Everything’s Coming Up Josey (25 page)

One of the reasons I like H is that she's always online when I need her.

 

You broke up with Romance Man?

 

Yes. Because I've figured it out. I love Chase.

 

Well, duh.

 

No, really. I love him. I finally figured it out. And it has nothing to do with Buffy. Or Holiday Girl or even him being my second cousin.

 

He's your cousin?

 

No! Not really. Just forget it. But have you seen him around? What's the latest?

 

It hasn't been easy to break up with Vovka, but in the three days since our chat, I've only spotted him once outside my building. And Auntie Milla has stopped dropping off gifts. Which bums me out in a way because those liver
peroshke
have a great aftertaste.

 

H?

 

Yeah, okay. I saw him.

 

And?

 

I e-mailed him a letter four days ago, although he hasn't written back. (I'm hoping that he hasn't moved to Joppa already or anything.) I didn't go into too much detail, mostly apologized for the fiasco with Vovka and told Chase I hope we can restart things when I get home. I think that's enough commitment for now, when I can't read his face, but still, it's something for him to hold on to, right? (More than he gave me, don't you think? Oh, don't answer that!) In the meantime, I'm flexing my auntie muscles and have babysat twice for the Winnemans. Matthew is still camping on the sofa at the college, but he's smiling more. And Tracey has a new boyfriend, someone she met online. I figure that's fairly safe, for her. No overnight guests that way. And maybe he'll turn out to be a keeper.

 

Well, and I feel just a little sick telling you this, but I saw him at the Java Cup last night.

 

What? Just tell me.

 

He told me that he met someone. And that he's going to ask her to marry him.

 

What? It's only been six weeks since he was here? Is he crazy? Or rather, am I that easy to forget?

 

Oh.

 

Is this fair, Lord? C'mon, please. Because You know, I'm feeling drop kicked.

I go into the next room, pull my blanket over my head and rue my life.

 

Tracey is online as I walk into the flat after class. I'm starving and picked up a bag of new potatoes and fresh dill on my way home. Yes, I'm going to attempt to cook. No comments necessary.

“Hi!” she says, not looking up from her/my laptop.

“Chatting with your new online pal?” I dump the potatoes into the sink. Russia is on the cutting edge of the farmer's market craze—they don't even wash the veggies when they pull them out of the ground.

“Yeah. He's so sweet. He says he can't wait for me to come home this summer.”

“You're going to the States?” I scrub down the potatoes and dump them into a pot.

“Yeah. I already planned a vacation, but this will be fun. I ordered my ticket today.”

“Where does he live?”

“Uh…the Midwest.”

I glance at her. “Wow, small world. Gull Lake is in Minnesota.”

She gives me a quick glance. “Oh.” I put the potatoes on, light the stove (all by myself, thanks!).

“He says that he thinks of me in Moscow, and wishes he were here.”

I come out, sit on the sofa and put my feet up. This is the same place Chase sat when he was here, and that memory hits me square in the soft tissue of my heart. The fact he still hasn't written to comment on my declarations and contradict the news H gave me is slowly shredding my insides. But I am not going to let it deter me from giving my last six weeks my best go.

“He sounds like he's really taken with you,” I say with a forced cheer.

“Yeah. We really clicked.” She's smiling as she disconnects and closes her computer. I feel something warm inside at the look of happiness on her face. While she isn't my first pick at friends, she deserves to find a nice guy, someone who will love her, treat her like Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.

My potatoes have come to a boil; I hear the water bubbling against the cover.

“What are you making?”

“Auntie Milla's potatoes.”

Tracey stretches her legs out, and leans back into the sofa, closes her eyes, joy on her catlike face.

The telephone rings and since she's making no move, I jump up for it. I'm hoping it's Caleb—I haven't seen him for weeks, even in church, and have a sneaking suspicion he's been sent out east again.

“Hello?”

“I couldn't catch you,” says a voice, and although it is coming from under the ocean and through a few billion fiber-optic cables, it still has to the power to yank my heart out through my ribs.

“Chase?”

“I'm sorry, G.I. I didn't know how to tell you, and then you disappeared.”

I'm frowning because according to my recollection, he's the one who disappeared. “What are you talking about?”

“I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”

I swallow, disbelieving this moment. I hear the angst in his voice, and tears rush to the surface. He's sorry! For not writing? Or not declaring his love, not sweeping me in his arms on the Metro or the billion other opportunities he's had? Oh, it doesn't matter! He's sorry! “Me, too.”

“I know. It's just horrible and I wish you could be here now.”

Slightly overreacting, but isn't that sweet? It's
horrible
to be without me! “I'll be home in about a month. We can talk about it then.” In my mind I see him standing in his kitchen, barefoot, wearing that cutoff Gull Lake sweatshirt, golden-tanned, hair damp and curly, smelling like soap. Oh yeah, we'll talk about it then.

“Okay. But I think Jasmine needs you to call her. She's really grieving.”

What? My stomach falls first. Then I reach out for something, miss and crumple to the floor. “What are you talking about?” My voice pitches just a little high and I can hear my own panic.

I hear him pause, then in a voice that sounds as confused as mine, “G.I., don't you think you'd be grieving if you lost your first baby?”

Really, I
am
Lara Croft and Matthew is about to get hurt. My other alter-ego, Mother Teresa, bought it about six months ago under the red line Metro.

Note to self: Next time two-timing veezel comes groveling, kick him in the nostrils.

 

Two things about my conversation with Chase on the telephone, however short, have drilled into my brain and kept me awake.

1. He acted as if we'd just talked. As if he hadn't left me in a cloud of pain and confusion nearly two months ago.

2. He told me I'd done the disappearing. (Okay, three things!)

3. He assumed I already knew about Jasmine.

These thoughts nag me as I walk home from class nearly a week later. Yes, I see you Vovka, about a half block away, a tall and painfully gorgeous shadow. But to turn around would only encourage him and while I appreciate the protective hovering, I also know that like a puppy, it would only take the slightest encouragement and he'd be rolling over on his back, begging me to rub his tummy.

Ew.

I'm not sure why Vovka is so smitten, except that maybe he sees me like I saw him…a taste of something exotic. He needs his own chocolate-chip cookie, or rather, strawberry-filled
peroshke.

I haven't managed to catch Chase online since the “call.” Although I have him listed in my IM, he's never lit up and I haven't screwed up the courage to e-mail him. I'm secretly hoping that he'll call me again.

I could use a refreshing dose of his sweet voice to balm my broken heart.

Poor Jas.

She does have Milton, and I know this. In fact, she told me that I could stay, but the ache of knowing she's going through all this without me has chewed me raw. Or maybe it's just the fact that everything I want is in Gull Lake, a reality that still has the power to broadside me when I'm not looking.

Imagine, longing for Gull Lake.

I am walking down Leningradskaya street, and the smell of jasmine sweetens the air. I stop at an ice-cream vendor and buy a drumstick. Russians are funny—during the winter, ice-cream is a booming business. But in the summer, suspicion dwindles the supply to a meager few. Evidently, the sudden rush of cream and ice in the heat causes instant death. Or at least a head cold.

I'm living recklessly.

Tracey is gone when I arrive home. My/our laptop is on the coffee table. I finish my cone, then change into my jammies and a T-shirt. This far north, the sun stays aloft until 9:00 p.m., and it gives me surreal energy, like a chocolate carbo bar, or an entire bag of semisweet chips.

I log on, and to my glee discover H online.

 

Hi. Something weird happened. Chase called. And acted as if we'd talked yesterday. Do you find this weird?

 

I find everything that happens to you weird. Here's weirder. When I asked him a couple weeks ago if he'd talked you, he gave me a frown and said, “Of course.”

 

(Feeling my stomach clench.) No, he hasn't talked to me.

 

Then why is he smiling like he might have discovered the lost tribe of Israel?

 

I log off and sit there for a long time, debating my options.

1. Call Chase and ask him what's going on.

2. E-mail Chase and ask him what's going on.

3. Sleuth through Tracey's files and see if she knows anything about Chase's weirdness.

I change identities and am stopped by a password. Phooey! What is in here that Catwoman doesn't want me to see? Feeling guilt claw at me I enter a few ideas. Our address. Our telephone number. Her birthday.

Rick?

Nada.
Nichevo.
It was just a guess, for crying out loud!

I lean back, feeling like a thief. What am I thinking? Tracey is my friend, my compadre in pain. She wouldn't…

I'm remembering, suddenly the predatory look she gave Chase when she prowled her way into our relationship.

I click open the start menu, open up Explore and after a second of computer savvy, I'm fishing around in Tracey's directory.

My heart stops at a file called, IMs.

Hmm.

I click. They're labeled by date. The first of which is a week after Chase left. The night Tracey's computer was stolen.

Hmm.

I open it. And something inside me lets out a wail.

 

Hi. This is me. I'm having problems with my system, so I'm switching user names. How are you?

 

I'm good. How are you? (So far, she sounds like me, if not a little cryptic.)

 

Getting over my jet lag. I'm sorry I left so fast. Did Caleb give you my note?

 

Caleb? What?

 

No. (So, so far, truthful, in a shady sort of way.)

 

Good. I told him that I would let you know if I wanted you to read it. I wrote it in a hurry, but I think, well, it's accurate. I'm sorry, by the way, I left without saying goodbye. Your boyfriend took me off-guard.

 

We're not dating anymore. (Yeah! He knows! Except, well, this isn't really me, is it? Great.)

 

You're not? Why?

 

He was just a fling. (Okay, I would never say this. I don't fling, and certainly not with Vovka. See through this, please, Chase!)

 

Really? Because he looked like he wasn't giving you up easily. Not that I would blame him.

 

Oh, my heart be still!

 

Really, it's over. I'm a free agent. (Again, not something I would say!)

 

Well then, maybe don't read my mail from Caleb. Because, I miss you.

 

I sit there, watching the cursor blink, feeling nauseous. How could she do this? Did she do it from my identity? She must have, then deleted his name from my user list.

I'm going to kill her. Take her furs and wrap them around her skinny neck and dangle her from the balcony.

I open the next file. More correspondence, more lies. More Chase saying how he misses me. Chitchat about his day. Fairly innocuous stuff, if you've known someone for a lifetime and are just enjoying friendship. If you're not spearing your roomie who's shared her popcorn with you through the heart.

I hear her key, then the door opens. I exit quickly and close the computer. But my heartbeat is in my ears, cutting off all thought. Tracey walks in, smiling, and all I can think is, two steps and a lunge and she's on her back while I pummel her.

 

Missionary Kills Roommate Over False IM Identity.

 

Maybe that's not the etching I want to make on the landscape of Russia. I swallow, rise, grab my computer and go to my room, manufacturing a smile that, with the right outfit, would confuse me with a Siberian Tiger.

 

“She used your identity?”

I am so thankful to hear the disbelief in Caleb's voice. It's been nearly a week since discovering Tracey's double-cross, and while I haven't yet dangled her from the balcony, I have spent a lot of time asking forgiveness for the litany of names that rise from the depths of my mind like flotsam.

“I can't believe it. And, when I fished through the deleted files, I found two letters from Chase and one from Milton, telling me about Jasmine. Not only that, she deleted my outgoing letter to Chase, the one where I told him…that I, umm…well, I am going to kill her.”

Caleb and I are sitting in McDonald's, the scene of our first non-date, and like the true friend he is, he's treated me to a shake and fries. He's looking Hawaiian today in a floral shirt, cargo shorts and Birks. And I was right about the business trip.

“Don't kill her, Jose.” He reaches out and touches my arm. He still has kind eyes, and he uses them now with humbling effect.

“I am kidding, Caleb.”

“I know, but your heart isn't. You want to hate her. And that's normal. But the fact is, you have a chance here to be someone more than what you want to be.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What?”

“Ephesians 2:4. ‘But, because of His great love for us, God, Who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you've been saved.'”

I deliberately suck my shake loudly, hoping he sees I'm not buying. I pull out my straw and run my tongue along the end. “Nope.”

“Josey, c'mon. All year you've been praying for Tracey. This is your chance to show her a taste of that mercy and grace God gave you. It could be the very reason why God sent you here this year.”

And here I thought it was because we shared a similar heartbreak, not because she was going to pull a Jasmine in my life.

I stare at him, however, and with a
cha-ching
in my heart, I understand.

To the Praise of His Glory. That's what it means. To do the hard thing not because I can, but because God can. Because He is trustworthy to work it all out, and because He loves me. And by forgiving Tracey in the face of betrayal reveals the very essence of Christ.

Wow. Not sure I'm up for that task. Again, maybe that's the point.

Still, I cringe, shove the straw into the cup and bury my face in my hands. “No. I'm not forgiving her. N. O. T.”

I feel Caleb's hand on my arm. Again, no tingles, but it's warm and strong and in it I feel his very displaced hope. “Jose, what have you learned this year?”

I swallow, breathe deep. “I don't know, Caleb. Maybe that I'm an utter failure at this missionary stuff?”

Caleb laughs and it brings my gaze to his. His eyes are sweet, full of humor. Excuse me, what part of my roomie homing in on my non-boyfriend is funny?

“For one, if I know Chase, you have nothing to fear. And two, I don't know a perfect missionary, Jose. The fact that you're not is a good thing. If we had it all together, then we wouldn't need God, would we?”

I frown at him, because, as usual, he's so much deeper than I ever hope to be.

“‘For it is by grace that you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works so that no one can boast.' It means that we'll never get it right, but that God saves us anyway. He knows you can't forgive Tracey on your own. But He'll give you the power you need.”

The power I need. The power to pack up my life in two suitcases and move to Moscow, the power to surf the subway, eat liver
peroshke,
wear leather, hug a muddy Tracey, and grit my teeth and speak the truth to Rebecca.

The power to trust the process, even when it seems like I'm at a standstill. Or headed south.

I take Caleb's hand. “Okay, fine. I'll forgive her, if you pray for me.”

“Done.” He grins and it feeds the wounded places in my chest. “And, by the way, here is the letter Chase left you.”