“I just miss home,” I say softly, probably so softly he doesn’t hear me.
We ride in silence until the Ferris wheel finally brings us around the final time, then lurches to a stop at the bottom. The attendant lets us out.
“Vso Normalna?” he asks me. I see real concern in his eyes.
Yeah, everything’s fine.
Chase reaches for my hand as we meander back to the picnic. I don’t take it. Instead, I latch my arms around my stomach.
I can smell hot dogs as we get closer. We’re not allowed to cook in Gorky Park, but someone has hired out a hot dog vendor for an hour. He’s loading in the dogs while others are edging up to the tables, filling their plates with potato salad, chips, pickles and orange Jell-O. An all-American meal.
“Want some food?” Chase asks.
I nod then search the crowd for empty blanket space. I find a corner next to a woman who looks a lot like Halle Berry. Short dark hair, with a skin tone I’ve only dreamed about. She’s sitting with her hand perched on her stomach.
I recognize the gesture. “Hi,” I say. “Josey Anderson.” I don’t add that I’m Chase’s wife, because, well, I’m not sure how we feel about that at the moment.
“Maggie Calhoun,” she says. Her beautiful brown eyes twinkle. “I see you’re a few months further than I am.”
“Oh, I hope so. I have two months left, though.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I see surprise on her face.
“Yeah, I know. My doctor isn’t too thrilled with my size, either. Says I should eat only pickles and potatoes.”
Maggie laughs. “I just got in town a week ago. Can you recommend a doctor?”
Let’s see. Can I recommend Luka? He’s patient, and is used to my quirky ways, like insisting he use the real stethoscope to listen to my baby’s heartbeat. Although, he keeps trying the stethoscope Socrates used. I don’t think I’m getting through. “I go to a local doctor, near my house. But I have heard there is an international clinic on the south side of town. I’m not going to deliver here, so I figured it would be okay to go to a Russian doctor.”
She gives me a grin. “You’re brave.”
That’s one word choice. I pat my belly. “So far so good. Women have babies all the time in Russia, right?”
“That’s what I keep telling Dalton, but he’s still worried.” She glances behind her, at a tall good-looking, dark-skinned man who’s talking to Chase. “It’s our first. I keep telling him that I’ll be fine.”
“Does Dalton work for WorldMar?” I am trying to catch Chase’s eye, because I see he’s holding a plate, and I’m suddenly desperately ravenous. Please let that food be for me.
“He’s taking over Director Jim Wilkes’s place.”
“Have you ever been to Moscow before?” I wave at Chase. Not even a blink in my direction.
“I’ve lived in Moscow for three years—Dalton and I met here. He was working with a WorldMar sister organization. We went stateside for our first year of marriage.”
What a novel idea. I think, perhaps, Chase and I might have this thing backward.
“What did you do here?” I’m picturing her as some sort of cosmetic representative. Or a buyer for some fashion line. “Chase?” I call out of the corner of my mouth.
“I was with the State Department.” She follows my glance, then looks at Dalton. Of course, he sees her. Starts walking this direction. At least Chase is following. “I helped humanitarian organizations qualify for grants.”
My appetite vanishes. “Would that include orphanages?”
“Especially orphanages,” she says, getting to her feet. I’m insanely jealous at the ease with which she does this. “They are one of our main clients.”
“Is the program still going on?”
Dalton reaches her, hands her a plate of potato salad. “Of course.”
And just like that, as if the clouds have parted and I heard a voice of out heaven, I know the truth.
Chase hands me my plate of food. And I smile up at him. Because things are going to be okay.
Chapter Eighteen
The Perfect Day
I feel like a covert operator. Lara Croft. Well, a very large and cumbersome Lara Croft, but still the sentiment is there. And, it must be spring because I’ve found new sources of energy, probably in storage from March and April. I’ve spent the last three weeks, alongside my partner in humanitarian aid, Maggie Calhoun, and our sidekick Daphne, putting together the event of the year.
I intend to surpass.
I started by baking peanut butter cookies for the Mayor. Okay, Maggie, Daphne and even Sveta assisted. Okay, fine! I supervised. And taste tested. But it was my contact with the Mayor that gave us the inside connections. The Mayors loved the cookies, and I convinced them—along with Igor, who ironically used to drive for them, before they were the Mayors—to write a letter of recommendation. Then, taking the letter, I approached Luka with another plate of cookies. He was so taken with the cookies, he forgot to use the wooden bell thingie on me, and let me go with only a sigh at my weight gain. (I didn’t mention the increasing back pain. I’m attributing it to the fact I can’t sleep without a congregation of pillows. Even if Chase wanted to touch me, he’d have to scale the Everest of fluff around me. But he’s either not interested or afraid to touch me. I wonder if he thinks I might blow up. I certainly feel like it.)
After talking Luka into also writing a letter of recommendation, Maggie and Daphne and I made yet a third batch of peanut butter cookies, as well as sandwiches and pitched the idea to Nurse Stalin and her Director. The icing on the proverbial peanut butter cake was my offering to write for them the grant needed to secure funding from the State Department’s program. Which sailed through committee in record time. Methinks I have my new partner in pregnancy to blame for that one. See, Pregnant Women, even with their loss of brain cells, still know how to solve the world’s problems.
Meanwhile, Daphne invited all the orphanage directors who work with her organization to a Peanut Butter Party. At our orphanage. Where we’ll serve milk and cookies and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Caleb helped us design and produce a media packet complete with nutritional information and the two letters of recommendation. Which was a challenge since Caleb is still pining for Daphne, but well, short of falling apart and proving that I’m a total mess, I can’t convince her that she doesn’t have to be perfect to handle marriage. I guess I am a hard act to follow.
Sveta, now a seasoned peanut butter cookie chef, has made twenty-four dozen cookies.
All this I did in secret, not wanting Chase to think I was, you know, taking over his job. But, well, I’m taking over his job. Because I’m a mother. Even if I haven’t actually seen Junior yet, and we mothers know that peanut butter is a mom’s best friend. But it hasn’t been easy keeping all this from Chase because he’s suddenly decided to come home at night. Even if he doesn’t massage my feet or sleep with his arm around me, I know he’s trying. And that makes my idea that much more delightful.
I finally asked Chase to give Igor the okay to retrieve the jars of prepared peanut butter still in storage in Gorkovich. I told him I wanted to use them for a goodbye party at the orphanage.
I’ve been seeing our perfect day for weeks now, ever since Maggie sat down beside me on the blanket. I plan to ask Igor to collect Chase. I’m going to pretend to be in labor—he’ll be completely fooled! Labor will bring him to the event where he’ll see not only fifty kids eating, and loving, his peanut butter, but the Mayor of Moscow, whom he met in his underwear congratulating him on his swell idea. And then the director will sign a contract for a monthly supply, which will prompt every other orphanage director in the region to follow suit.
The peanut butter factory will be in the black, Sveta will be able to keep Ryslan, and Chase will be a hero. And amidst the applause and laughter he’ll see I am a Noble Wife. A wife he needs, who can follow him to the ends of the earth and still be his perfect helpmate. A wif
e with whom he can face the perils of parenting.
All I have left to do is paint my toenails.
I’m sitting on the bed, trying to figure out where my feet are. I know I’ve seen them in the last couple months. Somewhere. I try about three different positions to no avail.
And my back is killing me. Sharp pains shooting out from my tailbone, down my legs. And Junior is doing somersaults—complete half gainers inside my stomach.
But summer scents buoy my spirit. Outside, Russia is lush and green, lilac trees heavy with purple flowers, jasmine in full bloom, releasing its delicate fragrance into the air. Overhead, the sky is a perfect blue, and as I pull on my sleeveless tent/shirt I found at the maternity shop, and a size XXXXXX skirt with an elastic waist, I refuse to listen to the voices of doubt.
This is going to be a perfect day.
The doorbell rings. I roll over and back off the bed, pushing myself to a standing position, then work my way to the door, grimacing with each step. Daphne stands at the door, all grins. She’s looking cute in a pink shirtdress and pigtails.
“Come in,” I say, holding the door open. “Can you do me a favor?”
Daphne nods, putting her bag down on the kitchen table.
“Do I have feet down there? Because I’m not sure.”
She laughs. “Yes. Although they’re probably a little pudgier than you remember. Would you like me to paint your toenails?”
I knew it, she’s the best. “Really?”
She glances at the clock. “We have time. Sit down.” Going to the bedroom, she grabs the polish. “You want this passion-red stuff?”
It seems like the closest I’m going to get to passion anytime soon. “Yeah.”
She returns and kneels before me.
“You’re an incredible friend,” I say to her. “I wish you were going stateside with me.”
She grins up at me. “How many days left?”
“Ten days. But I’m ready to leave tomorrow.”
“No, you’re ready to have this baby tomorrow. You’ll miss Russia.”
I lean back, pondering that. My Russia experience this time hasn’t been at all the victory of my last experience. Or maybe it has, in a different way. I will miss subway surfing, Chiboriki on the street, Ryslan and my other babies. Lilacs for sale from corner vendors, and Luka’s eye rolls every week as I get on the scale.
“Yeah, maybe I will. But I’d do just about anything to see a friendly face from home.”
Daphne nods as she finishes. “Okay, don’t move for ten minutes.”
“We don’t have ten minutes.” I push up from the sofa, grab at Daphne who pulls me the rest of the way. “Just help me slip on my sandals.”
Daphne works on my Birkenstock footwear while I massage my back. Then, grabbing my keys and our bags, she opens the door and locks it behind us.
Igor is waiting downstairs. He’s got the windows open, and is reading the paper. “Allo,” he says, smiling. I love the way his eyes seem to have warmed over the year, and especially this past month. Methinks spring fever has bitten Thug.
“After you drive us to the village, you’ll return for Chase, right?” I settle in the seat, careful not to smudge my toes. Only, for all I know, I’ve got polish all over my legs, my sandals and the interior of his car.
“Da.” He puts down the paper and soon we’re on the highway. I love looking at the houses of the new Russian suburbs. The new construction is rife with the old-time Russian values of stately columns, ornate cornices and general sprawl. Every house looks as though it should belong to Alexander Pushkin.
As we pull up to the orphanage, I spot Maggie setting up for the party, putting out the premade sandwiches cut into festive shapes, and the dozens of cookies on tables in the front yard. A gentle breeze plays with the tablecloths. Maggie is adorably elegant in her green pullover sleeveless top and green capris. She carries her baby like a little basketball. Why oh why do I have to have a manatee’s body?
She greets me with a hug. “How are you feeling today?”
I wrinkle my nose in answer.
She laughs. “I have some news that might make you feel better,” she says. She lowers her voice and brings Daphne into the circle. “Dalton let Bertha go today.”
“Go? Go where?” Daphne asks.
I love the fact that sometimes, Daphne is more ditzy than I.
“What happened?” I ask.
Maggie’s eyes sparkle. “He found her in a compromising position with one of the employees yesterday. And it was apparent that she was the aggressor, if you know what I mean.”
My eyes widen and for some reason my throat turns raw, even achy. “Who was it?”
She lifts a shoulder, returning to her setup of cookies. “One of the other consultants. He wouldn’t say who.”
I feel light-headed, and immediately chastise myself. “Was he one of the married men?”
Maggie’s smile dims. She nods. Then shakes her head. “Marriages are so difficult to keep together, especially overseas.”
Beside me, I see Daphne go white. “I have to go inside,” she mumbles.
I watch her go. “Did Dalton let the man go, also?”
Maggie turns back to the cookies and sandwiches. “Of course. In fact, I think they’re both leaving on today’s flight.” She looks up at me. “I thought you’d be happy that she’s no longer Chase’s partner.”
I am. I so am.
Unless, of course…
I smile at her. “Great job on these cookies. Do we have enough napkins and cups?”
Maggie nods and Daphne and I go inside to check in with the Director.
But my mind isn’t on the events of the day. Chase wouldn’t leave me for Bertha, would he? He’s been so nice this month, but maybe it’s an act, something to assuage his guilt.
Suddenly I just want to see Chase, to throw myself in his arms. To remind myself that at the end of the day, I have a husband and everything’s going to be okay.
I’m bringing tea outside, because even if it is three thousand bazillion degrees outside, we in Russia still drink our tea hot, when I see the Mayor arrive. I greet him and Mayorette, thanking them in my broken Russian for their time. Luka arrives on their tail. He’s wearing a pair of dark pants and a white dress shirt. He grins at me and I introduce him to the Mayor. That certainly can’t hurt his future.
See, someday people will be glad they know me.
Orphanage directors begin to arrive, and with them, some media that Maggie has invited. I personally checked with the orphanage doctor to confirm that every child would be allergy free. Still, a little divine protection is always appreciated. Oh, please, Lord, don’t let anyone choke.
I’m keeping an eye out for Chase, but Igor hasn’t returned. I do see Sveta, however—helping Maggie hand out cookies. Every time I’ve asked about Ryslan in the past month, she’s dodged my question.
I decide to ask Nurse Stalin. As I’m heading back to the baby room, I see the teachers lining up the toddlers. They look clean and obedient in their blue tights under shorts, the long-sleeved shirts—I should be glad they’re not still dressed in snowmobile suits—and play shoes. They’re so adorable, my heart turns to oatmeal.
Stalin looks up at me and gives me the barest of smiles. “Zdrastvootya,” I say in formal greeting, but I don’t stop.
Until I get to the room. And see that Ryslan’s crib is empty.
Empty.
I’m staring at it when Stalin comes up behind me. “On oshol sroditalmie.”
He left with his…parents?
My mouth opens and for a long time I simply stare at his bed, as an ache centers right on my sternum. Outside I hear laughter, and even applause as the children file outside. Soon they’ll eat the cookies Sveta prepared.
She prepared them knowing her child would never benefit.
My eyes burn. Nurse Stalin is smiling now and all at once I know exactly how people felt during the communist years, when people they loved vanished without a trace. I knew that w
oman was trouble, and suddenly I have this absurd urge to wallop her.
To wallop anyone.
I turn and brush past her, outside, trying to check the sudden rush of emotions. I’ve moved too quickly, however, and my back spasms. I have to brace my arms against the wall and breathe deeply.
“Josey?”
Daphne looks worried as she comes up to me. “Are you okay?”
I take a step back, stretch. “Just a back spasm. I’m okay. Is everyone here?”
She nods. “Maggie introduced the Mayor and he’s congratulating Director Ivanka on her innovative approach to nutrition. The kids are in the background eating sandwiches. And the orphanage directors are all enjoying cookies and milk. I think you have a hit on your hands.”
I swallow, and can’t keep myself from asking. “Is Thu—Igor back?”
Her smile dims. She nods.
I can’t wait to see Chase’s face. I’m about to go greet Chase, when her hand on my arm stops me. “What?”
She shakes her head. “Chase isn’t here.”
I stare at her a long moment, uncomprehending.
“Chase wasn’t at his office.”
I frown. “Where is he? Did someone try to call him? Maybe he’s here in the—”
“Igor asked. Chase went to the airport.”
The noises around me feel sharp, and too loud. I swallow, running her words through my head. I swallow again.
“The airport?” My voice sounds tinny. High. “Why would Chase go to the airport?”
“Josey…” Daphne’s voice is soft, but it feels like a razor on my nerves.
“There is a perfectly good reason,” I say, but I can’t think of one. Outside Maggie’s words, that is.
But Chase wouldn’t just leave me here, would he? Run off with Bertha, who…who is thin and beautiful and isn’t about to saddle him with responsibility?
Taking a deep breath, I go back out to the yard. Lean against the house as I watch the festivities. The children have prepared a song. They line up and sing. Their sweet cherub faces make everyone cry. I push my fingers into my lower eyelids, pushing back tears.
Chill Out, Josey! Page 20
