Everything’s Coming Up Josey (8 page)

Okay, yes! I admit it. I've let the “last time” mantra manhandle my self-control. Doesn't mean it isn't true. Goodbyes are cluster bombs on the waistline. Still, like I said, I plan on losing all this goodbye debris once I land on Russian soil.

I dash upstairs to peruse the remnants of my closet. On my bed, my overstuffed Teletubby suitcases (I found a reddish orange one in the bottom of my mother's closet, and it matches the poppy dress quite nicely) contain the smashed bulk of my wardrobe. I've even flung wild hope into the wind and purchased three sizes of straight-leg Gap jeans, anticipating the need for apparel during the “acclimation to Russia” process.

I fully intend to return svelte and a size six.

Okay, maybe a ten. Uh-oh, I'm hearing parades again.

Sadly, my leather skirt hangs limply in the back of the closet. Right next to the two bridesmaids dresses and the poppy floral dress. I hope Jas doesn't see it. I packed my jean skirt, my capris and my cardigan sweater sets, going for a conservative look.

Which leaves me with two options for tonight's barbecue. My khaki “oh-she-has-hips!” pants. Or…the fruit skirt.

Yes, I said fruit. Two days ago, my mother got desperate. As if defecting to my side (hello, like I wouldn't recognize Bad Cop, Good Cop?), she went to the Goodwill and purchased nearly everything in my size.

Discolored blouses. Unraveled brown knit vests. A pair of khaki culottes that made the khaki pants look like a slenderizer.

And a fruit skirt. Prairie style, with three tiers of hemming and lots of flounce. The most, ah,
stunning
aspect is the pattern. Plums. Apples. Pears. Large ones decorating the skirt like bounty from heaven.

I think she's pushing the “poverty” part of the missionary definition. She doesn't know about the will and my many assets, however. Someone who stands to inherit (as the second beneficiary) $3,542 in cold hard cash should learn to kiss up a little.

The sad part about my mother's flanking move is that the fruit skirt is actually slimming. Maybe because of the sheer volume at the ankles. It sucks in my waistline and shows off everything north without me looking like I'm trying too hard. I wadded Mom's Goodwill bribe into a bag and dumped it off at its source.

But I kept the fruit skirt. Just for…naked moments when I need to feel thin.

I shouldn't…I mean…today isn't…

I reach for the skirt, a wild hair twining through my spirit. With a giddy smile, I pull it on. And like magic, there goes the cinnamon rolls, and Jas's oh-so-excellent
kringle.

I pull on a short sleeve red shirt (hey, I'm trying to be thematic) and brush out my hair. I have short, totally defiant blond hair that I've managed to tame, on a good day, with a blunt cut and a wide paddle brush. Today it is as lifeless as a rummy in a Minneapolis alley. I try putting it up with clips. Uh, no.

Maybe pigtails? I part my hair, pull it back into two stubby tails.

Perhaps no one will show up. It's not like I was homecoming queen. In fact, I distinctly remember
not
being a cheerleader. It's a wound I still carry. I mean, wouldn't I have made a great cheerleader? Bouncy…in so many verbal and visual ways.

I make a face into the mirror, check my watch. 6:52 p.m. As usual, I've left the important details, like hair and makeup, until the last moment.

But this night is about the new Josey. The Josey not shackled to her past, or her appearance fears, or even her daydreams of men in Montana. Besides, I sorta look cute. In an Uma Thurman meets Laura Ingalls kind of way.

And, most importantly, I'm kicking the dust off this town tomorrow. I'm not trying to impress anyone. After all, I'm a missionary. We're above all that.

I shove my feet into a pair of open-toed red nubuck-leather slides I've had in my closet begging for use, and tromp down the stairs.

My mother raises one eyebrow, gives a tentative smile and disappears into the kitchen.

I go outside and am fairly shocked to see a growing multitude of admiring guests. Or maybe they're just hungry because they're gathered around Milton and the grill. Still, I attract some attention as I let the porch door bang shut behind me. I see Myrtle and Uncle Albert (who hasn't taken a shower, but changed overalls, an act I count as a real gift). And there is my pastor, Kevin Peterson, and his sweet wife, Mary, who wave. They're real proud of me. I know because every once in a while, he looks at me in the middle of a sermon and smiles. Or is that a grimace?

Tipsy McKeever is leaning over Milton's shoulder, perusing the marinade. Three of our Berglund Acres guests are also here (I'm assuming this because they don't look familiar). All seem focused on the smell of grilling meat.

And next to them…

I gasp because my heart has done a double flip with a half gainer and landed in the dirt at the bottom of the steps, taking my lungs along with it.

Chase.

C
hase Jordon Anderson, what are you thinking? Where have you been? Not a word, not one word from you all summer, even after I wrote you a heart-wrenching letter, at least from my perspective, and you show up twelve hours and thirteen minutes before I leave town?
Do you think I'm that easy?

This is what I say to Chase
in my mind.
In reality, I'm still standing slack-jawed watching him saunter up to me with a half grin hello on his face. Oh, he looks good, too, back in that faded good-old boy attire and a Gull Lake Seagulls sweatshirt on, fraying threads where the arms once were. The boy still has his football muscles! He's got a two-day growth of reddish blond whiskers and his eyes, oh, his eyes. Am I breathing yet? I must be. But my heart has done a full stop.

“Hiya,” he says.

Words? Words? I'm a
writer.
C'mon!

“So, you're really leaving me.” He says it with a chuckle, touching his can of root beer to his chest, as if his heart is breaking. Oh, he smells good. Cologne with a hint of boy-who-played-football-recently. He's been in town at least three hours, evident by the grass stains on his jeans. I wonder…does Amazon girl know Chase that well?

Don't answer that.

“Uh,” I finally manage. I sound like a caveman. Dressed in fruit. I want to swear, out loud, but I'm pretty sure a missionary doesn't do that. “Yeah.”

“You look…cute. Is this your new Serving God attire?”

Honest, I'm really not a cursing girl, even without the Missionary label, but right now, I'd make Eminem tremble. Why, oh, why did I give in to the fruit skirt? I don't suppose God would just do me the favor of striking me dead. Right. Now. And, after the blue streak that just went through my head, I probably deserve it.

“Want a shish kebab?” Chase glances toward Milton and the grill. The smell wafting my direction makes my stomach clench, but if I eat anything I'm going to hurl.

I do, however, recognize an opportune moment, and search the crowd for the Amazon.

Nada.

Chase turns back. “You okay?”

Feeling better by the moment. “Yeah. I guess I'll get a soda.” I sound casual, don't I? I swing over to the cooler, pick out a dripping Snapple and hold it away from me. Don't want to drip on the fruit skirt. “So, where's…um…” Oh great, now I really did forget her name, and I sound—

“We broke up.”

My hand is on the Snapple top as he says it, and it not only gives, but spews brown liquid into the air, neatly spraying both Chase's sweatshirt and my skirt.

So I'm a bit shocked. And now he knows it. “What?” Oh phooey, I didn't mean for that to sound so…hopeful.

He shrugs as he wipes his sweatshirt. And I see the faintest hint of red. “Let's just say that after visiting Gull Lake, she wasn't all that impressed.”

Ah, hence the discarded
GQ
attire. Oh, Chase, you weren't dressing to please, were you? Be like me! See, me, in a fruit skirt?

However, hurt flashes across his face. And somehow, it lands squarely in my heart. As if…he really cared about her.

I have this overpowering urge to hit someone. And now I know, without a blink of doubt, I could have taken her. One punch. Just one.

“I'm sorry, Chase. I thought you made a cute couple.” Oh, gag. But, it's for Chase. And he rewards me with a sly smile.

“No, we didn't. She wasn't my type.”

I quickly slurp down my Snapple before I launch myself onto that lead-in with a cry of, “Who is, who is?” Because, deep inside, I can hear danger bells. Two months ago, the idea of kissing Chase felt…well, sorta like sneaking into an R-rated show. Fun for the moment, but not sure if I should be there. Today the idea feels like dynamiting a beaver's dam. Light the fuse and look out for falling debris. The explosion could be awesome…and then what? Marriage? Little Chasies running around a Gull Lake double-wide, or worse, a third-world village while I wash their nappies in discarded rain barrel? I. Think. Not. Which makes me wonder…if this is what the Loving Chase package contains, did I only want Chase because Buffy had him? Where was the girl who an hour ago couldn't wait to climb on a plane and start a new life?

“When did you get back?” I ask. I'm willing to give Chase a chance, however, because, well, for a fleeting second I see those arms around me, and that slightly curved smile has to taste good, doesn't it? Besides, little Chasies would have that smile, too, and maybe I'd simply hire out for nappie help.

Bad, bad Josey. Chase has just broken up with his true love.

Except, he's back here, in time to see me off.

To Russia.

Off. To.
Russia.

Pay attention!

“A few hours ago,” he answers. (See, I told you!) “Are you hungry?”

Ravenous. But again, if I get near food, it's not going to be pretty. “You go ahead. I'll save you a place near the lake.”

I watch him stroll over to the shish kebab stand, grab a skewer and return. He doesn't take a plate, just a napkin, and we sit down near the water. The smell of late summer and drying leaves tinges the air, and the sun has begun to frost the lake in kaleidoscope colors.

“I can't believe you're doing this,” says Chase, offering me a piece of meat. I decline. “It's so—”

“Wild? Crazy?”

“Brave.”

Oh. “Thanks. I just…wanted to do something different with my life. And well, when I was at Missionary Camp, I realized that maybe God's been preparing me for this since I was a kid. In fact, I've never been more sure about anything in my life.”

If I tell myself that often enough, it'll take root. Right?

“That's really cool. I mean, you know God and I aren't exactly in that same place.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “I have to admit, though, Jose, you're the last person who I thought would get religious.”

I guess all those years riding the fence didn't help my reputation, huh? What do they say about a prophet not being welcome in her hometown? Still, this is the longest paragraph we've ever sustained about My Salvation, so I'm shooting my gaze skyward, hoping for magic words. I shrug, oh so casual (not at all holding my breath). “Well, maybe that just makes me more sympathetic to the lost.” Hmm, I wonder if that is true. I hope so.

His smile dims. “I got your letter. Thanks. You're a better friend than I've been lately.”

Now what does that mean? Still, I can't bear to reply, fear clogging my throat. What if I accidentally give away my heart and he runs off with it to…oh, I dunno—Tibet? Besides, again…is this attraction real, or just a jealousy thing?

“How long are you in town?” I ask and I realize I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. It sounds like footsteps, heavy and on the run from (or toward?) something.

“All year. I just landed a job teaching social studies at the Gull Lake high school.”

Wait. Did he say,
All year?

“That's great.” There is so much lying going on in this conversation, I'm sure I've lost all credibility with God.

“Yeah, I've always wanted to teach, and this will be a great break, in-between projects. I just wish…” His voice trails off and he looks at me.

I, of course, am staring at him, hearing those footsteps in my ears, and now I know where they're headed. Right into his arms. I swallow, and meet his eyes.

“I wish you were staying, Jose.” He gives a sheepish smile, his blue eyes nearly translucent as he lets me see emotion. “Stay,” he says softly.

What's a girl going to do?

 

I know that going for advice to someone who hasn't had a boyfriend longer than six months at a time, and who doesn't see the need for celibacy before marriage, probably isn't the wisest thing. And, frankly, I'm not buying everything she says. But H has two things going for her at the moment.

1. She alone knows how I sweated after Chase's engagement.

2. She is online as I prowl my dark bedroom, fighting the what-ifs.

 

What if this is my only chance with him and I'm ditching it, forever?

 

It's one year. That's not forever.

 

What if he is the perfect one for me?

 

Then he's perfect and he'll wait.

 

What if he finds another woman?

 

Then he wasn't the perfect one, was he?

 

Okay, she's making too much sense right now. So I lay it all on the line, bare my guts to H. It's a lot easier over the Internet.

 

What if I never find someone?

 

Big Pause. Big, Big Pause.
H!

 

What if you never find you?

 

Ah. I wince, however, aware that she's nailed the biggest reason why I can't stay. Because this adventure is bigger than Chase. And it's bigger than H's gold/brass ring, although she doesn't know it. It's about finding my place in God's scheme of things. It's about eternal significance.

About Calling.

 

Thanks H. I'll see you at the airport. And bring bagels.

 

Saturday, August 25

7:27 a.m. Depart—Minneapolis, St. Paul (MSP)

11:10 a.m. Arrive—New York-Kennedy (JFK)

Flight time: 2 hrs, 43 min.

Connection time: 1 hour, 20 mins

12:40 p.m. Depart JFK

Sunday, August 26

6:26 a.m. Arrive, Moscow SVO, Russia (SVO)

Flight time: 9 hours, 45 min.

Total Travel Time: 13 hours, 48 min

 

H is late. I'm standing at the security gate, surrounded by Jas, my mother and Milton (excuse me, why did he come?). Noticeably absent is Chase, but then again, why rub salt into the wound? Besides, we had to leave at 4:00 a.m., and well, the days of my throwing rocks at his window to wake him are over.

Still, I suppose that's better than throwing myself at his feet. I check my watch again, excitement humming under my fatigue. Here I am, not only flying over the ocean, but going to Russia. The land of the czars, of exotic bistros and ancient architecture. The land of the persecuted saints.

I'm going to persecute H if she doesn't show up soon. One of the glaring inadequacies of Gull Lake is that we have no bagel shop. And my mother, for some reason that baffles me, refuses to make them. Which leaves me no choice but to pick up six or seven dozen every time I'm in the Cities and haul them back north, precut them and fill my mother's freezer.

It's a small price to pay for daily sanity.

And, well, I'm thinking I'm going to need some sanity the first few days in Russia. I'm not afraid to admit I'm into comfort food. I also packed a ten-pound bag of popcorn.

I listed them under vitamins.

“Honey, I think you have to go,” Mom says, worry in her brown eyes. She looks haggard this morning, and it touches a soft place inside. She may sound like General Patton, but underneath she's a mother, sending her eldest daughter off to battle.

Maybe I'm being overdramatic, but I like that thought so we'll go with it. I know she doesn't understand the bagel fortification, and I pat her on the arm. “She'll be here. Don't worry.”

“I just don't want you to miss your plane.”

I'm not even going to address this show of concern, this sudden surrender. “Here she comes.” I wave my arm to catch H's attention as she runs through the sliding double doors. Her hair is lime-green and black rims her eyes, neatly matching her uni-color attire. But she smiles warmly, my one-person fan club. I embrace her and she holds tight. “Sorry I'm late.”

She hands me a crumbled brown bag of bagels. “I didn't know what kind to get, so I got a dozen, one of every flavor.” Now, isn't that sweet?

“Thanks, H.” I notice the bag is warm. I'm feeling a little tense—maybe I should have one now. But I put the bag inside my three-hundred-pound carry-on that is slowly separating my arm from my shoulder. Well, what was I supposed to do—predetermine what book to read on my billion-hour flight? I mean, I should be congratulated—I whittled it down to three novels. And two magazines. And one non-fiction book and—

Yes! Okay. I do plan on stopping by the bookstore as I stroll out to the terminal. Just in case.

“I guess it's time,” says Mom again. What's with her? Suddenly I'm yesterday's buns, and she's parceling me out to the neighbors.

Jas has tears and I reach for her first. “If Milton gives you any trouble, you can always come live with me.” She laughs. Milton reddens. I wink at him, though, and for a second, everything ugly between us shatters and only the love for Jas remains. It feels pretty good.