: Surpass. I hope so, H. I really hope so.
Chapter Fourteen
Luka
I have been to the Russian doctor. And survived.
This, in itself, should qualify me for some sort of award. I did discover two important things at the doctor’s:
1. If I have five children in Russia, I get a medal.
2. And, if I have to give birth in a Russian hospital, I’ll kill myself.
It started out innocently enough. There I was, remembering the time I went with Jasmine to her doctor’s appointment. We entered the clinic to a room full of baby toys—for those on number two or three or beyond—a beautifully appointed waiting room with comfortable seating. A receptionist greeted us with a smile, asked her to sign in. I got a mint.
Music played—soothing music. When the nurse came to get Jasmine, she was weighed—and of course she gained a perfect half-pound per week—then led her to her room where she stayed in her own clothes, and they took her blood pressure. I got to hear Amelia’s heartbeat. There were smiles, and happy moments.
Not me. Not here.
Chase asked the Underfeds and found a clinic near our house, connected to the apteka. Since the International Clinic is located four subway lines and two buses from my flat, I weighed my options and because I wasn’t actually giving birth here, figured that a half-block jaunt versus a three-hour journey might be a better alternative for my bladder. I recruited Daphne, because she’s already a nurse and might have some inclination as to whether I should be worried at the doctor’s facial expressions.
I briefly considered asking Igor to accompany me since he knows English. But, uh, no. Unless the doctor gives me any trouble…
And the only other person I could think of was Katrina. For obvious reasons, Daph and I opt to go it alone.
We enter the clinic and I know enough to stop by the counter. Where a woman who looks a close relative to the Gulag Women, barks at me. Not sure what she says, I point to my stomach, which is roughly the size of a twelve-pound turkey, and say, “Vrach.” With means, appropriately, “Doctor.”
She points down the hall where I see a row of what looks like old vinyl chairs. As Daphne and I draw closer, we confirm our location via the other patients—namely, pregnant women. All wearing bathrobes and slippers.
The fact I didn’t get slippers when I checked in registers in my mind. However, not sure what the protocol might be, I sit down next to a woman who looks about my size. She has red, floral slippers.
She looks over at me, at my belly, then gives me a “misery loves company” look.
Sorta sends a little chill up my spine.
The doctors resemble pastry chefs. Roughly the size of my uncle Bert, they wear tall straight hats and white lab coats. They could be decorating cakes back in the labyrinth of rooms beyond the pebbled glass doors where the other women keep disappearing.
And not returning.
I sit for twenty minutes, not sure if I should have made an appointment. According to my research, one doesn’t make an appointment in the Russian medical system. One shows up. And waits.
And waits.
Finally, a dark-haired man who appears about my age appears in the hall. I can’t help but notice that he looks a little like Luka. You know, Luka. Slavic ER-television-show doc with melt-me eyes and a sardonic smile.
Then again, perhaps all Russian doctors in a lab coat and with a Slavic accent resemble Luka. I’m not sure if I should be thinking, run, or…jackpot!
“Shto tee zdes?” he asks, his blue eyes in mine.
Why am I here? Is it not obvious? I point to my stomach. The universal sign language for expecting.
He nods and motions me beyond the pebbled doors.
As I enter the inner sanctum, I can’t help but notice that the exam room doors are open. Which means I get the oh, so lovely view of the activities in these exam rooms.
Keeping my eyes ahead, I feel myself go a little weak.
That is way too much information for me.
Luka opens the door, motions me into a room that looks too much like a torture chamber. Metal table with two paint-chipped stirrups, a cement floor and the smell of antiseptic.
And, running across the table, a roach.
I grab Daphne’s hand.
“Rasdeyvaietsa,” Luka says.
Undress. Ha. In his wildest dreams. Or maybe not, because I am as big as Ohio, but still. Not happening.
He stands there. I stand there. I keep thinking, so this is how the Cold War felt.
Finally, he folds his arms and quirks an eyebrow. Yes, definitely Luka.
“I think he wants you to undress and get on the table,” Daphne says quietly.
You think? “I’m not undressing, especially in front of him, without a gown or something.”
Which bing!, suddenly I understand the need for a bathrobe and slippers.
“Maybe we can just ask him to listen for the baby’s heartbeat. Maybe take your blood pressure?”
I am still staring down Dr. Luka. I see exasperation on his face, but I know that I present something of a novel situation for him. I can imagine him sitting around with his pals drinking vodka, talking about the stubborn pregnant American woman.
Who refused to get undressed. That’s right, pal, it ain’t happening.
Now, Russians are known for their patience. Queuing up all those years for bread or shoes or cheese or even apartments has taught them how to wait.
And wait.
“I think you should just do what he wants,” Daphne whispers.
I narrow my eyes at him.
He narrows them back.
I fold my arms.
He shrugs.
“You have to find out how you’re doing, Jose.”
“Fine. But he has to leave. And I need a blankie or something.” I can already feel my face heating.
But Luka smiles.
It’s the smile that does it. “Nyet,” I snarl. I point to my belly. “Ya hacho slishet tserstoo.”
I just want to listen to the heartbeat! Because, otherwise, I feel fine. Jasmine carried Amelia without a glitch, and Berglund women have a history of normal pregnancies. Not only that, but my grandma Netta baled hay the day my dad was born.
I slide onto the table. Lift my shirt just above my belly button and look at Luka.
His smile vanishes.
But he steps forward and motions me to lie down on the table. I try to erase the vision of the roach running down my back, avoid the stirrups and lean back.
Luka takes my pulse, then my blood pressure. Daphne writes down the information. Then, he pulls what looks like my mother’s custard-cup press out of his pocket. Wooden, about ten inches long, it has a curved bell on both sides.
He presses the larger of the two bells to my stomach. Puts his ear against the other side.
“He’s got to be kidding,” I say to Daphne.
“Tiha!” Luka snaps.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt his game of telephone. “What is he doing?”
Daphne’s eyes are wide as she watches. “I’ve heard of these, but I’ve never seen one.”
“What is it?”
“Tiha!”
“It’s an old stethoscope. Dates back to the eighteen hundreds. But a lot of doctors still use them, especially in countries where supplies are limited.”
Did we go through a time warp? What’s next—bloodletting? I stare at this young, seemingly intelligent man with the pastry hat and something inside me snaps.
“That’s it!” I sit up from the table, knocking Luka in the face. He gasps and jumps back, dropping his…ancient medical tool, and puts his hand over his nose. I see blood as I swing my legs down from the table.
“Josey where—”
“I’m finding a real doctor!”
“But he is a real doctor.”
I look at Luka, at him pinching his bloody nose, ready to dispute that when I see an expression pass over him. Hurt?
Or concern?
At once, the
fact he’s been trying to listen for my baby’s heartbeat hits me, and I reach out for the table. Swallow. “Izvenita,” I say meekly.
Luka considers me for a moment. Then, nodding, he takes a piece of cotton and shoves it up his nose. Nice.
“Podoshdi,” he says and disappears from the office. Wait? For what? Bad news? I can barely breathe, let alone sit there. Americans, unlike Russians, are not known for their patience.
I put my hands over my stomach, feeling sick. “What if he didn’t hear anything? What if there’s something wrong with Junior?” Why, oh why didn’t I listen to my gut that told me to stay home? Why did I think I could come here without decent prenatal care?
Luka returns. Carrying a stethoscope. A real stethoscope. Now, was that so hard?
I slide back onto the table, my heart pounding. Lean back.
And then, my throat feeling tight, I close my eyes. “Please God, let the baby be okay.”
I feel the cold bell on my skin, and then to my surprise, Luka puts his hand on my shoulder. “Na,” he says.
I open my eyes and see that he is handing me the earpieces.
Trembling, I put them on.
And hear, for the first time, the heartbeat inside me. The one separate from my own. Alive and swishing.
Junior.
I can barely find my voice, but I manage a breathy, choked, “Spaceeba,” as I meet Luka’s eyes.
He smiles down at me. “Pashulsta.” You’re welcome. He takes the stethoscope back, curls it up and puts in his pocket.
“Sledooshay Mesitsa?”
I nod, blinking back my tears. I’ll see him next month. In a new bathrobe and slippers.
This is getting out of hand.
I think this while staring at the mound of dishes in my sink.
It’s been nearly a month since Christmas—and before you get excited, I did the dishes. Twice. And Sveta still hasn’t shown.
Chase nearly had to wear Scary Pants to work today. I did a quick save by unearthing his jeans and sweater, spritzing them with cologne and telling him he looked great.
But even I can’t wear my yoga pants one day longer.
I need Sveta.
And in order to get her back, I also need Thug. Because deep down, I know Igor can find things out.
Like where, perhaps, to buy a hijacked copy of the new Gerard Butler movie. Or lay my hands on a Keith Urban soundtrack. Sadly, Russians aren’t big on country music. Not sure why.
Most importantly, he can track down Sveta’s whereabouts. I don’t need to know how. I just want results.
I slip into the backseat and nearly startle Igor out of his black leather jacket and beret. He turns, quirks a dark eyebrow at me.
“You know my housekeeper, Sveta, right?”
He blinks at me.
Oh, don’t play dumb. We all know you can speak English. I stare him down and Igor finally lifts a shoulder. Atta boy.
“I want to find her.”
Igor considers me a long moment, and I can see him sorting through his loyalties. Does he side with the collective Russian pride and prohibit me from seeing how Sveta lives? Or does he surrender to the moody fat lady who gave him some very lovely winter gloves?
Igor nods and, to my surprise, gets out of the car. I watch as he goes inside my building. It’s cold out today. Minus twenty on my Celsius scale. I’m wearing my parka, but it doesn’t button around me, so I’m making do with one of Chase’s sweatshirts—although that is tight, also, just shoot me—and a big scarf I bought at the market.
I hit my hands together and pull my wool hat down farther over my ears. Being from Minnesota, you’d think I’d be used to below-zero chills in January. But we in Minnesota have a secret. We go from our heated house to our heated car to our heated office, church, school or grocery store. The occasional brave few who actually like to leave their homes and get out into the frigid white are equipped with enough arctic gear to outfit a sled dog driver mushing the Iditarod.
I’m forming breath rings in the air when he returns. He looks back at me, nodding, and I’m feeling like a kingpin. Do my bidding.
That thought is silenced as Igor nearly takes me out more than once on the highways of Moscow. My stomach is in my throat, and I know this is payback. The Bolshevik class revolting.
We pull into the northern section of town, a poorer section where two and three-room shanties still comprise the majority of the neighborhoods. Where New Russians haven’t yet bought up and overhauled the lands, creating suburbs and sidewalks and cafés and art galleries. I see a central pump in the middle of the dirt street as we drive past the fences with their little square number plaques near the entrances. The houses are painted green, or blue, most of them pumping out black coal from the crooked chimneys. A few places have livestock. Cows, or pigs. Chickens.
Igor stops in front of a blue house with ornate windows. I did research on the architecture of Russia during my stint here and discovered that the ornate windows were designed to ward off evil spirits. Like the kind that would break a woman and convince her to give up her child, whom she so obviously loves?
I get out and notice that Igor does, too. He leads the way up the steps, watching to make sure I don’t fall. My hero.
As he knocks on the door, my heart fills my throat and I suddenly wonder if this is a good idea after all. Am I prying?
Don’t answer that.
The door cracks, and I’m surprised to see Sveta’s face. She has a wide face for someone so thin and today her pretty brown hair is tied back in a white handkerchief of some sort. She glances at me and I see panic streak across her face.
“Please, tell her I mean her no harm. I just want to talk.”
I hear Igor translate, and Sveta’s face relaxes. I smile and she reluctantly opens her door.
The inside of her tiny house smells of mold and coal soot. The walls are papered in tiny red roses. In the entryway, I move to take off my shoes, as is the custom, but Sveta reaches out to stop me. “Nyet,” she says.
All the same, I take off the parka and hang it next to a shiny leather jacket, and a padded canvas work coat. The disparity between the outside and inside life of a Russian peasant.
Sveta is wearing her own version of Scary Pants and a bulky sweater that looks homemade. Motioning me into the kitchen, with Igor at my heels, she goes to the stove, as if to prepare tea. Tea is the answer for everything in Russia. Medicinal, social, it provides one something to do when they don’t want to face a problem head-on. I think tea consumption might be what got the collective population through seventy years of communism.
“Sveta,” I say, glancing at Igor, who has kept his boots, his coat, his hat and gloves on, looking like a proper thug. “Can I talk to you?”
Igor translates, and Sveta glances at me over her shoulder.
“I just want to help.”
Sveta sighs, and scoots up a chair, motioning me to sit opposite her at the round table.
“I know about Ryslan,” I say. I reach out to cover her hand with mine and find it cold and chapped. “What happened?”
Sveta takes her hand away, folds her arms across her chest. I see pain flash across her pretty face. She glances at Igor, then away and doesn’t look at me as she speaks.
I look at Igor for translation.
His voice is low. “She says zat she had no choice. She said zat ven Ryslan was born, she had to move in khere, viz her mozer. Her mozer is sick, and she needs to spend all her money on medicine. Her mozer can’t take care of Ryslan, and she can’t take him to vork vith her. So she had to take him to zee orphanage.”
“Is she planning on getting him back?” My words are soft, and I hope Igor conveys them this way.
He asks, and she answers with a shrug that I feel all the way through my chest. My throat tightens.
“Is she thinking of giving him up?” My gaze doesn’t leave Sveta as Igor translates. She closes her eyes as she answers.
“She says zat she can’t give him a good home. Zat if a fa
mily in America vants him…” Igor stops, purses his lips.
And here I thought I had it bad. My husband spending nearly every waking moment in the company of Bambi the Beautiful. At least, at the end of the day, Chase comes home to me. And Junior.
“What about Ryslan’s father? Is he in the picture?”
He translates, and for the first time, I see a spark of life in Sveta’s eyes. Igor’s jaw muscle tightens for a millisecond as she answers him. I see him put his hands in his pockets and fist them.
Interesting.
When he turns to me, his voice is clipped. “She vas married. But her husband left her for another voman during her pregnancy.”
Silence thuds between us like an anvil. I hear my own heartbeat and in it, my own fears. I swallow hard, and meet Sveta’s eyes.
They are dry. And hard. Refusing to bend. Oh, so Russian. I nod in silent understanding.
“Tell her that I’d like her to come back to work. That I want to help her get her son back. And that I understand.”
Igor meets my gaze a moment before he translates. In it, I see something shift, much like the night I gave him the gloves, only this is deeper, more profound.
Sveta lets a beat pass before she answers. “Ladna,” she says. Okay.
But it’s not okay. Because my future has just flashed before my eyes.
Arachbutyrophobia is a morbid fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth. I know this and about a thousand other useless facts about peanut butter because I am the official recipe developer and taste tester of WorldMar Peanut Butter.
I know, that thought scares me, also.
But my plan to keep Chase close is working because Chase, and unfortunately, Bertha, are here, in my little kitchen instead of WorldMar HQ, surrounded by bags and bags of roasted, unshelled peanuts.
And we’re going to make peanut butter. Which, according to the Internet, isn’t that hard. Besides, Chase is so cute in his Gull Lake Gulls T-shirt and jeans, and an apron around his waist. Yeah, I married the guy because he knew how to cook.
“It takes 550 peanuts to make one twelve-ounce jar of peanut butter,” he says to his assistants, me and Bertha, who is wearing a low-cut tee and a pair of shapely jeans. I’m wearing one of Chase’s shirts and my yoga pants which I refuse to acknowledge are actually painful to wear.
Chill Out, Josey! Page 15
