Everything’s Coming Up Josey (17 page)

 

5:40 a.m.

From: “H”

To: “Josey Berglund”

Subject: Don't Panic!

I'm sure it's a fling. A rebound. He's pining for you. Really. Really. Just, he's doing it in a very medicinal way.

 

8:53 p.m.

From: “Josey Berglund”

To: “H”

Subject: You're my Very Best Friend Who Speaks the Truth What if I was the rebound and she's the real Shazam? I knew this would happen. I've lost him again.

…Quietly Dying in Moscow

 

6:10 a.m.

From: “H”

To: “Josey Berglund”

Subject: Seriously, Don't Panic

1. You weren't the rebound. Because, well, you weren't around long enough.

2. Refer to #1 + you can't lose someone you never had.

3. Do you want me to run over her? I still have my dad's pickup in storage.

 

9:27 p.m.

From: “Josey Berglund”

To: “H”

Subject: My Hired Assassin

Not yet. Let's save that for last. But don't let her slip from your sight. Maybe a little incentive is needed, here. Can you get a message to him, via the Gull Lake grapevine? Let's consider it a litmus test.

 

6:42 a.m.

From: “H”

To: “Josey Berglund”

Subject: Consider it done.

Content?

 

9:53 p.m.

From: “Josey Berglund”

To: “H”

Subject: Vovka

Just that. Let him wonder.

 

I am not here to meet men. I am not here to meet men. I am not here to meet men.

The flat is quiet, only the dripping of water into the sink. My social life consists of rereading the dog-eared
Lost
magazine Jas sent me (I am not a groupie) and slurping down the last of the grape Tootsie Pops.

There could be worse things. I could be sitting in the homecoming stands, silver paint on my face, watching Chase cuddle up with Holiday Girl.

Gulp.

I climb into bed, wearing wool socks and Taz jammies and unwrap my Tootsie Roll. No one will, ever, ever, upon pain of death, know this is how I spent my Saturday night. Not even Caleb.

I make three decisions:

1. I will meet Vovka. Because it is my diplomatic duty. And, because Auntie Milla left a jar of pickles outside my door and this is getting embarrassing.

2. I will pour myself into my students over the next two weeks Matthew is gone. (He approved my lesson plan despite my rather stuffy presentation—I mean, how am I supposed to unglue my tongue from my mouth while I watch Rebecca hang on the man who was supposed to give me cute little Joe, with his unruly black hair and dark blue eyes? Home wrecker)

3. I will focus again on Ephesians and maybe figure out a few of those lingering questions about why God sent me here when I could have been perfectly happy and useful in Gull Lake.

I think.

I
keep getting bogged down by one phrase in Ephesians that bears inspection. “To the praise of His glory.” I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, the sun coming through the window warming my legs despite the crisp chill in the air. Tracey informed me during our last three-sentence exchange that the heat for the city doesn't come on until November. I might start burning my English books pretty soon. Start a little Gull Lake campfire. On my bed.

So I'm not having a good day. Which is why I'm here, trying to find some perspective in the quagmire of the book of Ephesians.

“To the praise of His glory.” Still confused, but I have managed to make more colorful additions to my Bible. (Blue is my Hi-Liter choice for the day, because, well, it matches my mood). This phrase occurs three times in the first chapter and since three is a special number in the Bible (like, three days in the grave, three persons of God, three strands not easily broken—wonder where I got that? Look it up!), I've decided there must be something of import here.

The Greek for
glory
=
apparent
, as in
revelation
.

So, translated that would be the “praise of God revealed.”
Huh?

This concept is way too deep for a Monday morning. Or is it? Maybe it's just about grace. As in I need it, He gives it, and because of my cracks, everyone can see it. God revealed…yeah! (The “saved a wretch like me” thing is coming to mind, and I'm not going to break out singing or anything, but the phrase seems especially applicable here.)

In fact, at the moment, I can't think of anyone more in need of grace. Okay, maybe that is overstated, but still, if God is looking for someone to prove His grace,
over here, over here, me, me!

My inadequacies + God's grace = to the praise of His glory.

That works for me, especially since I have to face Matthew this evening, his first day back. Oh, fun. In fact if I take a good hard look at the past few months, taking in my abundance of friends, my stellar evangelism abilities, my fluency and stunning perception into character, I need all the grace I can get.

Still, the question I have to ask is, if God knew I was such a pathetic grace-leech, why did He send me here, and where are the “good works, the ones God prepared in advance for me to do?” When do we get to
that
part?

 

My Vovka ploy worked! It worked! It worked! I am so very wise, oh, the cleverness of me! (And don't you dare call me a liar. I intend to meet Vovka. I truly, truly do. Someday. Maybe next June, an hour before I leave…)

I arrived home from class today (week three without Matthew, who called and left a message for me saying he was delayed! See, Grace! Grace!) to two pivotal events.

1. A note from Tracey:
Dear Josey. Moved in with Rick. I still have my key, so don't rent my room out.
(As if. Hello, I could get someone worse. Hard to imagine, but possible.)

2.
A letter from Chase
in my e-mail in-basket.

 

To: Josey

From:

Sent: Oct 28; 7:23 p.m.

Subject: A note from Gull Lake

Dear Josey,

I got your address from H, who was in town last weekend. She said she'd corresponded with you, and since Jasmine or your mother couldn't find your e-mail address, I was glad she had it.

 

Which means what? That's he's been stalking them around town, asking for it? Or, that he's wanted to write to me but couldn't? C'mon, I'm not that hard to find! He could have called Dwight down at Mission HQ. And with a little stiff-arming, Dwight would have talked.

 

How are you? Gull Lake seems…quiet without you. Lew Sulzbach said that he felt safer driving through town at night, knowing that you weren't there to egg him. I told him that you only did that once—on homecoming our junior year—and at least they weren't rotten. I don't know why he was so touchy. (Except that you did have great aim.) Myrtle misses you. Contrary to your opinion, Karen can't write as well as you. She buries the lead and she gets her facts from Pete down at the Sheriff's office, and you know how reliable he is. Wasn't he the one who accused you of skinny-dipping our senior year? I told him you'd never do that, but I don't think he believed me.

 

Whoops. Just to set the record straight, and not that Chase needs to know, but yes, that was the truth. In my defense, however: 1. I thought I was alone. 2. It was a dare, and 3. Sometimes a girl has to do one memorable thing, just to prove she can. Probably wasn't the best choice of challenges however. Might have been better to say, hike the Grand Canyon or something.

 

I'm enjoying teaching more than I realized. I'm still not sure if I'll apply for next year's position, but for now, there are a few areas of research I'd like to explore here—

 

Uh-oh, those wouldn't center, for example, around the mating habits of Gull Lake singles, would it?

 

—like the language of the Ojibwa near Gull Lake Reservation, or the thread of the Danish population that still colors our area.

 

Oh, phew.

 

Your mother has invited me over for Thanksgiving. It's still about a month away, I figure it's better than hanging out with Rodney Anderson and his six-pack.

 

I should interject here that Chase's mother died when he was sixteen, and his father, who already had an intimate relationship with his whisky bottle turned fully toward it for comfort. Chase might as well have moved in for the time he spent at our house. Another possible reason for my second-cousin feelings about our relationship.

 

I'm looking forward to some real food, especially some Jasmine-made dinner rolls. I'm hoping she's well enough by then—she's been looking pretty white lately.

 

What? White? What?

 

Although I hear that's normal in the early stages.

 

What?

 

Sorry I missed you at the airport, by the way. I meant to get there…but it doesn't matter now.

 

Stop, wait! It matters! Because I have to know…does it mean what I think it means? And if it does, is my tendency to swoon into that moment indicative that I wasn't actually jealous of Buffy but have real, romantic type feelings for Chase? Is my angst because I truly love him, and it's not about being green, and perhaps just a little too proprietary? What does real love feel like?

 

I…wish you well in Moscow. Be careful.

 

Honey, Careful is my middle name. Which is probably part of the problem between us. Okay! Maybe I'm just selectively careful.

 

Chase

 

P.S. I started going to your church. I thought, well, since you were so set on doing this, maybe I could figure out what all the fuss what about.

 

Oh, isn't that just sweet? I leave, he moves back to town AND starts letting God in his life. Hello, is that fair? Anyone, anyone?

 

Be home, be home, be home!

I listen to the telephone ring. Once, twice. It feels a little like it is ringing through one of those corrugated sewer grates they bury around Gull Lake every summer.

According to my watch, it is seven a.m. Gull Lake time.
Surely someone is home
.

“Hello?” Milton sounds like a frog. I'm not going to make any further comparisons.

“Milton! Is Jasmine there?”

“She's sleeping.”

Duh. But how often does she get a telephone call from
Russia
? “Sorry, Milton, um, can I talk to her?”

I hear snuffling, then a soft murmur. I don't let my mind linger on what that picture might look like. Hurry up, Mil!

“Hello?”

“Jasmine, are you pregnant?” I can't hold it in any longer. I mean,
good grief,
I waited an entire hour since reading Chase's e-mail.

I hear a pause, and in it I hope she feels my hurt, and that a thousand, okay, maybe only a
hundred
needles of guilt pierce her soul. “Yes. Did you get my letter?”

What letter
? “No.”

“Oh, no! I wanted to be the first to tell you! I sent it a couple weeks ago.”

“Jasmine, please, learn to use the computer.”

She laughs.
Laughs
. Because you know it is just hilarious that all of GULL LAKE knows my little sister is pregnant before I do. Talk about a chainsaw to the pride. Man, a girl moves to Russia and the world acts like she's walked off the planet. It's only over the ocean, people!

“Sorry, Josey. I've just been busy, and not feeling real well. I promise, I'll do better. But I did send you a letter the day I found out.”

Okay, I feel better. I sigh. And taste a couple salty tears. “I wish I were there.”

Pause. “Me, too. But there isn't anything you can do. Just promise you'll be back for the birth.”

I do some quick adding (on my fingers, because, you know, it's late and we English majors didn't take Calculus for good reason) and make that promise.

“Good. Now, how's life?”

Hmm. Not sure how to answer that as I sit here in my wool socks, my needing-a-wash jammies, eating something called
Padushkie
which is sort of like Shredded Wheat cereal filled with chocolate. It's my latest culinary find, right after Nutella, which is a chocolate-hazelnut spread. I eat it straight from the jar (because, well, I can't figure out how else to eat it…). My hair is starting to turn, um, burnished gold, from all this mineral water, my hands are red and chapped from washing my clothes out by hand in the tub (yes, there is no washing machine here, but why get worked up by the trivial?) and last but not least, Auntie Milla left a bottle of deodorant outside my door as she moves on to personal hygiene items as bribes. Or maybe it's some sort of hint. Oh, and one can't forget that tonight, my roomie officially moved out, which means that if one of the Russian Mafia thugs I squish up next to every day on the Metro decides to follow me home, rape and murder me and leave my body in the bathtub, no one will find me for at least a week, if not longer due to the fact that Larissa, his lap dog/whatever will probably tell him I've ditched them all. So, I'm fine.
Just. Fine.

“I'm good,” I lie.
“Horosho,”
I even add, and she laughs.

“Oh, Josey, I'm so proud of you. You're amazing! Are you fluent?”

Oh, yes. And Putin calls me for advice every morning. “I'm doing okay.”

“Do you get to come home for Christmas?”

Christmas! It's bad enough that I'll miss Thanksgiving (do they even have turkeys in Russia? I mean, I've seen pig heads…) but I'm going to miss
Christmas,
too? Was this in the contract? Because I don't remember that. It seems to me that they should print that in bold, so it stands out. Christmas! And what if Chase is there, looking sleep-tousled and handing out presents? Who will get my gift? In my absence will he give it to Holiday Girl? “Jas, I gotta run. The call is fifteen dollars a minute. I'm sorry.”

“No problem.” But I hear a catch in her voice, which is good, because I can no longer talk, and I'd hate for the angst to be one-sided. “I'll try and learn how to use e-mail, I promise.”

“Yeah. I know. I love you.”

I hang up on “Love you, too,” because although I'm Minnesotan and can do the long goodbye, my chest is seizing up and I think someone has flushed carbon monoxide in the room.

Okay, needing that grace, now, Lord.

I wanna go home.

 

Matthew Winneman has grown a mustache in his absence, and if he doesn't stop chewing on it, I'm going to rip it from his face, one whisker at a time. This is all I can think about as I watch him grade the first trimester papers from our students. No,
my
students, because the crumb has been gone for nearly a month, having called me from, get this, Vienna,
Austria
, where he was attending a conference.

He's also a little tan. Can anyone say, the south of France? I know he set this up. I feel it in my cold bones.

“I appreciate the hard work you put in during my absence,” he says in a low tone as he looks up and smiles. I'm positive he bleaches his teeth. They can't naturally be that white.