Everything’s Coming Up Josey (7 page)

“I wonder what you'll eat in Russia?” was all Mom said.

I admit to crying myself to sleep to visions of pork fat and moldy potatoes.

Good thing I stocked up a bit at dinner.

The thing is, I thought she'd be happy. Scared, yes, but still, how many mothers can say their daughter is a missionary?

Or maybe, that word rolling off my mother's tongue during her weekly bridge club isn't quite so easy. I wonder if it is followed up with words like,
Nunnery
.
Celibacy
.
Poverty
.

Where was that article again?

I toe off my sandals and sprawl on my bed, listening to the fan whir. I've decided to use Jasmine's bed as Packing Central, and on it, the pages of a few dozen books flap, as if saying,
pick me, pick me.

I fling my arm over my eyes—ew, that doesn't smell so good. I sit up and pull off my shirt and skirt, grab a towel and exit into the bathroom. While I sit on the edge of the tub, adding in bath beads and listening to it fill, I hear Myrtle's whine join my mother's predictions of gloom.
“Where will I get another staff writer?”

Uh, hello? Try the local fourth-grade class? I'm sure my second-niece-twice-removed, Valerie, can figure out how to retype Tipsy McKeever's recipes into the computer. I swirl my hand in the water. It comes out soapy. Sweet.

So maybe I'm being too rough on Myrtle. It's kind of endearing that she is angry. Maybe I should read between the lines of, “How could you leave me?” and “You know, you won't have a job waiting for you when you return,” to the truth. She'll miss me. And, deep down, she thought I'd be her replacement in life.

Whew! I barely escaped the lawn art.

That thought pushes the only smile I've had in days up my face. I strip and get in the tub and let the bubbles slick away the remains of another scorcher in Gull Lake.

I sink down to my chin, doubts suddenly tightening my stomach. So far, I'm three for three. My mother thinks I've turned to the dark side. Myrtle believes I've left her for greener pastures, and Jasmine…well, Jasmine looks like a deer caught in the headlights. Big eyes, frozen.

Good grief, I'm not moving to Pluto.

Still, as I run over the to-do list in my head, I'm starting to wonder.

That will work over there, right?
Right?

Actually, the sparseness of the list isn't the most jaw-dropping aspect of the packing expectations. The thing that is most disturbing, is, well, I can hardly bear to say it…I can only bring one suitcase.
One.

Yes. Now I know why Dwight is so thin. He wasn't allowed to bring with him a year's supply of chocolate chips, Werthers caramels and hot chocolate mix. I decided to lump them in with Toiletries, under “medicinal.” But one suitcase? What about my shoes?

I swish the washcloth around through the bubbles, watching them catch and foam. The bath is alive with tiny hisses as the bubbles fold into themselves. Outside, I can hear sparrows calling out the twilight hour. And downstairs, my mother is probably making…oh, something particularly sneaky, like…chocolate-chip cookies. She'll probably even leave the bowl out for me to lick.

Doesn't the Bible talk about being on our guard for the attack of the evil one? I'm sure Paul didn't consider chocolate-chip cookie dough.

The thing is, I haven't found this leaving thing particularly difficult. I'm nearly buzzing with excitement, and it's only dimmed by the fact that Chase hasn't written back.

Not that I expected him to, but it would have been…Oh, who am I kidding? Chase and I are kaput. A guy can't be friends with the girl from the sandbox when he's marrying an Amazon. Besides, I wished them well.

And sort of meant it.

Funny how a girl can smell “liar, liar pants on fire,” while immersed in fifty gallons of bubbly water.

I sink into the tub, wet my hair, scrub it good. When I emerge, there's knock at the door. My crazy heart leaps right out of my chest. So, not good to be thinking about Chase in the bath. “Yes?” I say. It's not like I'd let him in, but still, what if he's returned for me—

“It's me, Jas. Can I come in?”

Okay, I admit, I'm a modest person. And it has nothing to do with too many bagels hiding on my hips. Although I'm under bubbles, there's something about being naked that feels, well, naked.

I pull the curtain so only my eyes are showing. “Enter,” I say causally.

Jasmine cracks open the door. “Hey ya,” she says and scoots in to sit on the toilet. “I have an idea.”

One that couldn't wait until I was dressed? “Yes?” I ask, however, because I hear the ticking clock. Seven days until I leave.

“I think we should throw you a goodbye party.” She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Bless her, she's trying.

I grab the peace offering like a starving widow. “That sounds great! I'd love it.” I begin mentally ticking off the people I'd like to invite, but only one name blazes through my mind.

I'm hoping once I cross the ocean, the waters of distance will extinguish this burning pain inside.

“I'll get right on it.” Jasmine leans forward and braces her elbows on her knees. “Maybe Milton and I will come and visit you.”

Oh, that would be swell. I duck behind the curtain. “Yeah.”

“But, you know, we're trying and all, so I'm not sure.”

Trying? Trying for what? A sick feeling in my chest replaces the Chase-induced inferno.

I peek back around the curtain. “Trying to—”

She reddens. “You know. Get pregnant.”

Okay, over-sharing. Did. Not. Need. To. Know. That. Or, the accompanying mental picture.

“Right,” I say. The bath is getting cold and I need to get out. “That's great.” But it isn't great. So isn't great. Somehow, deep inside, I knew this time would come, and that I'd be the single, dumpy aunt saying, “Sure, I'll babysit,” while I peruse issues of
Crochet Today
and
Lawn Art for the New Millennium.

I'll be Myrtle.

Oh, joy.

“I gotta get out, Jas,” I say, and I'm meaning more than the bath.

“Sure,” she says and gets up, moves toward the door, her head down, smile gone. Suddenly I'm feeling petty and cheap. As well as chilled to the bone.

“Jas,” I say, “I'm really happy for you and Milton. And, well, I'll be praying that everything goes well.”

And, as I say the words, I mean it, too.

She smiles, and this time it comes from inside. “You're going to do great in Russia,” she says as she leaves.

I run more hot water, linger longer, letting those words work into my wrinkled, softened skin.

You are cordially invited to:

Fourteen hours and thirty-seven minutes. I'm tying red balloons across the porch railing. Jasmine thinks it's a hoot that she picked red and white, the colors of Russia as the theme for this event. My mother doesn't. I'm ambivalent, my mind on more important things like, will customs notice that I have two suitcases, and if they do, which one will I send home?

C'mon, you didn't really think I'd leave for a year and not take all my foot attire options?

I did mange to whittle the books down to thirteen. Including my Bible. That's one book a month. Let it not be said that I can't sacrifice for the Lord. I also managed to squeeze in the new Kim Hill CD, and the latest from Avalon, Sara Groves and Point of Grace.

Of course, I'm keenly aware that Chase hasn't called, written or e-mailed. It's like the residue of ache after a long-healing wound. But I'm not thinking about it.

Not.

H, at least, is on my side. She's IMed me twice. I guess I've inspired her or something. In my wildest dreams.

“Josey, can you grab the streamers? I left them on the kitchen table.”

Jasmine looks fabulous. She's not only charged like a rhino into this idea but embraced it. She's made a Red Velvet cake for the occasion, and eight dozen chocolate-chip butter cookies with red food coloring. I've already stuck a dozen into my carry-on. Just in case I get hungry between here and JFK Airport.

Milton has kept his distance (smart man), but today he's outside, setting up chairs, heating the charcoal. They're having shish kebabs, and from the looks of it, expecting a packed house. I think they're overestimating my popularity. Or rather, they're keenly aware of the lack of entertainment this close to Labor Day weekend in Gull Lake.

The sky is azure, with only a few clouds, and sunlight bedazzles the lake as it laps the shore. Ducks check out our shoreline and, farther out, a handful of fishing boats dip and bob in the water, their outlines suggesting tranquility.

I run into the house and grab the streamers. Jas tells me to wrap them around the banister while she hangs a sign. I watch it go up and a funny feeling curls through my heart. “Good Luck, Josey,” the sign reads in big blood-red letters.

It brings me back to the closing ceremony of boot camp. The Moose family on one side of me, the Abramson family closing ranks behind me, we stood like knights before the king and were commissioned. I had gooseflesh as Marilyn Chadder, the Review Board chairman said, “Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy spirit…and surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”

Those words send another chill through me as I tie streamers around the banister. I have a feeling that any success I have in Russia will have nothing to do with luck.

And I do want to succeed. Yes, it's true, in my mind's eye, I see parades at my homecoming, a news article. Maybe a Josey Day. Okay, that might be going too far, but at the least, hushed, awed whispers…

“Did you hear what Josey did there? She led an entire school of youngsters to Christ. And not only that, but wiped out poverty and suffering.”

Lara Croft meets Mother Teresa! But, in the snippets of reality, I can confess that I'm not hoping to change more than my allotted portion. Still, I've just sold Steve, quit my job, given my news chair to Karen, my eighteen-something replacement (I told you, Myrtle just had to troll the local high school. Which says what about my abilities? Arrgh!), and written my will. I am the poster child for Commitment.

Oh, rewind to the will thing. Yes, I was more than a little taken aback when Dwight called and told me that I had to have one. As if I had personal assets. Still, it gave resonance to this adventure, a sort of solemnity that made me walk the beach at least twice before entering Bill Dejong's law office.

I have a will.
Oh, and I left everything to Jasmine. Just in case the trying works. (See, just give me a little time and I can be magnanimous. It's not all about me. It's not all about me.)

Milton has fired up the grill. The smell tweaks my stomach, but I am determined not to eat before the guests arrive. Besides, that cinnamon roll I had an hour ago hasn't completely digested yet. I know I probably shouldn't have surrendered, but I keep reminding myself that I won't have a decent pastry for another year.