Because in person, Mom can take me down with The Look.
My mother should register The Look as a concealed weapon because when she draws, people get hurt. Like the time in third grade during our Christmas choral performance when I was yanking on Stephanie Lindquist’s ponytail.
I am pretty sure I still bear the scars of my mother’s fifth-row scorcher.
I avert my gaze to my mashed potatoes before she can zing me.
“Did he say Russia?” my mother persists.
“I’ll be working with the sustainable living and small enterprise departments to help them create capital opportunities for our partner clients,” Chase says, cutting his pot roast.
Oh, well, when put like that—
“Huh?” Mom says. Yeah, me, too, Mom. I spent an hour on the Web site yesterday and I still don’t understand what they do.
WorldMar International is committed to building long-term relationships with the goal toward developing sustainable communities, cultivating healthy opportunities for economic growth and promoting international relationships. A nonprofit organization, WorldMar works with people and industries around the world to create and increase economic opportunities, sustain and protect natural resources and benefit the environment. Using innovative approaches, WorldMar utilizes local resources to develop leaders in the community, assist small business enterprises and meet their unique needs.
“I think it’s like teaching someone to fish,” I say to my mother. “Chase will be helping people develop marketable skills and start up small businesses that will hopefully give them not only an income but create more opportunities within their communities.”
Chase raises one of those showstopping blond eyebrows at me.
“That old saying—give a guy a fish, feed him for a week, teach him how to fish, feed him for a lifetime,” I add.
Chase is grinning at me, as if he can read my mind. Or maybe it’s because I get it, the whole Russia thing, the adventurous spirit inside him, the desire to do something different with his life. The Chase spark. Bottom line—I’m such a good wife.
“But what about your job, Chase?” My mother asks.
From across the table, I see Jas making trails through her potatoes. She glances at me, hurt on her face. Well, she started it with that whole, you can’t go to Russia bit. She was privy to the times I climbed out of my bedroom window after being grounded. She knows better than to tell me what I can and cannot do.
“I got pink-slipped,” Chase says, reaching for the rolls. Apparently he hasn’t noticed that he’s the only one still eating. Well, except for Milton, but then again, a tornado could whip through the living room and Milton would dive to save the kringle. The man has priorities.
“I heard they were making cuts at the school,” Dad says and ladles more gravy onto his potatoes. One down, two to go.
“But Russia—can’t you find a job in Minneapolis?” Mom asks, diehard that she is.
Chase cuts his pot roast. “I don’t want a job in Minneapolis. When I went to visit Josey last year in Moscow, the city spoke to me. I want to learn more about the people, help them, if I can.”
I remember that time as the week of confusion. He might have heard the city speak, I heard the shattering of my heart, believing that Chase and I would never be together. I heard no speaking city, no future in the wind. Apparently I’m not a very good listener.
“That’s well and good, Chase, but what about Josey? What about her job at the newspaper?’
I look up and flash Mom a smile. Hurrah for Mom, who has managed to say the right thing, after all. What about Josey?
I sigh, reach for Chase’s hand, and very Proverbs 31-like, say, “I think a year in Russia will be good for us. Besides, it’s a golden opportunity for Chase.”
Chase squeezes my hand back. My mother stares at me, and then, as if both bewildered and resigned, she shakes her head. “Anyone want more salad?”
After dinner, Jasmine and I sit on the front porch, watching Chase clobber Milton at croquet. The sun is low, and from the kitchen, I hear the sounds of my mother doing the dishes. She likes to handle the after-Sunday-dinner alone, probably to mull over our conversations and prepare for her Sunday evening follow-up phone calls.
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Jasmine is holding Amelia, who has fallen asleep on her lap, her mouth open and making occasional baby sounds that have my heart turning to mush.
“I don’t know, Jas,” I say honestly, picking at the paint on the porch. “I think it’ll be fun. Last time I went to Russia, I learned a lot.”
“You came back a skeleton.”
I hardly think that a size ten is a skeleton, but who am I to argue? “I learned another language, and nourished my independent side. Who knows what will happen this time?”
She looks unconvinced as she runs a finger down Amelia’s cheek. The baby gives an involuntary smile.
“Besides, I want Chase to be happy. And I think this is what loving someone is all about.”
Jasmine glances at Milton, and a soft look comes over her face. “I guess so.” She reaches out and touches my hand. “Just promise me that you’ll come back in one piece.”
Yes, I nod. One very skinny piece.
The night shoos the day down into the horizon as Chase and I bid my parents and Jas good night and stroll along the lake. Chase holds my hand. “I hope your bistro is still there,” he says softly.
I grin. My bistro, the Venetsia, across from the Moscow McDonald’s, the place where Chase found me and proposed.
Overhead, a sliver moon carves out the sky. A star falls. Chase is warm and strong next to me, and suddenly, anticipation swooshes through me like fire.
I can do this. Chase needs me. I know Russia better than Chase. I can help him survive, help him navigate the subway system, barter for bread in the market. I can be his true helpmate, the one who stands beside him in a foreign world.
We’re going to have the perfect life.
WorldMar International
Office of Personnel
2241 Hennepin Ave, Ste. 233
Minneapolis, MN 55401
763-555-2060
Dear Chase Anderson,
Congratulations on becoming a member of WorldMar, where we put ideas to work today for a productive tomorrow. We are pleased to have you as a member of our Russia staff and look forward to working with you. Enclosed is your membership packet. Please fill out the forms and return them to our office by September 15. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to contact the personnel office. Welcome to WorldMar!
Sincerely,
Richard Olafson
Director of Personnel
Enclosures
Checklist of forms:
a. Medical information and release form
b. Life insurance policy number and name of representative.
c. Permanent Address form
d. Emergency Contacts
e. Immunization forms
f. Doctor’s exam and release
g. HIV Test results
Gull Lake has a clinic in town that gives HIV tests every third Friday of the month. It’s not with a little relief that I discover that this is two Fridays too late for our purposes. It’s been two weeks since The Big Decision, and WorldMar has us on a fast track to departure. Evidently the guy in Chase’s position resigned—or “bailed” as still-blond and still-alive-if-she-keeps-her-mitts-off-my-husband Stephanie Mills defined it—and they need Chase to take over immediately.
I’m happy for him. For us. For the twinkle of adventure that I see in Chase’s eye, and the way it makes me tingle down to my toes.
And our trip to a free clinic that also offers HIV testing in Minneapolis is the first step on our grand adventure. Although something is wrong with my stomach. As in, it’s acting like a walleye trying to get off the hook.
Not that I have a problem with HIV tests—well, I mean, because you know, I waited, and I didn’t think I’d ever need one. But any medical test ma
kes ominous possibilities loom. As Chase and I park in a parking ramp, cross the street and descend into the bowels of some nearly abandoned building complete with the smell of musty carpet emanating from the painted cinder block walls, I suddenly get a hint of how it might feel to wonder if you have a ticking bomb inside you.
Really, I know that in all likelihood, the test will come back negative, but what about that woman in Florida who got it from her dentist? I’m just saying that it feels creepy to walk into a small, poorly identified office with a dimly lit waiting room and know that everyone else here feels the same sort of panic. Probably my gimpy stomach is due to Mom’s lasagna—although usually I can eat cold lasagna for breakfast and have little or no aftereffects. Or maybe it was getting up at 6:00 a.m. for our two-hour trek to Minneapolis. Nevertheless, I’m realizing that for everyone else in the room, this could be the worst day of their lives, and I’m feeling their pain.
With Chase at my elbow, I approach the counter, expecting to sign in. Instead, the woman behind the desk, late forties, long grayish hair tied into a ponytail gives me a number—#144. That’s me. No name, just a number. I take my new identity and sit in the molded vinyl chairs in the waiting room. The other clients run their gazes over us and I wonder what they think. I wonder if they wonder what I think. I wonder if they think I’m wondering about what they’re wondering. All of the wondering makes me cross my arms over my chest and duck my head.
“Are you okay?” Chase asks softly. I look up and give him a death-ray silencer. Of course I’m okay. Now what are they going to think, that I’m not okay? That I’m going to keel over, right here, in the middle of the waiting room?
“Of course,” I hiss, and Chase widens his eyes.
I glance at him and suddenly I realize that maybe I do have something to worry about. Not me…him. Although Chase and I…uh, abstained…before marriage, he was engaged to a shapely blonde before he wised up, and well, although we haven’t discussed it, I suddenly have a sick feeling on top of my already-churning stomach.
“Are you okay?” Chase says louder.
Of course I am, I nearly snap, but a wave of fresh concern rushes over me, taking the edge off my words. “I’m fine.” But what if he is HIV positive? What would that mean for us? No Chase Junior? No Jenny? What if I’m infected? What if I’m not, but he is?
What if Chase dies?
I sit back, beads of sweat forming across my forehead. Across from me, a toddler takes toys from a milk crate. The little girl has her hair in amber pigtails that stick out like Pippi Longstocking. She’s plopping the toys in the lap of her mother/sister/caregiver who lazily drops them back into the milk crate. It’s a game. The woman has pretty bright red hair, but she’s thin and wears exhaustion on her face that ages her a decade or two. She’s wearing overalls, and unless she collects her body fat around her hips, she’s expecting.
I suddenly have a horrible thought. What if Chase dies and leaves me with Chase Junior and Jenny, alone? Can I be a single mom? I don’t want to be a single mom. I don’t even know if I can be a nonsingle mom. I’m not ready to face momhood by myself. I turn to Chase, who is watching me with a sort of concern on his face.
“I can’t do it,” I say under my breath.
He frowns as the room starts to swim. I feel light-headed and grip the edge of my chair. My number falls off my lap to the ground.
“Josey?”
His voice comes from far away, as if through a tunnel, and as I turn and look at him, I’m seeing spots, leopard spots, now giant black holes piercing through my brain and—
“Josey?!”
I’m under a blanket, I know that, but the smells aren’t my bedroom and as I open my eyes, I see bright lights and hear unfamiliar voices. “Where—”
“G.I.” Chase suddenly appears over me, his hair mussed, fear in his eyes. “You passed out.”
“What?” I look around and realize I’m in a doctor’s office, judging by the blood pressure unit on the wall, the rolling chair, the eye chart, the row of antiseptic supplies—cotton balls, tongue depressors, really long Q-tips.
“Where am I?”
Chase takes my hand. “In an exam room.” He runs his hands over my hair, pushes it back. I see that he has a Band-Aid and a piece of cotton in the crook of his arm.
“The HIV test,” I say, it all coming back to me. I am feeling weak, even woozy. “Did you get your results?”
Chase smiles. “No, we don’t get them for two weeks. But I was tested when I went to Peru a few years ago. I’m fine.”
“But what about Buffy?”
Chase quirks one of those cute blond eyebrows. “Buffy?”
Oh great, now not only have I forgotten his former fiancée’s name, but he knows that I named her myself. Which means he now knows I was jealous. Can’t a girl keep any of her secrets? “What’s her name—the girl before me.”
He chuckles. “Buffy, huh? Well, we never…ah…” I see him turning a little red, and can’t help but grab him by the collar and pull him down for a kiss. He’s slightly shocked, but my future is again intact and all is well with the world.
I hear a knock at the door, and it opens, the voices in the hall now less muffled. A thin, blond doctor enters. He looks younger than me. “Number 144?” he asks.
“That’s me.” I sit up, and prop myself for a moment while my head clears of spots.
“I’m Dr. Pike. I’d like to just check a few vitals before we draw blood.” He takes out his stethoscope and presses it to my upper chest, listening.
“I had a physical last week. I’m fine.”
“I’m sure you are.” He moves the stethoscope to my back, listens again. Then takes my pulse.
“Well?” I ask, in my told-you-so voice. “It was just low blood sugar.”
He’s obviously not convinced. “Do you have a doctor you regularly see we could forward these tests to should they show any abnormalities?”
“I promise, it’ll be negative.”
He says nothing and it bothers me.
“Listen, I’m telling you, I’m fine.”
“Send them to Dr. Everson, Gull Lake Clinic,” Chase says quietly.
I look at him, feeling a sense of betrayal. But more than that, I’m wondering, does he think they’ll be positive? As if reading my thoughts he turns to me. “You really scared me. Let’s just let them run a few extra tests. Just to make sure.”
I sorta like this Dr. Chase I married. I shrug. “Okay. But I’m fine, I promise.”
“We’re not going if you’re sick, Jose.”
“I’m not sick. I’m just…well, I panicked. I wondered if…if…” Suddenly I can’t look at him, or even the doctor. “Being here just spooked me, that’s all. I don’t want to lose you,” I whisper.
The doctor leaves as Chase puts his arms around me and pulls me tight. He smells of cotton and his minty fresh soap and he feels so warm and solid I sink into him. “Don’t worry, #144. You won’t lose me.”
Josey’s Packing for Russia list:
Sheepskin slippers
Wool socks
Leather Boots
Five-pound bag popcorn
All five seasons of Alias on DVD
The first two seasons of Lost on DVD
Books—12-24
Pictures of Jasmine, Mom, Dad and Amelia
Medicines—Ibuprofen, Acetaminophen
Five-pound bag chocolate chips
Taz jammies
Leather skirt—for potential embassy event
Leather pants—for second potential embassy event
Power converter—for new hair dryer
Computer
Gap jeans—size ten and new size eight, just in case
Capris, black dress pants
White blouse
Underwear and socks—new
University of MN sweatshirt
My collection of tees
My mules
Hiking boots
Birkenstock sandals
Slingback sandals
Black pumps
Black ankle boots
Black high boots
Passport
Chase’s packing list:
Passport
I’m a little worried about our weight limit. According to KLM and Northwest, I can only take fifty-five pounds in each bag, with two bags apiece. I dragged out all the luggage in our collective possession—Chase’s army duffel bag and two bright orange-poppy-colored suitcases passed down from my grandma Netta.
Chase’s idea over the past two weeks of helping me pack has been to rustle up the grimy gear he brought into this marriage and dump it into the corner of the room. While I can appreciate his attention to minimalism, I’ve decided that the guy needs more than one change of clothes and a toothbrush. However, for every pair of pants I pack for Chase, I have to surrender a pair of capris, or perhaps…one of my shoe choices.
Yes, I’m Proverbs 31 wife, but I don’t remember any verses about shoe sacrifice.
I’ve done the brave thing and whittled down my shoe selection to the essentials, which has left enough room for two sizes of Gap jeans in three styles, my Old Navy T-shirt collection, three sweaters, my leather pants—which I purchased last time I was in Russia for the hopping New Year’s Eve ball at the Em-ba-see, yes I said ball—and plenty of essentials like bath oil—because I tell myself that the rusty water that comes out of the taps is really an expensive mineral bath at a French spa—chocolate chips and my collection of Martha magazines to date—we’re going to forgive her for that little jail thing because she knows how to make soap from scratch.
Most importantly, not only have I packed like a pro, not forgetting even the tiniest detail, but I also packed for Chase, including the very, very few things I despise—like the suit coat he got from Buffy which looks great on him but reminds me of the other woman every time he wears it—his fifteen pound, 528-page Cultural Anthropology textbook—and removed my two hardback romance anthologies, which were roughly the same length—and of course his Scary Pants.
Chill Out, Josey! Page 4