Chase alleges that the Scary Pants appeared one day in his duffel bag, much like a gift left by the tooth fairy. And instead of being suspect of the origin of the pants, Chase, like all men, simply looked at the windfall and didn’t ask any questions. I think he should have put the screws to someone because the pants look like something that should be in the bottom of a Dumpster, plugging holes. Blue polyester with a white pinstripe along the outer edge, in a former life they were stirrup pants and you can imagine the shape. Scary Pants take a perfectly good-looking pair of appendages and turn them into scrawny chicken legs.
Personally, I’m not attracted to a man with scrawny chicken legs. But, being the Wife of Noble Character, I packed them anyway. And took out my wedge-heel espadrilles.
But I’m determined that we’re going to have the best year of our lives. Chase is about to see that I’m the best thing that ever happened to him.
And I’m not just window dressing, either. I’m not only going to look good—aiming for that size eight this time around—but I still have that missionary spirit, I can speak Russian and I know how to get around Moscow. I can see God’s wisdom in putting me with Chase, and sending us to Russia. Not that I’m being presumptuous or anything, but now I understand that verse, where the husband rises up—from what, I’m not sure—and says, “Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.”
Surpass them all.
And, as I’ve been praying about this, I’ve come to the belief that God has something cooking for me. And on that note, I’m hoping he also provides someone who knows how to cook. Because last time I subsisted on raw carrots, Nutella and a puffy, chocolate-filled cereal called paduski, which means “little pillows” and certainly filled my mouth with comfort and joy. I just have this feeling inside that there’s something special waiting for me across the ocean.
Hence I’ve spent the past two weeks cramming socks and movies into Ziploc bags and find myself the Thursday before we depart surrounded by plastic bundles.
Jas is in the kitchen cleaning the fridge in hopes we’ll get our deposit back on the apartment. I’m hoping she doesn’t inquire about what that green stuff in the vegetable bin used to be. Meanwhile, Chase and my father are loading the boxes of our wedding gifts—the china, pictures, pottery, appliances and everything else I’ve only enjoyed for less than two months into Dad’s truck for shuttle to the Berglund basement.
Chase is the town hero. Not that I mind—I mean, I already knew this, but because of the feature article about Chase in the Gull Lake Gazette, he’s become something of a celebrity. Yes, I wrote the article, but I didn’t think it would bring casseroles to my door. Come to think of it, that worked out well for both of us.
Oddly enough, no one wrote headlines about me when I went to Russia. To serve God.
But it’s not about me. It’s about serving my husband.
Okay, I admit I feel a little like a sherpa. You know, the baggage carriers for the explorers who climb Mt. Everest? I mean, they climb the mountain too, and without the billion-dollar sleeping bags and the titanium-steeled crampons. Just their moccasins and an old blanket. (I know this because of our recent commitment to the Discovery Channel.) I just think that someone needs to say a word for the sherpas.
I suppose if I were the kind of person who felt sorry for herself, I might say, What about Josey? Did anyone notice that I had to quit my job, give up my byline and my great office view? And instead of a well-attended goodbye barbecue tomorrow night, Mom is off to her quilter’s club at the community center, and Dad has an elders’ meeting.
Good thing I’m not a self-pity kind of person.
Chase and I are staying with my parents, then Milton is driving us to the airport on Saturday. No flags, no parties.
As I look at my life’s belongings squished into plastic like forensic evidence around me on our tiny bedroom floor, suddenly I feel nothing but dread.
Please, God, tell me that we’re doing the right thing.
Tears well in my eyes and I blink them away, grabbing a bag of socks. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I change moods faster than the housewives change partners on Wisteria Lane.
“Josey, are you okay?” Apparently Jasmine hasn’t left, and from the way I’m clutching the bagels I found in the living room, well, no, maybe I’m not okay. The first step is admittance, right?
“I think I’m going crazy.” I wipe my eyes. “One second I’m thrilled about Russia, the next, I’m…. I guess I’m just tired.”
Jas comes over, wraps me in a hug. She says nothing because I know she’s still hoping I’ll throw myself between Chase and this insanity. The truth is, if I simply said no, it would all go away.
But do I want it to?
Jas pulls away, and is about to say something when we hear,
“Hello?”
Kathy Simpson, my landlord, comes into the room. “Oh, still packing. Okay. Well, my new tenant is here and she wants a look-see.”
So much for second thoughts.
I climb to my feet and follow Jas into the family room where Kathy stands with…H? She’s looking very punk today in an orange-and-black tank, and a full-length skirt that looks homemade from a pair of army surplus pants. She has enough chains draping the skirt to supply the Gull Lake police force for an entire year.
“I thought you were playing at a gig in Brainerd this weekend.” H’s new hard rock–punk band, the Sugar Monkeys, is gaining popularity all over the state, although I have yet to make out even one lyric.
“I’m the new tenant,” H says, beaming at me. “Rex and I are moving in.”
“Rex, your drummer? I thought he lived at home.” In fact, to my knowledge he still drives his mother to the library every Thursday for senior discussion hour. They debate hot topics like alternative energy sources and the war on terror. I wonder sometimes if perhaps someone should listen in, maybe take notes, send them to Washington. “Why does he want to—”
H smiles at me.
Oh. I’m out of the loop again. “When did this happen?”
“After that gig in Detroit Lakes. The rest of the band went home and—”
I hold up my hand. Really, that’s enough information. I try to smile. I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am sad all the same because my mother’s voice is in my head, something about free milk and buying the cow.
And, although H is her own person, because she is also my best friend, I feel a strange sense of obligation. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
She gives me a “I know what is coming” look but follows me into the bedroom. I lower my voice, wincing a little. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s a big commitment.” I raise my eyebrows, laughing a little, hoping to infest some lightness to the way she’s dark-eyeing me. “I mean, every night, there he is, with his dirty socks, and…” My attempt at humor falls flat. “Okay, I just don’t want you getting hurt. You let a guy that far into your life without a real commitment, and you’re just setting yourself up for pain.”
“We’re just living together,” H says, crossing her arms. “We’re not getting married.”
I nod. “That’s the point. I know you don’t share my thoughts on this, but as your friend, I have to say that you are a special person, and I don’t want Rex taking that for granted. Besides, have I told you about my HIV test experience?”
H rolls her eyes. “Listen, Dear Abby, I promise I know what I’m doing.”
Yeah, don’t we all? I sigh. Give her a hug. “Just trying to be a voice of reason.”
H walks out of the bedroom. “By the way, is your kitchen table staying?”
The table Uncle Bert gave us? “No…”
“How about the comforter?” She’s ducked her head into the bedroom. “I like blue.”
I’m starting to feel grumpy again. Or maybe just grumpier.
“And you don’t need the television, do you?”
No, but…
“And I really like that driftwood coatrack—”
“I
’m not dying, H. I’m coming back in a year!” Okay, so that comes out a wee more passionately than I intended, but for Pete’s sake, I’m not the Salvation Army store.
H stares as me, as if baffled by my response. Jas frowns, leans against the wall.
“You both act as if I’m never coming back. Chase and I are going for one year. One.” I hold up my finger, as if they might need help counting. “I’m coming back for all this stuff.”
Jas smiles, nod, gets it. H, however, is still staring at me. “Are you serious? What happens when a year is up? Do you seriously think Chase is going to return home, and you’ll buy your dream house, have two-point-three children and live happily ever after?”
Uh, yes.
But her words have sucker punched me. What if…what if she’s right? And H is so often right, it’s painful. I sink down on my former sofa, sighing. “I thought it might be something he just needs to get out of his system.”
Silence fills the room, like the kind in a surgeon’s waiting room while people wait for the results of a loved-one’s triple bypass surgery. Kathy turns toward the window, admiring the view of the lake. Jas begins to sweep the kitchen floor. H continues to stare at me.
Finally, she utters the Minnesotan epitaph for all arguments. “Whatever.”
I’m about to “whatever” her back when Chase and my father thunder up the stairs. Chase is sweating, his red muscle shirt just a little soiled, his hair sticking out in spikes under his baseball cap. He leans against the doorjamb.
“Time for the furniture.”
I look around, at the television—it’s my parents’ used RCA from the eighties, with the push buttons and the remote control attached to the television with a cord. And the orange sofa, a hand-me-down from my aunt Myrtle, still in excellent condition due to the plastic wrap she kept on it for the first twenty or so years. The driftwood coatrack I got as a wedding present from who knows who. So, maybe I’m not going to use it…in the near future.
I look at Chase, at the way his blue eyes twinkle with excitement. I’ve never seen him so happy—well, with the exception of our honeymoon—and frankly, I don’t want the dismal old Chase back. Ever. I like the sense of adventure that imbibes our marriage.
I like it when Chase is happy.
But what about Josey? I feel a wail inside, but I clamp down on the feeling that my insides are being shredded and paste on a smile. “Naw. H is moving in. We’ll let her use it.”
Chase shrugs. Shrugs! As if the sofa where we watched the Sunday Night Movie for the first month of our marriage means nothing to him.
I am a little miffed as my father treads past Chase into the room. He plops down on our former sofa. “I picked up the mail for you.”
He hands me the stack. I sort through it and find a piece from the clinic in Minneapolis. Addressed to Chase. I hand him his envelope and look for mine. When I find it, it is considerably thinner and while Chase is reading his results with all the interest of a hibernating bear, I am tearing mine open.
Your test results have been forwarded to the doctor’s office left on file in your account. Please refer to your local doctor/clinic for further information.
I feel another faint coming on as I sink onto the sofa by my father.
Picking a doctor in our small town isn’t easy. Every doctor in the Gull Lake clinic either 1. Is related to me. 2. Goes to my church 3. Is in the quilters’ club with my mother, or 4. Attended high school with me. Sorta makes a gal want to find a nice anonymous clinic in Minneapolis. Especially when she has those once-a-year exams. What exactly do you say to your gynecologist when you meet her in the snack chips section at the grocery store? Especially when she knows how much you weigh.
Anyway, thankfully Chase named the only doctor in town I would consider seeing. Maggie Everson is older than time, probably delivered every baby in Gull Lake, and has known me since I bit her back in ’82. And I feel about seven again as she knocks on the door and walks into the exam room. I remember two things about Dr. Everson. She has bony hands. And she carries lollipops in her lab coat.
I’m hoping I get lucky with a lollipop today. Because my stomach is churning again, and I’m shivering uncontrollably and I’m wishing Chase had come with me. But I had visions of standing on that scale, the nurse tapping it higher and higher, and well, there are simply some humiliations a girl should endure alone. Besides, I have a gut feeling there is a mix-up.
I can’t be HIV positive, can I?
“What’s wrong with me?” I blurt before Everson even gets a chance to sit down. I’m sitting on the exam table, my feet dangling. They didn’t weigh me or ask me to put on a gown, and now that omission suddenly seems ominous. I can nearly hear the soundtrack of doom.
Dr. Everson takes out her thin bifocals, sets them on her nose and opens my file. “You been feeling okay, Josey?”
“Fine. Tired maybe.”
“Moody?”
“No,” I snap. “I just have a lot to do.”
She looks up at me.
“Sorry.”
“Stomach bothering you?” She glances at the way my arm is curled around my waist. I’m still shivering.
“A little. What’s going on? Am I going to die, or not?”
Dr. Everson closes the folder. Sets it on the desk. She stands and takes out her stethoscope. “No,” she says cryptically. She leans me back onto the table, presses on my abdomen. “Mmm, hmm,” she says.
“What? Do I have a tumor? The pox? What’s the matter with me?” Now I really wish I’d agreed to let Chase accompany me. After all, he knows what I look like and hence can probably deal with the scale’s verdict.
Dr. Everson sits down, folds her arms over her chest. She is a typical Norse woman, tall and slender and strong. She wears her white hair fluffy around her face like a grandma, and as she smiles, I see delight in her eyes.
“What?” I sit up.
“Well, you’re not dying, not yet. But some think they will from this ailment. Certainly will change your life.”
I am HIV positive. I feel the blood drain from my face. “But how?”
“The old-fashioned way, I guess.” She’s smiling brightly now, apparently enjoying this game she’s playing.
I just stare at her, uncomprehending.
“Have you missed anything lately?”
Huh?
“Josey.” She leans over, puts her hand on my knee, softens her smile. “You’re not dying. You’re pregnant.”
Chapter Six
The Bumpkin
I’m pregnant. Expecting. With child. Cooking a bun in the oven.
Okay, maybe that’s going too far.
But, I’m going to have a baby! I get into Chase’s truck, the grape lollipop I scored—hey, I’m still a patient!—lodged in my cheek, and simply sit in the cab, absorbing Dr. Everson’s news. A baby. A little Chase Junior.
I can see him already, towheaded, with blue eyes and an easy smile, running after me calling mama…
Mama?
Oh no.
I cup my hand over my abdomen as my breath hiccups. I can’t be pregnant. We’re going to Russia in less than twenty-four hours.
Overhead, the sky is blue, the birds chirruping, the weather warm, yet with the slightest tinge of autumn. Next to me a car pulls up, parks. The woman wrestles herself out and I see that she either had too many milk shakes or is also in a motherhood way. Wait, does this mean I get to have milk shakes? I watch her waddle into the clinic and something akin to dread passes over me. That’s going to be me. Nine months from now, I’ll be waddling.
But where? Down Main Street Gull Lake or through Red Square? According to my math, nine months is much less than the year I promised Chase.
I touch my forehead to the steering wheel, hanging on to it with whitened hands. Hey, God, remember me, the Proverbs 31 wife? Did You not notice that I just gave all my furniture away? A sweat slicks my hands. How will I tell Chase?
I pray that out of his glorious riches, he may strengthen you wit
h power through his Spirit in your inner being.
Yeah, me, too. I’m not sure where I read that, but I know it’s a Bible verse. And it thrums in my mind as I turn over the car engine and back out of the lot. I am not sure just what is going on with my inner being—well, I now have a little more indication—but my outer part is sweaty and confused and close to tears.
I see two scenarios here:
1. I go home and break the happy news to Chase.
In all honesty, Chase will probably be thrilled that we’re going to have a junior us. But what will it do to Chase and Josey, World Conquerors? We’ve been married less than two months. Not even long enough to figure out what side of the bed we’ll sleep on. How will we manage a baby?
In Russia?
2. I don’t tell Chase and…when he finds out, hide out in Mongolia?
I detour past the Cape Cod on Third Street on the way home. The For Sale sign is still in the yard, calling to me. But the house looks suddenly old, and forlorn, the windows dark and gloomy. I notice now the slightly saggy porch, the fading paint from the clapboard siding.
I keep driving and stop at the Gull Lake Pharmacy, fill the prescription of prenatal vitamins Dr. Everson gave me. I don’t know the cashier—some woman with an Eastern European accent and the figure of a model—one of the foreign workers who flood our town in the summer, seeking employment. It strikes me as ironic that Chase and I are heading to Russia to help start small businesses when all the youth around the world flock to America to find their future. Not that I blame them, I mean, after all, this is the land of opportunity, but maybe if they had jobs in their own country…
I thank her, in Russian, and she smiles. Spaceeba. Yeah, I still got it. The thought gives me an odd sense of empowerment. Deep inside me, Lara Croft still lives.
Chill Out, Josey! Page 5