jump. Sveta. Although she has her own key, we agreed she’d buzz first, thus alerting me before she entered in case I was standing in my underwear, staring at my closet, hoping my clothing had magically expanded overnight.

  “Come in,” I say, with a rush of relief. Now, at least, the dishes will get done.

  I hear the lock turn, and decide to retrieve my blanket from the sofa, because, well, I can help clean a little, right?

  “Josey?”

  His voice stops me cold, and I turn. My throat fills.

  Chase.

  And he’s looking rough. His hair in spikes, his cheeks chapped, blondish-red whiskers across his chin, his eyes reddened.

  “Chase,” I whisper.

  He nods, comes in and shuts the door behind him. He’s holding his briefcase and sets it down as he shrugs out of his jacket.

  He’s staying.

  But I can’t ask him where he’s been. I can’t, because what if—“Where were you?”

  Oh shoot! Someday I’m going to make my mouth obey me.

  “WorldMar. I slept on my sofa.”

  Somehow I keep from asking, “Alone?” Instead I give a little nod, then turn to fold the blanket. But tears blind me and all I can do is stand there, biting my lip, not wanting to make a noise.

  I feel his hands on my shoulders. Warm, comforting. Strong. “Josey, I’ve spent the night thinking about the past three months.”

  I nod. Me, too.

  “I am such a jerk.”

  Huh? I look up, turn and meet his gaze. His eyes are red, and glossy. He puts his hands on my arms, runs them down to catch my hands.

  “Chase you’re not—”

  “I’ve been thinking only of myself since we got married. You gave up your job, your family—”

  My Cape Cod, the dog…

  “—everything that you worked so hard for.”

  I didn’t work so hard for the job. Myrtle wanted to retire. I was willing to work for ten bucks an hour. It was a perfect match. Even so, I can’t speak. A tear runs down my face, and he catches it with his thumb.

  “You found out you were pregnant when you went to the doctor in Gull Lake, didn’t you?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. Just because he’s an anthropologist doesn’t mean he can read my mind. “Yeah…”

  “I knew it! You had the strangest look on your face, and I thought it was because I was making dinner. But later that night you disappeared—”

  “I was repacking.”

  The slightest grin edges up his face. “Pickles. You packed pickles.”

  I g
ive a shrug.

  “You didn’t tell me because you didn’t want me to say we wouldn’t…couldn’t go, did you?”

  Wow. He is good. Probably he should work for Dr. Phil or something.

  “And that’s why you’ve been so moody, and distant—”

  Listen bub—

  “And…rounder.” He takes his hands from mine and runs them down my body. “Wow.”

  That’s a good wow. I can tell because his blue eyes are lit up with a hue I’ve never seen before. And he’s holding me ever so gently. Then he swallows, and I can hear it reverberating through my soul.

  “I thought you were angry at me for bringing you to Russia. And with my job a lot more difficult than I thought it would be, I took all my anger out on you. I didn’t even try to understand.” He tightens his jaw and swallows again. His voice has turned ragged. “Can you ever forgive me for…for not knowing?”

  Oh, Chase. “I should have told you. But you were so busy, and then we got into that fight, and I was mad, and I can’t believe I didn’t tell you. I’m sick about it. Can you forgive me?”

  Chase’s hand goes around my neck, and his expression tells me that he already has. He swallows again, and then very slowly, very sweetly, kisses me.

  I could live forever in Chase’s embrace. I kiss him back, and it’s a moment before he moves away.

  “I got you something,” I say. I retrieve the little box from under the tree, hand it to him.

  He gives me that scoundrel grin that makes my heart do backflips, and opens the package. He’s speechless for a long time, his chest rising and falling as he takes out the little blue shoes.

  “They’re for—”

  “I know what they’re for, G.I.,” he says softly. He looks up at me and, oh boy, he’s going to turn me into a pile of mush here. And, as if sensing the moment, Junior wakes up.

  “Oh!” I can’t help it, the feeling still catches me off guard. Concern flashes across Chase’s face.

  “What is it?”

  I put my hands on my tummy. “Junior. He moved.”

  Chase’s mouth opens. And then, leaves me breathless as he crouches before me, putting both hands on my belly. “Hey there, little guy. It’s your daddy.”

  His daddy. Oh, Lord, thank you. I tangle my hands in Chase’s hair. “He’s very, very glad to meet you.”

  Chase looks up at me, eyes shining. Then, “I got you something, too.” He stands up, and goes to his briefcase. From it he takes two envelopes. He’s written Merry Christmas on both. Gesturing me to sit, he joins me on the sofa.

  “It’s sorta an either-or gift.”

  I frown at him.

  “Just open them.”

  I work my thumb under the lip of the first envelope and rip it open. Inside is a folded piece of paper.

  Reservations for two plane tickets. Back to Minnesota. I stare at it, feeling a stone fall through my heart, and settle in my gut. Oh, no.

  Or…not? Isn’t this what I wanted? To go home, start over? To be around pickles and takeout, and decent prenatal care, and my mother? To start our life as parents surrounded by the people we love?

  I’ll be sure to take caviar with me.

  When I look up at Chase, his smile has faded. He takes my hand. “I love you, G.I. More than I love this job. We can leave tomorrow, be home for New Year’s Eve.”

  I can’t speak.

  “Open the other envelope.” Chase hands it to me, and I feel something heavy inside. I tear it open and a key slides into my palm.

  “It’s to my office, at WorldMar. Our office.”

  I frown at him, not connecting the dots. Remember—four billion brain cells, buddy. Spell it out.

  Chase takes my hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong, Jose. Every idea I come up with for a business stinks or has already been tried, and I’m completely over my head.” He runs his thumb over my hand. “I should have asked before.” He shakes his head. “No, I should have told them that you were my partner. That we were a package deal.” Looking up, he’s wearing the expression he did the time he asked me not to go to Russia. I didn’t give in then, but I’m ready to now. Because my man needs me. “Either we go home, or you come to WorldMar and help me. What do you think, Jose?”

  I think decisions of this magnitude shouldn’t be made by women with shrinking brain cells. Even if she is a Proverbs 31 wife.

  I have choices here. Aside from the obvious two, the others are…whom to call for advice?

  1. Daphne. Who thinks of me as Martha Stewart. I know, she’s so confused, but really, that’s okay.

  2. H. Who thinks I’m not dealing with a full deck, or at least all my brain cells.

  3. Jasmine. Who will kill me for not telling her I am pregnant, and possibly cut off my kringle care package supply.

  I dial my mother.

  When she picks up, it sounds as if she’s in the next room, and a rush of emotion engulfs me. I can hardly speak. “Merry Christmas, Mom,” I say.

  “Josey, is that you?”

  No, Jasmine ran three thousand miles away and decided to call you. “Yeah. How are you?”

  I can hear the phone muffled on the other side as she covers the receiver and hollers for my father. I bought them a new telephone for Christmas last year, a cordless with a mute button. My mother refuses to read instructions, hence her time bake function on her oven has never been used, along with the convection feature on her microwave as well as the speaker and mute functions on her phone. I’m thinking Mom would be happy with a woodstove and a tin can on a string.

  “Mom, I gotta talk to you,” I say, hoping I have time before my father picks up. “I’m…pregnant.”

  I give a one-eye wince because I know what my mother thinks about us living in Russia. You were there—she wasn’t exactly doing the hula. And I don’t blame her. Despite all the reforms, she’s still reliving the air-raid drills she grow up with during the Cold War. That has to scar a kid’s psyche.

  “Oh…Josey!” But instead of the dread in her voice, I hear…joy? “That’s wonderful, honey! Congratulations!”

  “What time is it there, Mom? Did I wake you up? This isn’t a dream.”

  “It’s 6:00 a.m., I’ve been up for an hour, for goodness’ sake!”

  Of course she has. “Well, I just…I wanted to tell you.” Go figure, my mother isn’t fazed! “And I need your advice.” I squint one eye with that word. Because, well, Mom’s advice has generally fallen on deaf ears. Until now. When I see the need for a parent.

  I’m not going to say it, but I want my mommy.

  “I…I don’t know what to do, Mom.”

  She pauses and I can hear her confusion over the line. “About what, honey?”

  “About being pregnant…in Russia.”

  I can imagine her in the kitchen, her yellow apron about her waist, her blond hair cut short. She’s thin and tall and up to her wrists in flour. The house is clean and the turkey stuffed for Christmas dinner, and soon the house will fill with Buddy and Jasmine and Milton. And Amelia. Grandchild Number One.

  “Are there doctors in Russia?”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “Well, then, go to a doctor.”

  I grimace. Chase is sitting next to me on the sofa. I haven’t given him my answer yet, because, well, I don’t know. I can’t make decisions on an empty stomach.

  “I will…the thing is, mom, Chase says we can go home if I want.” I glance at him. His expression doesn’t betray an inkling of what he hopes I might say. He picks now to become a World Poker champ?

  Mom is quiet. I hear water running, as if she might be doing the dishes. “You’ll be home by the time the baby comes, right?”

  Oh, please, Lord, I hope so. The idea of having a baby in Russia…I go a little cold and reach for Chase’s hand. “Well, we haven’t really talked about it, but I’m sure Chase doesn’t want me to have a baby in Russia, so…”

  I glance at him and he confirms my words with a wide-eyed shake of his head. “Yeah. We’ll figure o
ut a way. It’s due the end of June.”

  Mom is quiet for a long moment, probably doing the math. She’s a whiz, having spent her entire life adding and subtracting measurements in two systems. Norway, where Mom gets many of her prizewinning recipes, is a believer in the metric system like the rest of the world.

  I can hear a chair sliding out from our ancient kitchen table. “Sweetheart, how far along are you?”

  “I felt the baby move today.”

  I can hear her concern from here.

  “First thing you need to do is find a doctor. If he thinks you’re fine, I see no reason to cut your trip short. As long as you’re eating right, getting plenty of protein and calcium, and taking care of yourself, you should be fine for the next few months. However, it’s up to you, Josey.”

  Rats, that’s what Chase said, too. I was half hoping Mom would make this decision for me. Chase gets up, moves away from me. Pads into the kitchen, his hands combing back his hair.

  I did this. I got us into this sticky place. And now I gotta figure out how to get us out.

  Wait—didn’t I, just an hour or so ago, agree to let God make the decisions? And just like that, it’s clear. I prayed for God to fix this, to do a miracle and smooth out my bumpy marriage. And He did. And Chase didn’t marry me for my propensity to quit.

  This is my town. And not only that, I have the most magnificent of ideas.

  “Thanks, Mom. Give Dad and Jas a kiss for me.”

  “You guys doing okay, otherwise, honey?”

  I glance at Chase. He looks at me, a frown on his face. But I smile. “We’re perfect.” And we are. After all, after the past three months, what more could go wrong?

  As I hang up, Chase comes back and gathers me in his arms. They’re strong and safe, and inside them, I am his bundle of yuletide joy.

  Merry Christmas to us.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’ve been Bambied

  I have decided that Russia throws the best New Year’s Eve parties on the planet. Case in point—two years ago I spent New Year’s Eve at Spaso House, at a ball with the Ambassador to Russia. There was an orchestra and fireworks.