Everything’s Coming Up Josey by Susan May Warren

hoping once I cross the ocean, the waters of distance will extinguish this burning pain inside.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œBut, 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.
    â€œRight,” 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.
    â€œI gotta get out, Jas,” I say, and I’m meaning more than the bath.
    â€œSure,” 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.
    â€œJas,” 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:
    A going away party!
    Come and wish Josey Berglund luck as she traverses the ocean for a year in Russia.
    When: 7:00 p.m., Friday August 24
    Where: Berglund Acres
    No R.S.V.P. needed.
    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.
    â€œJosey, 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,