Chill Out, Josey!

by Susan May Warren

  “He’s upset, and we’re friends. You know, he knows me better than you do. He knows that I’m not the person you think I am.”

  She lifts her gaze to mine, and it’s forlorn. “See, you’re even humble.”

  Humble? Okay, maybe a little.

  I touch her hand. “You will be a great wife and…if you want, mother. You’ll do it your way, and Caleb will think you’re incredible.”

  She takes my hand, squeezes it but doesn’t look at me. “But what if Caleb ends up working as much as Chase? What if I’m all by myself, visiting the doctor, or sitting at home making pancakes? I just don’t think I could do it.” She glances at me. “You’re so patient.”

  Or stupid.

  I swallow. “Marriage doesn’t have to look like Chase’s and mine.” In fact, I wish it wouldn’t. I wish that Chase would see that this will never happen again—my being pregnant with his first child. And he’s missing it. “It’ll look like yours and Caleb’s marriage and it’ll be perfect.” Suddenly, that word—perfect—makes my throat burn. What is perfect, anyway? I turn away.

  The car is quiet.

  Igor finally turns on the radio. Pugacheva is playing and in my mind I see Chase at the New Year’s Eve party, dancing.

  Have I mentioned how ugly March is, with the gray melting snow, the frosty winds that pick up dirt and trash and rancid odors?

  We pull into the orphanage parking lot and I pry myself out of the car, ducking into the wind. I can’t wait to see my babies.

  Daphne heads into the big room with the toddlers while I beeline past Nurse Stalin and into the baby room.

  I’m stunned to see three couples, all leaning over the beds of, or holding my little bundles of joy. I stand there, staring at a woman who looks as though she might be my long-lost cousin from Duluth. Short, blond hair, blue eyes, she’s all grins as she holds…Ryslan?

  “Hi,” I say, with a hitch in my voice. “Uh…who are you?”

  “Oh, I’m so glad! Finally, someone who speaks English!” Blondie grins at me then up at her towering husband. He looks as though he might play guard for the Timberwolves.

  “Clay,” he says to me. “And this is my wife, Debbie.” He puts his hands on her shoulders. Oh, how sweet. I ignore the gesture and focus on Ryslan.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, because, as I mentioned earlier, Minnesotans are bred from birth to respond with some modicum of politeness. “Can I ask what you’re doing with Ryslan?” I pronounce it the Russian way, rolling the r, turning the a into an ah sound. Because, you know, he is Russian.

  “Is that how you pronounce his name?” Debbie wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like it. We thought it was like Reece, plus Aslan, you know, the Narnia lion?”

  Debbie dear still hasn’t explained how she knows my, or at least Sveta’s, Ryslan. “It’s Ryslan. After his father.” Which I found out. Poor Sveta. If Chase left me, the last thing I’d ever name Junior would be…well, Junior. Something like Peter, or David, something solid and vastly remote from Chase.

  Debbie goes white. “You know his father?” Her voice has dropped, and I notice that the two other couples in the room have turned, staring at me as though I just told them that I was CIA, undercover.

  “No,” I say, looking around, sliding a protective hand over Junior. Why do I suddenly feel as though I’m treading through a minefield? “I know his mother.”

  “His mother!” Debbie opens her mouth and if Clay hadn’t been there, might have completely dropped Ryslan. “How?”

  “She’s my…” Oops. Calling her my cleaning lady seems suddenly seems so bourgeois, I just can’t bear it. “…friend.”

  Debbie’s eyes are pinned to me. “You mean you know Ryslan’s mother?”

  Am I confused, because I thought that is what I just said. But maybe I’ve lost more brain cells than I think. “Yeah. And she comes once a week to visit her son. I nearly brought her with me today.” I don’t know why I said that. Maybe it’s because I’m feeling hormonal. And Debbie is about a size four.

  Debbie looks at her husband. “Clay, don’t let her—”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for Ryslan to see his mother,” Clay says to me, towering, suddenly.

  I’m not intimidated. Especially with Thug right outside. “Yeah, why?” I’m so having flashbacks of old Godfather movies.

  “Because we don’t want Ryslan getting too attached to her before we come to get him.”

  “Come to get him?” My voice has shrilled. But I don’t care. Baby Sasha starts to cry. “What are you talking about?”

  Debbie wraps her arm around Ryslan, who’s started to wiggle. It’s apparent she doesn’t know how he likes to be held. “We’re his adoptive parents.”

  Over my pregnant body. Which makes an impressive barricade, if I do have to say so myself.

  “I think there’s been some mistake,” I say, but my voice is light, and shaky, and I’m feeling the need to sit down. As if I hadn’t eaten in an hour. “Ryslan isn’t available for adoption.”

  Clay looks past me, and I follow his gaze. It lands on Nurse Stalin. “Not according to her.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Watch Josey Surpass

  “You don’t understand, Chase. There are Americans, here, right now, ready to adopt Ryslan!”

  I’m in the hallway of the orphanage, pacing, my cell phone to my ear, trying, although not very hard, I admit it, to keep my voice down. But even Junior is panicked. I can feel him, pacing, also.

  “I just don’t know what I can do about it right now.”

  Okay, here’s the thing about male-female communication. Mostly, a woman just wants to hear an, “Oh no, really?” on the other end. We don’t really expect the man to solve the problem. We’ll do that ourselves. Eventually. We just want aghast, anger. Someone to feel our pain.

  “Did you hear me? They want to adopt Ryslan! Sveta’s Ryslan!”

  “Sveta our cleaning lady?”

  I sigh. One would think that Chase doesn’t know much about our life. I school my voice. “Yes, Chase, our cleaning lady.” I slowly remind him of her situation and how I found her, and then cajoled her to continue to work for us, slipping her extra meals, money, medicines and the hope that we’d figure out a way to get Ryslan back. “And now it looks like she’s going to lose Ryslan anyway!”

  I can hear Chase pause, and wonder if he’s resting his elbow on his desk, rubbing his eyes with his finger and thumb. “Maybe it’s for the best. If someone doesn’t want to be a parent, they shouldn’t be forced to.”

  My breath hiccups. What? “She wants to be a mother, Chase. She was forced to give Ryslan to the orphanage because her husband left her for another woman!”

  “Okay, just…keep your voice down. I don’t like you getting upset.”

  Upset? Upset? If he wants to see upset, he should have been with me at the last doctor’s appointment when I stepped on the scale. Good thing it’s in kilograms. “Oh no, Chase, why would I be upset. They’re only stealing her child—”

  “They’re not stealing Ryslan. She had to sign papers—”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of coercion? Adoptions bring in big money for orphanages—who knows but someone didn’t get to her, talk her into trading her baby for money—”

  “Listen to yourself. Do you seriously think that Sveta was extorted into handing over her child?”

  I don’t know. Nothing, not an entire tribe of machete-wielding Mongols could separate me from Junior.

  Then again, I don’t have a sick mother to care for. Or a husband who isn’t in the picture.

  Not yet. I swallow and again I feel that light-headed feeling. Bracing my hand against the wall, I lower my voice. “I’m sorry I called. I just…” Needed to talk to someone. “I’ll see you when you get home.”

  “Josey, really, I’m—”

  I hang up. Because, well, his words are reverberating through my mind.

  If someone doesn’t want to be a parent, they shouldn’t be forced to.
>
  Like Chase, perhaps?

  I swallow hard and lean against the wall, watching the American parents send me surreptitious glances through the window to the baby room. Yeah, I’m probably a little prone to hormonal attacks, but there is something desperately wrong with this situation, and I’m getting to the bottom of it.

  I turn and march outside. Igor looks up from book number 517. I motion at him to join me. Which he does. He’s such a good Thug.

  “Will you translate for me?”

  Igor smiles and nods. Finally, a little compassion!

  We march in and I arrow straight for Stalin. She’s looking especially Communist Dictator today with her dark eyes, the pursed lips, not a hint of flexibility in her stoic expression. She raises one eyebrow.

  “Please ask her why Ryslan is up for adoption.”

  I put my hands on my nonexistent hips while Igor glances over at me, a frown on his face. Is he weighing who could hurt him more? I raise an eyebrow to match Stalin’s.

  Finally, he translates.

  Stalin meets my dark gaze and answers. I get some of it. Mother. Six months. Money.

  “She says zat all children left here by zeir mozers have to pay a small stipend for zeir care. Sveta iz monz behind in her payments. Alzough she hasn’t signed zee papers yet, zee director says zat in six months, Sveta vill be so far behind, she’ll have no choice but to stop her rights. And she vants Ryslan to have a home.”

  “I thought that the babies could stay here free.” I can’t ignore the sense of panic burning my throat. Sorta feels like a credit card payment that skyrockets with interest charges each month until the holder is buried in debt.

  Only Sveta would be buried in grief.

  “The orphanage is so—how to say—vif out money zat zey had to start charging zee parents of zose children kho’s rights haven’t been terminated by zee state. It’s zee only vay zey can feed zee children.”

  “There are more mothers like Sveta?” I can’t help my tone, I’m completely hollowed out.

  Igor translates, and for the first time I see humanity in Nurse Stalin’s eyes. I understand her answer perfectly. Too many.

  I’m speechless for a long moment. Probably to Igor’s great relief. There are more mothers like Sveta? Who are losing their children because they can’t feed them?

  I hear a baby cry in the baby room. One of the mothers is trying to soothe Sasha. I swallow the burn in my throat. Please, Lord, fix this!

  “If we’re able to pay Sveta’s bill, then Ryslan won’t be adopted, right?”

  Stalin nods. “Da.”

  But what about the other women, the other babies? I look at the adoptive parents, and my heart breaks for the longing on both sides of the ocean.

  The ride is again long and quiet, even after we drop Daphne off at her flat. Igor seems more pensive than usual, a darkness about his demeanor that is beyond his usual Thugness.

  “You okay, um…Igor?”

  He glances at me in the rearview mirror. I see in his eyes the caring I’d hoped to find in Chase’s voice. Hmm.

  The flat is dark and quiet when I let myself in. Sveta has been here, evident by the laundry hanging across the living room. In a future life, I will have a dryer. Something that doesn’t make my clothes feel like paper as I pry myself into them.

  I open the fridge and see cabbage rolls. A wave of camaraderie rolls over me. Sveta was here, taking care of me and Junior, while I was in Gorkovich, fighting her battles.

  However, it seems as if only one of us is going to win. Because even if I empty my bank account—$5,437.23—it still isn’t going to solve Sveta’s long-term problems.

  I eat a plate of cabbage rolls, then stretch out on my lonely bed, watching Junior move. At first when I saw my skin ripple, as if an arm or leg were pressing against it, all my hair stood on end. Now I trace the movement with my hand. “Hey there, little buddy,” I say.

  If someone doesn’t want to be a parent, they shouldn’t be forced to.

  Chase’s mother got pregnant in high school. His father would have made for the state line if it weren’t for his father-in-law who hunted him down and had the proverbial shotgun wedding. Chase’s dad, who until that time had gone to state twice in track, eked out a living down at the gas company, cleaning tanks and driving trucks. And hating Chase’s mother until the day she died.

  If someone doesn’t want to be a parent, they shouldn’t be forced to.

  Chaz Anderson Sr. turned to his buddy Jack, as in Daniel’s, to solve his problems. Chase swore to me when he was about twelve that he’d never drink. Ever. And to my knowledge, he’s kept that promise to himself. But I’m wondering, suddenly, if his commitment to WorldMar, his late nights, his sixty-plus-hour weeks might be about something other than making his project succeed. His own method of self-medication.

  Tears fill my ears and I let them flow. I’m not ready for parenthood, either. And I wouldn’t even consider walking away. But, maybe the initial surprise has sunk in, and reality has taken root. Is there a reason Chase hasn’t bonded with Junior? A reason he won’t put his hand on my stomach anymore?

  If someone doesn’t want to be a parent, they shouldn’t be forced to.

  My thoughts return to the fateful peanut butter making day and Chase’s look of fear at Bertha’s words. You’re in over your head.

  Oh no.

  March seventeenth is the new Valentine’s Day. I know because Chase appeared at my door with roses.

  “I’m sorry I forgot,” he says.

  “Valentine’s Day was over a month ago,” I say to him, accepting the roses, because, well, better late than never, and love bears no grudge, right? Give me some credit for trying, at least.

  “No, actually I forgot our Moscow anniversary,” he says, a grin on his face. “Two years ago last week I was here, fighting what’s his name for you.”

  “Vovka.” I say, now sincerely touched that he remembered a date that I didn’t. I bury my nose in the flowers. “And you always had my heart.”

  He closes the door with his foot. “I don’t know, G.I., you were pretty interested in Fancy Pants.”

  Two years ago, Chase came to Moscow to visit me while I tried to figure out how I felt about him. Or rather tried to admit that there was only one man for me. I put the flowers in water while he disappears into the bedroom to change clothes.

  “We got the peanut butter machines in today,” he shouts from the room. “And the consultant is starting his training classes tomorrow with the village owners.”

  He reappears in a pair of jeans and a dress shirt which he’s buttoning. “We’re taking him out tonight to the Gray Pony.”

  I make a face and he laughs. “You brought me there, remember?”

  “And you shouldn’t follow in my mistakes,” I say, grimacing. The Gray Pony is known as the ex-pat hangout and the fact they have a packed Elvis night isn’t something I’d advertise. If I remember correctly, we went there the night he left town, right after I sang, “Stand By Your Man.” I tried not to take it personally.

  “C’mon with me, little darlin’,” he says, taking my hand, trying on his best Elvis. “We haven’t gone out for ages.”

  Yeah, well…I look at myself. I’m wearing my very threadbare yoga pants, wool socks in a pair of Birkenstock sandals and a white T-shirt under one of Chase’s dress shirts. There might be a reason why I spend most of my time in hiding.

  “I don’t know, Chase,” I start but he pulls me out of the kitchen nook into the family room where he puts his arm around me, which leaves about two blocks between us—I can barely latch my fingers. He twirls me in a sort of…dance…sway? Who is this man?

  And for a second, on his smiling, whisker-roughened face, in those blue eyes I see the old Chase, the one who could grab the world with both hands and wrestle it to the mats. The man of confidence and laughter who came all the way to Russia for the woman he loved.

  It seems to me I haven’t seen that Chase for a very, very long time.

  “
When did you learn to dance?” I say, laughing.

  “I didn’t, I’m just going on instinct,” he says, taking my arms and putting them around his neck. “It’s not that hard, is it?”

  I laugh, giving in to his play when, oh…pain, pain. I grab my side, put a hand over my stomach as I keel over, making funny noises I’ve never heard before. He’s a little slow in reading my pain and steps on my foot. “Oh!”

  Backing away from him, I find the sofa, sink down upon it. Close my eyes and breathe.

  “What is it, Jose?”

  As the pain subsides, I open my eyes to discover him on his knees before me, an expression of horror on his face. “What did I do?”

  “Nothing,” I say as the pain continues to subside. “Maybe no more for me.”

  “Are you in labor?”

  “No. I think it’s probably one of those Braxton-Hicks—”

  But he’s grabbed a pillow and is lifting my legs onto the sofa and leaning me back into the pillows. “Chase, I’m okay,” I say, wondering if, while my feet are up he might be able to give me a little foot mass—

  “You’re not okay,” he says. And the look on his face makes me want to cry in a way that has nothing to do with hormones. Especially when he turns away, running his fingers through his hair, his wide back to me. “What have I done?”

  Um, I’m not sure how to answer that. Does he mean his role in landing me on the sofa, or my condition in general, because that’s pretty clear, or is it a deeper question about our life and what we’re doing in Russia?

  “I’m just tired,” I say again, hoping to snap us out of the sudden panic that is filling my heart.

  He turns and looks at me with a strange sort of enigmatic expression I can’t read. “I’m never going to be the kind of guy who can dance. I have no rhythm.”

  “You have rhythm. Like you said, you just have to follow your instincts.” I note my throbbing foot. “You just need some practice. I saw you folk dancing on New Year’s Eve and you did just fine.” And I’m not going to say it, but he looked as if he had rhythm then.

  I reach for him, but he pulls away from me. “There are some things I’m never going to be good at.”