But I’m feeling the call to get creative.
I grab Chase’s favorite jeans, a white tank, and his white oxford dress shirt. Pulling the jeans on, I am overcome with relief that they are still too big for me. The minute I surpass Chase in size, I’m jumping.
I add my black belt, notching it on the largest hole.
I’ve decided that pregnancy is all about humiliation. Probably to get a girl ready for labor and having to change diapers in public places. But today it’s all about the fact that in three hours I have to face down Chase’s sultry coworkers.
Good thing I hate food.
I tug on the tank, which barely covers my belly, slip on the oxford and tie it in the front. If Sharon Stone can do it for the Oscars, so can I, right?
Apparently I’m not Sharon. Because I look as though I have a big bow on my belly.
I untie it, smooth it down, button it just below my chin and let it drape. Better. But I still look as though I’ve had one too many doughnuts.
Oh, wow that sounds good right now. A doughnut. With lots of sugar. Or covered in chocolate. So maybe I don’t hate food. Maybe just the food available in Russia.
I’d bet I’d love Gull Lake food. Especially eating it in my cute remodeled kitchen in a Cape Cod.
Rats, I wasn’t going to go there. I wasn’t.
Surveying myself in the mirror I decide one thing. I’m going to have to focus on the hair.
It’s grown longer over the past three months, and is now down to my shoulder blades. I never looked good in long and straight, but now I use my curling iron to flare out the ends. It’s cute. And with the boots, well, I might live through my night.
I’m applying makeup when I hear the bolt turn in the front door and Chase enter. I turn just as he appears at the bathroom door.
He stops and whatever was going to come from his lips, and I was looking more for action than words, morphs into openmouthed shock. And then a frown.
And then, “Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”
Okay, note to all of the male persuasion. There are three things a man should never say to a woman, especially a pregnant woman.
1. Are you really going to eat all of that?
2. Pregnancy is not a disease. Deal with it.
And, the most important…
3. Is that what you’re wearing?
I slam the door and lock myself in the bathroom. Which, I think, is a stellar alternative to the many, many options that run through my mind. Sinking down against the door, I lower my head into my hands. I can hear Chase outside sighing, loudly, and I picture him shaking his head, even running his hands through that tawny blond hair.
“I’m sorry, Josey. It’s just…well, all the rest of the girls are dressing up…”
I’m sure they are. I fear the alternative to office wear they’ll show up in tonight.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” I say, wishing I could tell him the truth, suddenly wanting to tell him how my iffy attire is all his fault, and how he dragged me over here, a billon miles from home, where right now Milton and Jasmine are eating Mom’s turkey and Jas’s Parker House rolls, and probably apple pie made with Mom’s Macintosh apples for dessert. How because of him, I’ve gained three million pounds, nothing tastes good, and I lost my dream house to my I-have-a-Perfect-Life sister.
And no, I don’t want to talk about it.
“What about that black skirt you wore to the New Year’s Eve party at your parents’ last year?”
You mean the one I bought at Saks a few years ago, and finally fit in after my first stint in Russia? The one currently wadded into a ball in my old toiletries drawer? Thanks for paying attention, Chase.
“It’s in America.”
“Oh.”
I can tell he’s stymied. Ha! Now he knows how it feels. “Well, that outfit you wore the first day to WorldMar looked nice.”
Yeah, that was probably the last time he took a good look at me.
“I know that you’ve put on a little weight over the past couple months, but surely it still fits.”
Or maybe not. Apparently he has been looking. And now I know why he’s not touching. For the first time since wedded bliss, a streak of what I think is hatred flashes through me.
“Go away.”
He knocks, and it takes me a second to realize it’s his head, thumping over and over against the door. “I didn’t say you were fat. It’s just…well, I know you’re home a lot, without any exercise, and…”
Excuse me? Thug has finished eighteen novels over the past few weeks, while I’ve been hoofing it all over Moscow and beyond. I’m more in shape than I have been since our wedding day.
“You look great to me, I promise. I’m just saying that you don’t have to dig into my closet to find something to wear.”
And here I’d bought into the idea that a man likes it when his woman wears his clothes. Apparently, I’m disillusioned and confused as well as fat.
But not so much that I can’t find the right response. “I like wearing your clothes. It makes me feel as if you’re with me…you’ve been gone so much.”
I grin in the ensuing silence. Wow, I’m good. Guilt, wrapped up in a compliment. My mother would be so proud.
“Just come out of the bathroom, G.I. I’m sorry I upset you…it’s just that you seem so touchy these days.”
Does he want me to go this party with him? I stand up, yank the door open. He takes a step back, as if I’ve frightened him.
Yeah, pal, be afraid. Be very, very afraid. He so doesn’t deserve to know about Junior. At least, not right at this moment.
“Listen, I like what I’m wearing. So either you take me as I am, or you go alone.” My voice shakes a bit at the end, which lessens the impact, but I raise my chin and glare at him.
And for the longest moment, I see him debate. Every second that ticks by, I’m feeling something inside shatter. Maybe it’s my dream of Happily Ever After. Maybe it’s us, and our future, and everything I’d believed about Chase.
Maybe it’s my hopes that we’ll make it through this, that I’ll be able to tell him the truth without it destroying our lives, that he’ll rise up, someday, and call me blessed.
He sighs, lifts a shoulder. “Whatever.”
Yeah, sure. Whatever.
It’s confirmed. I hate my life.
At our wedding, Chase and I invited my parents to choose verses from the Bible for us to give us wisdom on our marital journey. I was expecting something along the lines of, “And God blessed them, saying, ‘Be fruitful and multiply…’” or an excerpt from the 1 Corinthians 13 love chapter. Instead, my mother pulled out Proverbs 14:1: “The wise woman builds her house, but the foolish pulls it down with her hands.” That was it. I remember thinking…hey, what about Chase and his house? But now, the verse seems appropriate because my head is calling me an idiot but my body isn’t listening as I surf the subway back to Daphne’s flat while Thug drives Chase to the Thanksgiving shindig at WorldMar.
An entire herd of elephants, a deep-dish Chicago-style pizza and a month’s supply of M&M’s couldn’t get me to attend that dinner tonight.
But a huge part of me feels as though my refusal is tearing apart my life as I exit the subway, walk the half block in the fading light, and climb the stairs to Daphne’s fourth floor flat. I can smell turkey from here, and wish I cared.
I lean on the bell and when Daphne opens the door, I’m slightly shocked at her greeting—“Oh, Thank the Lord, you’re here!”
Now, that’s what I’m talking about! She lets me in and gives me a tight squeeze. Eventually my Norwegian self is going to get used to all this affection. Really.
“You look so cute!” she says, giving me a quick survey. Thanks, Daphne, but we all know the truth. Besides, she’s the cute one in her pink yoga pants and a white tee. Looks like cotton candy.
“Hey, Josey,” Caleb says, coming out of the main room. Daphne’s flat is cute, like Daphne. The inside entry, just large enough for one person
to toe off their boots, is wallpapered in a creamy pinkish swirl that extends to the main room, which has two overstuffed green couches. I helped Daphne set up her table in front of the couches to make a seating area conducive to romance. Which I’m destroying.
To the left, a galley kitchen the size of my mother’s pantry is painted in a kelly green. The smell of turkey and stuffing is overpowering, but I’m sensing something amiss due to the fact that Daphne has her hands covering her face, sobbing. Caleb puts his arm around her and gives me a sad smile. “We’re having turkey issues.”
“Oh, Josey, everything was going great until a half hour ago—the gas went out! And I still haven’t flipped it onto its final side!”
There is a long beat of silence where I know she expects me to fill in with a ready remedy, but I’m completely blank.
I want my mother.
Only, my mother would probably quote Proverbs and tell me that I should be at WorldMar with Chase.
“Well, ah, maybe…did the little white thingie pop out?” Thankfully we got an American turkey, with the self-thermometer. It cost about $3000 at the International Food Store.
Her eyes widen. “No! Do you think it’s ready?”
Well according to my calculations, it was supposed to be ready two hours ago, but then again, we weren’t sure what temperature registered in the oven due to the fact that it looked like a model that had been installed in the time of Brezhnev, with no external temperature indicator in sight. So I just put the flame at medium and said a little prayer.
See, people like me shouldn’t be in charge of things like turkeys, dinner, or probably even motherhood.
I’m going to be the worst mother on the planet. We’ll be lucky to have peanut-butter-and-cat-food sandwiches. Unless, of course, we live in Gull Lake. Then we can go over to Jasmine’s cute Cape Cod and eat her four-course meal.
I feel a little like crying, too.
“Let me take a look at the turkey,” I say. Daphne practically pulls me into the kitchen, outfits me with hot mitts and opens the oven door.
Steam and the smell of the holidays rolls out. The bird looks delicious, crispy brown, with stuffing spilling out. I did this. I stuffed this turkey. I made Daphne look good.
The little white thingie hasn’t popped out. But I do what I’ve seen my mother do every year—I wiggle the leg. Seems wiggly.
“Let’s take it out.”
I muscle the bird out and plop it on their tiny kitchen table. And, at that moment, the white thingie pops out. Daphne claps.
My mood is cheered as we scoop out the stuffing, slice the bird and set it on the table. Daphne pulls up another chair. So far, she hasn’t asked me once why I’m here and not at WorldMar. I’m not pointing any fingers, but maybe someone is a little too focused on herself?
The table is overflowing with food. I recognize Russian black bread, and a jar of cranberry jam, and some unknown black spread, as well as pickles, mashed potatoes and a cold carrot salad. I have to say, I’m a little impressed and wondering who is mentoring whom here.
Caleb takes Daphne’s hand as they slide onto the sofas. “It’s a beautiful dinner, Daph,” he says, and his brown eyes are shining.
I should be with Chase. That fact sweeps over me, and suddenly my throat tightens. What am I doing here, intruding on Caleb and Daphne, leaving my man to fight off the attentions of underfed Katrina and her cohorts. I mean, it’s not as though they’ll be eating. They’ll need something to do. And here’s hoping he’ll be fighting them off, because after tonight…well…
“Josey, will you say the blessing?” Caleb asks.
Oh sure. But the words feel stilted and sticky in my throat as I thank God for the many blessings He’s given me. I’m surely not acting very thankful, am I?
Although, I do put my hand over Junior as I close with an Amen.
Daphne notices the gesture as Caleb reaches for the turkey. Her eyes widen. “Josey are you—”
“Chase doesn’t know yet.”
I don’t know why I blurt that out, but suddenly I have to tell someone. And then, as if I might be a cask of fermenting wine, I explode with tears. “And he thinks I’m fat, and Jasmine has my house, and everyone is a size two and Chase works late, and pretty soon all I’ll have left to wear is Scary Pants!”
There is silence as Caleb and Daphne stare at me. Then, Daphne turns and gives me a hug.
When she pulls away, she gives me a small frown. “Now, what exactly are scary pants?”
Chapter Eleven
Bambi
I’ve finished off every chocolate chip, every bagel, every pretzel, every honey-roasted peanut and I’m nearing the end of my popcorn stash.
Now, at least, I have a reason to be fat.
And I’ve discovered a new food. That black stuff on Daphne’s table? Caviar! Black Caviar. Who knew it came in black?
I surprised her by scarfing down half the bowl. Little explosions of salty joy in my mouth, they also yanked the floodgates off my appetite.
I have a little addiction going. One that my cleaning lady noticed. Sveta/Sunshine found the leftover caviar in the fridge, thanks to the doggie bag Daphne sent home with me, and introduced me to ekra—canned caviar.
I’m in heaven.
And growing. Even Chase’s pants on me are tight. Not that he would notice because he’s spending even more time at work. We still have the Thanksgiving fight hovering over us, and when he comes home, he climbs in bed and turns his back to me.
But, not to fear. I have a plan.
I am going to fix this.
I know, I know. The truth would be the first remedy. And that’s exactly what I’ve planned.
On Christmas Day I’m going to serve up turkey. because my first one with Daphne turned out so well, I’m ready to solo, stuffing, rolls…and the truth.
Meanwhile, I’ve spent the last three weeks planning a Christmas event at the orphanage. Thanks to my fund-raising letters, the orphanage was given a large gift by a church in Pennsylvania, and we’re celebrating with presents for all the children.
Socks, sweaters, a piece of chocolate and a small toy. My heart breaks as I wrap each gift, thinking of the overflow of presents underneath the Berglund tree every year.
I bend my rules and use Thug to drive out to the orphanage two days before Christmas. The sky is gray, and the air smells like snow. Bare trees against stark concrete buildings have turned Moscow gloomy. What’s worse, they don’t celebrate Christmas, so all the lights and trees and festivities won’t show up until after the twenty-fifth. Just in time for New Year’s Eve.
WorldMar is having a big New Year’s Eve bash. Chase mentioned it, thinking I didn’t care.
But, like I said, I’m fixing this. Daphne and I went shopping on Saturday and I found a pair of stretchy black velour pants and an extra large-white blouse. Yeah, I look like my grandma Netta, but at least they’ll fit.
Even if my boots don’t. I had to purchase a new pair, this time with a low boring heel on account of a dizzy spell in the store. I tried to tell Daphne that I just needed a candy bar, or three, but she insisted on making me buy the boring boots.
The good news is that after I spring the news on Chase, I’ll be able to wear something to the New Year’s event.
And I’ll have a really good reason to be wearing stretchy stuff, as well as consuming all the caviar and cheese in sight.
“I hope they like the Nutella,” Daphne says. She’s holding a case of the chocolate hazelnut spread on her lap. I admit, the Nutella was my brainchild. Wanting to give the children a treat, I had to think economically—a little Nutella on brown bread will go a long way toward happy taste buds for children who subsist on kasha and potatoes.
“What kid doesn’t like chocolate?” I know, because Junior loves chocolate. He’s constantly telling me to buy it every time I walk by the apteka, which has won my eternal respect for stocking chocolate in a pharmacy.
We also have a monetary donation that should give the children a m
ore substantial Christmas day dinner. Maybe some meat in that potato soup.
The way Thug drives, it takes us about thirty minutes to get to Gorkovich, which is about six thousand people large. Every time we drive in, passing a chipped and ancient Lenin pointing to the center of the city, I wonder if Chase is here, and where he might be working. I know that he’s been trying to increase production in a chicken canning factory, and negotiating a contract with a lumberyard. But other than an occasional, “It’s going okay,” he’s been rather quiet.
Makes a girl not want to ask. And feel a little like a mosquito.
We pull into the cracked and slightly icy orphanage parking lot. Snow has begun to drift downward, brushed easily aside by Thug’s windshield wipers.
He helps us carry in the goodies. I’ve decided that even though I was slightly put off by Igor when we first met—okay, maybe that’s an understatement, maybe he scared me out of my skin—he is okay. He opens doors. He carries things. He’s even been known to follow me down the street to make sure I get to the subway without getting mugged. Sweet.
I purchased leather gloves for Igor for Christmas. I hope I’m not aiding and abetting some crime with this gift.
Igor follows Daphne and me into the main room, where the children aged eighteen months and over are sitting in a circle, singing. They look up at us and their faces shine. But like obedient soldiers, they wait until their teacher gives them permission to greet us. What is it about thirty children hanging on my legs, saying Zhozey, that makes me go all soft and mushy inside?
Daphne and I hand out the gifts, and then go to the kitchen where we cut bread and make our little Christmas “snack.”
“Reminds me of peanut butter,” Daphne says. “I really miss peanut butter.”
“Me, too,” I say, suddenly craving that now, too. Thanks a lot, Daph.
“Seems to me that peanut butter would be a good thing to serve in an orphanage. All that protein. And it’s pretty cheap.”
Chill Out, Josey! Page 11