Pregnant Lara Croft. I have an odd thought…what if…what if I went to Russia anyway?
No. I can’t have a baby in Russia, can I?
Why not? Women in Russia have babies, don’t they?
On a whim, I detour down the baby aisle. It’s packed with paraphernalia. I had no idea how much stuff having a baby required until saw Jasmine with Amelia. She takes a suitcase the size of Brazil with her every time she leaves the house.
And now I know what’s in it.
Pacifiers, rattles, blankets, teething rings, wipes, diapers, Desitin, A and D ointment, lotion, oil, baby food, baby spoon, formula, medicines. I wonder, is Russia abreast of the latest advances in baby formula?
I don’t have to think hard to answer that question.
I pick up a package of tiny shoes and I get that feeling I have when I look at Amelia.
I’m having a baby.
Returning to the truck, I open the window and let my arm hang out. The smell of hamburgers from the local Dairy Queen drifts in and turns my stomach into a writhing fish and for the first time, ever, I can’t stand the thought of food.
But instead of that thought thrilling me, all I can think is…it doesn’t matter, I’ll be fat anyway. I motor through town, toward Berglund Acres. The sun kisses Gull Lake, the waves comb the shore, rhythmic, never ending. I’m struck that while my world has changed forever, everyone around me continues on without noticing. Hello, look at me, pregnant girl.
Pregnant. How overwhelming to think that inside me, right now there is another life that I can’t see or feel but that is my responsibility.
My responsibility.
Oh, no.
We’ll work this out together.
We’ll work this out together.
We’ll work this out together. This is what H and I have decided after my desperate stopover at the Wolf.
Now, the sun is sinking toward the Russia side of the world as I pull into Berglund Acres. My mother’s Olds Cutlass is gone, as is my father’s truck. I pull in, stop the engine. Sit in the cab, smelling Chase and everything about him, and screw up the courage to go in the house and drop a bomb.
Okay, so maybe I’m being melodramatic, but seriously, can you think of anything that rearranges a person’s life more than a baby?
Didn’t think so.
I climb out of the truck, slam the door. Our house was built in the 1950s and has a Mayberry R.F.D. kind of charm. I climb up the porch, and the boards squeak. As does the screen door as I open it. I can hear Chase inside, humming. And something smells good, like garlic and cheese.
I pad through our front room, past the family pictures, my senior picture with my Jennifer Aniston hair—which I cut into a short bob in college, then again in Russia—and the chisel marks on the dining room wall that mark Jasmine’s, my brother Buddy’s and my growth.
Where will we mark Chase Junior’s growth?
It’s suddenly clear to me, we can’t go to Russia. Not now. Because H is right—as soon as Chase gets the bug, he won’t want to come back. And I’ll be overseas washing out cloth nappies by hand in the bathtub.
They do have Pampers in Moscow, don’t they? I search my memory…and come up with a big nyet. Or, at least, they might, but I don’t remember because, well, I wasn’t even married, let alone pregnant.
Pregnant. In Russia.
“Chase, I have something—”
I round the corner into the kitchen and there he is, my hero. Wearing an apron, hot pads, and stirring something at the stove.
Is that Milton’s apron?
It’s definitely Chase, however, because I can recognize those jeans and that array of back muscles in a crowd of ten thousand apron-wearing Iron Chefs.
I stop short just as Chase turns. “Hey, G.I. I have a surprise for you.”
Uh, me, too, I nearly say, but the sight of him cooking has me completely undone and all I can do is brace my arm on the doorjamb. He grins, and it’s so cute, I’m glad I’m hanging on. “What are you doing?”
“I’m making shrimp and broccoli fettuccine.”
He’s making what?
“Remember our honeymoon, that Italian restaurant we found?”
With the cute wooden tables, and the hurricane candles and the view overlooking Banff? Probably Chase Junior wasn’t conceived that night, but it’s a distinct possibility. I nod, wordless.
He leans over and kisses me on the cheek. He’s shaved, and smells like the cologne I got him for our wedding.
For a wild second, I wonder if Dr. Everson called. Thank you, thank you! Now I can act as disappointed as Chase will be. I won’t be the destroyer! “What’s the special occasion?” I ask in a sweet, innocent voice.
He wraps his arm around me, holds me close. “Tomorrow we go to Russia. I thought we should celebrate.”
I smile, but my heart sinks. Especially when Chase twirls me around the kitchen, pins me for a second against the fridge and kisses me.
Oh boy.
Then, with his lips against my neck he seals my fate. “Josey, I can’t thank you enough for your courage and willingness to go overseas with me.” He leans back, and cups his hand to my face, running his thumb over my cheeks. Yes, I feel tears forming. No. I’m so putty in his hands! “I am constantly amazed at how God has blessed me with such an incredible, beautiful wife, and I want you to know that this will be the best year of our lives. You really know how to make my dreams come true.”
What’s a Proverbs 31 wife to do?
I smile at him, put my hands on his chest. He backs away, gives the sauce another stir. “Hey what did the doctor say? Why did they call you in?”
I shrug. “She gave me some vitamins….”
He pours in the shrimp, starts to stir. “I didn’t think anything was wrong. I figured you were just tired.” He gives me a serious look, runs his finger down my cheek. “I know you, G.I. You wouldn’t keep anything from me.”
No, of course not.
It’s completely Chase’s fault I’m this mess. If he wasn’t so cute, with charm leaking out of every smile, I probably wouldn’t be pregnant. And, hiding it. Why couldn’t he have dangling nose hairs or burp in public? No, he has to be perfect, and because of his stupid perfection, I’m sneaking out the bedroom at midnight to repack my bags.
Because, well, clearly my size eight Gap jeans aren’t in my future.
And, I’m going to need a lot more chocolate chips.
I’m going to tell him. I am. After we’re safely in Russia.
Yes, I know, I know, but he looked so…happy.
Besides, women have babies in Russia all the time.
They do.
We’re all going to be fine. Really.
I drag my suitcase from its spot in the living room and to the bathroom down the hall. My parents are right across the hall, and I can hear my father’s snores. Comforting, deep. Helpful. I used to lie in my bed in the room I shared with Jasmine right above them and calculate the exact moment when I could open my bedroom window and sneak out.
Something I will never, ever tell Junior.
Chase and I are occupying my old bedroom tonight—he’s in Jas’s old bed, I’m in mine. He suggested that we push the beds together, but there are simply some lines I have to draw. No matter how much I love him, we’re not…you know…with my parents sleeping below us. Regardless of how loudly my dad snores.
I shut the bathroom door, lock it and open the bag.
I’ll have to redo my list.
Sheepskin slippers—yes
Wool socks—without a doubt
One five-pound bag popcorn, one ten-pound bag popcorn—of course
All seasons of Alias on DVD
Books and more books!
Pictures of Jasmine, Mom, Dad, and Amelia
Medicines—Ibuprofen, Acetaminophen—can I have those?
One five-pound bag chocolate chips—all the chocolate chips I can find in the house
Toiletries
Taz jammies
No l
eather skirt for potential embassy event.
Rats.
No leather pants for second potential embassy event. Again, rats.
Power converter—for new hair dryer
Computer
Capris, black dress pants—only because they have an adjustable waist
Underwear and socks—new
University of MN sweatshirt plus any other sweatshirts I can rustle up
My collection of tees
My mules
Hiking boots
Slingback sandals
Black pumps—no
Black ankle boots—maybe, no
Black high stiletto boots—absolutely not
Life is so unfair. Because what pregnant woman do you see walking around in heels? Must have something to do with balance, or lack of it. Oh, joy.
Birkenstock sandals
Passport
Antacids—I remember this from Jasmine’s pregnancy
Yoga pants—because I have a feeling this is the only thing I’ll fit into in a few months
Vitamins
Expectant Mother handbook
My mother gave it to Jasmine when she announced her happy news. I sneak out and grab it from its current location—our family room bookshelf—where it’s gathering dust. Apparently, Mom then delivered all the knowledge of the book verbally to Jasmine, thereby negating the need for a book. Which I will now need. I’m wondering perhaps if having a baby far from home is suddenly a benefit?
Pickles?
I’ve never liked pickles, but doesn’t every pregnant woman crave pickles? Just because I haven’t craved pickles to this point doesn’t mean I’m not going to crave them, right? What if my pickle craving doesn’t kick in until I’m three months pregnant? What if I have to have pickles or die, and I send Chase out into the city to find pickles and he is mugged, or killed, and I’m left alone to raise this child?
All because I didn’t have pickles.
I open the bathroom door, flick off the light and tiptoe down the hall. My mother puts up pickles every year and just because I don’t like them doesn’t mean they’re not good. The Minneapolis Star Tribune “State Fair roundup” section told me that they had a “distinctive crunch and tang that propels Myrna Berglund’s pickles into a new category of taste.” So, I feel I’m in good pickle hands.
I pull the dangling light cord to flick on the cellar light. The musty smell of dirt and cement rushes up at me. I spy a cobweb netting the floor joists and stifle a shiver.
The floor is packed dirt, the walls unpainted cement blocks. And along the back wall, on shelves, rows and rows of preserves. Canned tomatoes, pickles, relish, jams, jellies, peaches, pears and applesauce. It’s a sight to behold—color and texture and craftsmanship. Now I understand why my mother, after canning season every year, stands here admiring her work like a painter might regard a finished canvas.
I grab a jar of pickles, rearrange the shelves—so she won’t know its missing and start asking questions—and tiptoe back upstairs. Where I grab a pair of Chase’s black socks to wrap the jar in.
I slip it next to my wool socks, pad it with the yoga pants and one of Chase’s old Gull Lake Gulls sweatshirts I dug out of the boxes in the spare room after dinner and hid in the bathroom closet. Returning to the kitchen, I open the pantry and empty the shelves of every package of chocolate chips, thanking Mom for her love of cookies. I also find another bag of popcorn—not the ten pounds I’d hoped for, but I’ll take what I can get. Finally, I spy a jar of honey-roasted peanuts—Junior needs protein, right?—and a bag of white-chocolate covered pretzels Mom got from a guest last Christmas. Eight months is too long for a gift like that to go untouched.
I swipe it, as well.
Sneaking back to the bathroom—and feeling a little like a thief, although after giving all my furniture away, I think I deserve a little mercy—I take out two more pairs of jeans and tuck my stash in its place.
A knock sounds lightly on the door. “Josey? Are you in there?”
Chase! Around me lies the debris of my rash decision—my jeans, the leather skirt, the bags of chocolate chips. “Uh, yeah….”
“Are you okay?”
I’m shoving the suitcase closed, zipping it. “I’m fine. I’ll be right out.” Picking it up, I plop it in the bathtub, pulling the curtain.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been gone an awfully long time.”
He’s been timing me? What other things about me has he been watching? Panic reaches up to choke me. I can’t hide this from him….
“Has the excitement of going upset your stomach again?”
I cringe as I say, “A little.” Sorry, Lord, I don’t mean to lie. I mean, yes, I guess I do, but I don’t want to. Which should be factored in, don’t you think? Is it still a lie if you’re sacrificing yourself and doing it for the good of the other person?
I think this is an important universal question that bears scrutiny. Like, when H asks if her hair looks good. It’s purple…what would you say? Then again, on her, it does look good, so I don’t have to lie, which I guess makes it a bad example. Still, it’s a good question.
“Do you need anything?”
Oh, Chase, go away! I gather up my jeans, the leather skirt and pants and shove them all into the bottom drawer of the bathroom vanity, the one that used to belong to me. All that’s left now is a few old Q-tips, a Band-Aid, a half-used tube of mascara and strawberry-flavored lip gel. And the remnants of my life before motherhood. The good thing is that my mother hasn’t looked in this drawer for years. I think I’m safe.
“I’ll be right out.” I close the door and climb to my feet. And get a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Fluorescence has never been my best lighting, but now I see myself differently. A mother-to-be. I turn to the profile view and pull out my jammies to create a tummy. A large tummy.
I’m going to be fat. And it doesn’t matter what H says, I don’t think fat is cute. I wonder if Chase will. When I tell him.
Which will be soon, I promise.
“Josey? Are you sure everything is all right?”
“Yes, Chase,” I say as I open the door and walk out. He’s in his sweatpants, bare-chested, wearing scruffy whiskers and the smell of sleep. He puts his arm around me, kisses me on the forehead. “Everything is going to be just fine,” I say softly.
Now that certainly doesn’t count as a lie, does it?
Chapter Seven
Baggage
From: “Josey Anderson”
[email protected]
To: H
[email protected]
Subject: I’m going to, really
Dear H,
Before you ask, no. I didn’t. But I will. As soon as Chase is settled into his job. It’s been a busy 24 hours. And, in case I can’t figure out how to delete this letter from the sent items box, let us call The Thing That Cannot Be Named—Yet, just…well, uh…maybe The Thing That Cannot Be Named—Yet.
First, I’m back! I didn’t expect the rush of emotions as we landed at Sheremetyevo airport. The last time I stood in passport control, well, let’s just say that my focus was on the breakfast I’d consumed on the airplane. And the fact that I’d neglected to use the restroom on board, a mistake I did not make this time. But more than being able to stand in the passport control line calmly, I had a sense that I, Josey Berglund, Anderson, am savvy.
Savvy. Especially when Chase turned to me and asked me what line to get into, the red line or the green line. Answer: Green.
I’m so good for him.
I can’t believe how much I missed Russia. The first time I arrived, I thought the country had been recently bombed, with the rubble and disrepair that hung over the city like a bad cold. But time has changed Moscow. Outside the city, where once were dacha houses that looked more like Uncle Bert’s chicken coop, are now palatial two-story homes.
And you’ll never believe it—we have a driver! I felt like a celebrity when we got through passport control and there, o
n the other side of the Plexiglas barrier, I see a sign—Mr. and Mrs. Chase Anderson. My attention was momentarily distracted by the customs official who wanted to open one of our bags. Because of my not telling you-know-who about the The Thing That Cannot Be Named—Yet, I had to repack my bag, and well, let’s just say the pickles might have raised some questions. Thankfully, the official picked Chase’s bag to open—which worked out well due to the soggy mess the broken pickle jar made in my bag. All over my woolen socks.
I handed off Chase’s bag to the customs guy and watched Chase’s reaction as the man pawed through his things. Chase smiled when he saw the Scary Pants. I reminded him then that someone should have given me his extra bag of peanuts on the flight from Amsterdam. Because, well, I’m eating for…whoops! The Thing That Cannot Be Named—Yet.
Chase has many uses, one of the best is that he’s a great bag schlepper. He carried both our suitcases and his duffel bag, leaving me with only our two backpacks—mine filled with two books I picked up at the Minneapolis Airport, a dozen bagels and a book I stole from our family room last night. More on that later. Chase’s was filled with one James Michener novel about the beginning of the world until now. I’m hoping The Great Canadian Bagel Factory is still open in Moscow because if it’s not, I only have enough bagels to last me a week. I figure it’ll take me that long to chart my course from where we will live and the CB Factory. But…wait, I have a driver! His name is Igor. He’s very thuggish—wide-shouldered and solemn and looks as though he might also have served as one of Putin’s henchmen in a previous life. You do know who Putin is, right? Do the words KGB and President of Russia help at all? Igor’s nose is off, as in off-center, and he has an indentation in the middle of his chin that looks suspiciously like a scar. Of course, he was wearing all black, because that’s the official Russian color, and when he saw us, he crunched out his cigarette right there on the floor of the airport, grabbed one of our bags and for a long, scary couple of minutes we thought he was a thief—until Chase grabbed him by the back of the collar and nearly got flattened.
I have mixed feelings about our driver.
Chill Out, Josey! Page 6