God is in the Pancakes

by Robin Epstein

  The more I think about it, the more uneasy I get. I can’t go in. But as I turn and walk away from Mr. Sands’s door, the nerves are replaced by the hollow feeling. It’s not that I think a visit from me could make anything better for Mr. Sands, it’s more that I’d like to be able to help and yet feel totally useless.

  “Don’t!” Lolly yells from upstairs as I turn on the TV in the living room.

  “What?” I yell back, flipping through the channels and sitting down on the couch.

  “I was just going to watch my soap,” she says, coming down the stairs with the remote in her hand.

  “You have it recorded, you can watch it anytime.”

  “I don’t care,” Lolly replies, shaking her head and waggling her finger back and forth.

  “You look like Mom when you do that.”

  “No, I don’t!” Lolly yells, stopping her finger mid-wag. I look at my sister standing there in that white V-neck undershirt, cut-off army pants, her hair knotted in a fat bun at the top of her head, and all I can think about is that Jake is cheating on her. “And move, ’cause I want to lay on the couch. Seriously, Grace, my back is killing me and I have cramps,” Lolly says, throwing down the period card.

  The period card is like the Joker—it’s one of those wild cards that signals to the other player, “You have been warned: I can’t be held accountable for my behavior if you disturb me now.” If I had been considering telling Lolly about Jake and what I’d seen at the pharmacy the other day, I know now is definitely not the right time to do it. Not that there really is a right time to learn about that kind of stuff. There definitely wasn’t a right mood for Mom when she found out Dad had actually left for another woman.

  After he split but before Mom heard someone else was in the picture, I’m pretty sure Mom also believed Dad would come back and things would work out again. Yeah, she was pissed that Dad had just disappeared, but I think part of her held on to the idea that nothing was keeping him from reappearing in the same way. We all did. Once she got the news about Nancy Falton, the prayer leader at the church, though—the news that Nancy had been subbed in as her replacement—that was the kicker. Mom had run into Tina Cordell, a teacher in the church’s preschool and one of Nancy’s best friends, at the grocery store three days after he left, and Tina had casually asked Mom how she was doing “now that Daniel’s moved in with Nancy.” I don’t know how Mom reacted in the supermarket, but by the time she got home, she had completely lost it. The rest of the night she raged. “Even if that scumbag father of yours dares to come crawling back,” she yelled, “even if he admits what a stupid mistake he made, there’s no way. There’s no way I’d let him come back. I have too much pride for that.” Lolly and I just kind of sat there on the couch, not knowing if we were supposed to turn the TV off or sit there without moving until she stopped howling and the storm passed.

  Mom ranted on for a while and kept talking about pride this and pride that. But that was the part that made the least sense to me because pride’s one of those tricky things. Sometimes people tell you it’s good; you want to have it in the “I’m proud of you, son,” or “I’m proud to be an American” way. They tie it up with a sense of honor, self-esteem, and a lot of times with dignity. But there’s a difference. Unlike dignity, sometimes having too much pride is completely negative: It’s one of the seven deadly sins—the thing that’ll get you in the end and cause your demise. So when Mom said she had too much pride to let Dad come back (if he ever tried to), I couldn’t decide if that was the good pride or bad pride because in a weird way, it seemed like both.

  I look at Lolly standing above me on the couch, and I’m certain neither one of us is up to the “guess what I saw?” chat right now, even if it does seem like her pride could stand to be taken down a few notches. So I just shake my head and get up, surrendering the couch. I head upstairs to my room and close the door. Kicking my shoes off, I lie down on my bed and stare up at the ceiling.

  “Me again,” I say somewhat loudly, as if trying to wake a sleeping giant. Maybe he has been asleep at the wheel, since nothing has gotten better since I last prayed. “Okay, I’m going to assume you can hear me, even if I speak a little softer,” I continue, shifting my eyes back up to the ceiling. “I’ve got a couple of new questions for you today.” I’m trying to decide where to start, putting my list in the right order of importance, but my mouth is running again before I think the whole thing through. “Dad. I need a little help understanding him. When is he coming back? And how could you let him run away in the first place?” I barely get that question out of my mouth before I’m on to the next one, anger quickly building and crashing over me. “Okay, speaking of stuff that shouldn’t be happening, let’s talk again about Mr. Sands. I mean, why would you give him such a horrible disease? Why? He doesn’t deserve this.” The next thought dawns as quickly as the last. “And tell me this: Lolly. Why so bitchy?” I exhale and stare hard at the ceiling.

  But there’s no reply.

  And there’s no movement.

  No nothing.

  The only thing I feel now is the heat radiating in my cheeks because the rest of me feels empty. My hands are cold, and as I bring them to my face to try to cool it down, I hear the doorbell ring downstairs.

  “Grace!” Lolly yells.

  I don’t reply.

  “Grace!” she shouts again. “Your BOYFRIEND’s here!”

  My what? Who? Oh, no, she must mean Eric . . . She didn’t just say that right in front of him! What is wrong with that girl?!

  I run down the stairs and pull Eric away from Lolly as quickly as I can, mouthing “bite me” to my sister as she saunters back to the couch. “Sorry about that,” I say with a wince when Eric and I get outside.

  “Your sister,” Eric replies, zipping and unzipping his Windbreaker, a new jacket emblazoned with our school’s name on the back. “She’s a piece of work, huh?”

  “She’s a piece of something, that’s for sure. What’s up?”

  “Will you take a ride with me over to the mall? I need a dress shirt.” When Eric sees my raised eyebrow, he adds, “I’m worried if I go with my mom, I’ll wind up with some weird collarless, ruffled thing.”

  “Maybe ruffles are what have been missing in your life,” I reply.

  Eric smiles and shakes his head as he taps up the kickstand of my bike and rolls it to me, squeezing Big Blue’s sparkly banana seat. “Great, I completely forgot who I was talking to.”

  “You’re just jealous you don’t have anything so spiff on your bike, mister. But if you’re lucky, maybe we can find you a shirt with ruffles and sparkles.” I snatch my bike from his hands. “And by the way, you are so going to lose this race.” I hop on the bike and start sprinting down the street.

  “We’ll see about that,” shouts Eric, grabbing his bike, which he’d ditched on the lawn, and chasing after me.

  I pedal as hard and as fast as I can, but by the second block, Eric overtakes me. “Let you win,” I say, out of breath as he passes me.

  He slows to my pace. “Yeah, I figured. You were just trying to build my confidence, right?”

  “That’s right.” I massage the stabbing pain in my right side. “When did you get those wings put on your wheels?”

  “I’m telling you, Grace,” Eric says as we both start to coast, “the coach kills me at practice. Works me so hard that by the end I don’t know whether I’m going to puke or cry, and sometimes I do both. But I think it’s paying off. I just feel stronger, and look . . .” Eric takes his right leg off the pedal and when he flexes his calf, a double muscle appears; on top of the long calf muscle running down the back of his leg is another shorter but pronounced one.

  I whistle, surprised and impressed, which makes both of us laugh since I have a feeling Eric probably feels the same way. I also know this isn’t the kind of display Eric goes around doing, but he showed me because that’s the kind of thing you can share with your best friend and nobody else.

  “Keep that up and we won�
��t be able to find any clothes to fit you there, Popeye.”

  “You know, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Eric smiles, a little embarrassed.

  When we get into the mall, I direct him to the one guy’s store I know, R. T. Smith’s, since I figure it should be safe, ruffle-free terrain. As I wade through the displays, I spot a sales rack jammed with dress shirts. “Bingo,” I say, pulling two shirts off the rack and holding them up against Eric.

  Eric shakes his head. “Grace, those are XXLs. Now, I know I probably come across as large and in charge, but I don’t think I’m quite there yet.” Hard to deny; the shirts are long enough to be dresses on him.

  Though I’ve never been much of a shopper myself, I know Eric’s relying on me, so I do my best to fake it. “Life’s a con game,” Mr. Sands once told me. “Act confident and people will assume you are.” I pick out a few shirts and motion Eric back to the dressing room area. Eric trails behind me, seeming entirely content that I’ve taken the lead on this.

  “You’ll be okay in there by yourself?” I tease.

  “I hope so,” he says, entering the dressing room.

  I stand close to the door and unintentionally catch a glimpse of him through the slats as he’s changing. I should probably move farther away, but I don’t. “So,” I say, leaning a little closer to the door, “you are not going to believe what I saw at the pharmacy the other day.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Okay, there I am picking up a few things when I spy Lolly’s boyfriend, Jake, making out with Natalie Talbot in the back of the store.”

  “Jake and Natalie Talbot?” Eric repeats, coming out of the dressing room as if he heard wrong. “Hot Natalie?”

  “The very one.” I nod, giving Eric the once-over. I shake my head at the shirt. “The shoulders aren’t quite right.”

  Eric nods in agreement and heads back into the dressing room. “So Jake and Natalie?” he says again, like he’s mulling the information, then decides there’s no possible chance this could be true. Like I’ve just told him that I cloned his cat. “How would a poser like Jake score someone as gorgeous as her?”

  “Well, she’s okay.” I never knew Eric had given so much thought to Natalie.

  “Grace, she’s by far the prettiest girl in the whole school. By. Far.”

  “Yeah, well.” I’m sorry I brought it up.

  A moment later he opens the door and comes out in another shirt. “I know why she wouldn’t want to date Rich anymore—he’s the definition of d-bag—but why would someone that hot be interested in Jake? Natalie could have anyone she wants. I mean, that’s just stupid!” He slaps his palm against his forehead as if he’s disappointed in her for making such a poor choice.

  “Okay, I get it,” I snap, jamming my hands into the back pocket of my jeans. “You think Natalie’s pretty.”

  “Ye-ah,” he says, making it a two-syllable word and smiling widely. “So what do you think?” He motions to the shirt.

  “Eh.” I shrug my shoulders, sending Eric back into the dressing room. “Well anyway, the reason I told you is because I have to decide when and if I should tell Lolly. I mean, maybe she’d just be better off not knowing, if it was just a one-time thing, you know? On the one hand it’s probably better if she finds out sooner rather than later and at home instead of in school, right? But on the other, do I really want to get in the middle of all this? I mean, it just doesn’t seem like there’s a really good outcome here whatever happens. So what do you think I should do?”

  “No idea,” he replies through the door. Of course he has no idea, he’s probably still thinking about Natalie. “Damn, there are so many buttons on this thing. Anyway, Lolly probably already knows on some level, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not so sure.” I think about the conversation I had with Mr. Sands and our mutual ignore the problem, make it go away strategy. It’s as if that expression “We see what we want to see” is a survival technique used by all people in every circumstance.

  When Eric comes out of the dressing room this time, he’s in a light blue shirt that matches his eyes perfectly. The fit is just right too. He looks great. Really, really great.

  “Yeah, that’s the one.” I nod.

  “Good.” He smiles. “It was my favorite too, which is why I saved it for last. So,” he says, “don’t you even want to know why I need a dress shirt?”

  “Oh, yeah, why?”

  “Well, you know that spring dance they’re going to be having? I was thinking it could really suck or, it might actually be fun. I’ve kind of been on the fence about it.”

  “Well, now that you mention it, yeah, I feel the same way.” I also feel the inside of my stomach starting to gallop.

  “And I thought it’d be more fun if we went together. Sooo, do you want to go with me?” In the millisecond the question hangs there and before I can even respond, Eric rushes in to fill the silence. “I mean, I don’t know,” he says, glancing away. “Mike said it’d probably a good idea to go because a lot of the upperclassmen on the team are going to be there, and he thinks it’s important for bonding or whatever.”

  “Oh,” I reply as this extra piece of information filters through brain and body, “you want me to go with you to the school dance so you can bond with the guys on the basketball team?”

  “Well,” says Eric, instead of saying no.

  The thing in my stomach that had been galloping just a moment ago slams into a wood jump, knocks over the poles, and throws the rider. I’m an idiot! “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  “What do you have to think about?” Eric replies. “I mean, go or not, whatever, it’s no big deal.”

  “No, I know, it’s just—”

  “Well, let me know,” he says as he walks back into the dressing room.

  As I stand there on the other side of the door, I bite my lower lip hard. Why didn’t I just say yes? Why did I make such a big deal? It’s Eric. And I blew it. I roll my eyes skyward. “Can you tell me at what age a person stops making mistakes like this?”

  No answer.

  No surprise.

  Chapter Eight

  “So what would you do?” I ask. “What’s the right answer, Mrs. Sands?”

  “Grace, what I would do and what the right answer is, well . . .” She laughs. “Those are likely two different responses. And please, call me by my first name. None of this ‘missus’ stuff, got it?”

  We’re sitting on the step of her front porch. I had no intention of telling her about what had happened between Eric and me—and I had no intention of coming back here before I saw Mr. Sands again either—but I did. And it all just started spilling out as we shared a bowl of ice cream and Isabelle asked if I had anyone “special” in my life.

  “Well, there’s this guy at school, he’s my best friend,” I tell her. “It’s not like he’s my boyfriend or anything like that . . .”

  “But you want him to be?” When I don’t respond right away, Isabelle adds, “Or you’re not really sure what you want?”

  I shrug. “I don’t think he thinks of me like that,” I say, recalling the way my stomach ached after he explained the real reason he wanted to go to that stupid dance with me. “Anyway, from what I can tell, nothing good ever comes from relationships like that. I mean, they just seem to lead to problems—one person always winds up disappointing the other person—and then you break up, and in the end you hate the person you’d liked the most. So it’s probably best if Eric and I don’t screw up what we have.”

  “I can see why you might not want him to become your boyfriend when you put it like that.” Isabelle licks her spoon and her thoughts seem to drift for a moment. “Nothing wrong with that, though.” She nods.

  That’s when I ask her what she would do, whether she would accept an invitation to the dance that came thanks to Mike Richter’s instruction.

  “Well, I’m no relationship expert, and don’t let anyone fool you, Grace: No one’s an ‘expert’ at such things even if they’ve had hu
ndreds of relationships themselves. And what can those people really tell you anyway?”

  “How to treat an STD?”

  “Precisely!” Isabelle replies. “But, when I first started dating Frank, I was so scared it wasn’t going to work out between us, the way I acted, it was almost as if I were trying to push him away.”

  “So you were friends before you started dating?” I ask, feeling a little weird as soon as the question comes out of my mouth. Somehow the idea of discussing Mr. Sands’s life behind his back seems wrong . . . even if it is with his wife.

  “Actually, when I first met Frank, I hated him!” Isabelle giggles. “Well, before I really met him, I knew of him. He was a few years older than me and had quite a reputation in our high school, but we didn’t get together until years later. I’d left to work in Washington, but came back to town when my father got sick. Frank had started a construction company here and I ran into him in the supermarket one day.”

  “So was it love at second sight then?”

  “Oh, no!” Isabelle says. “Frank was this big lunk of a guy, and I fancied myself quite the sophisticate.”

  As she’s saying this I can picture it perfectly: young, muscular Frank Sands, looking a little like James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause—white undershirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled in the sleeve, denims, and work boots, meeting up with the delicate and pretty Isabelle. I envision her with a little scarf tied around her neck, looking chic and Frenchy, probably wearing capri pants and ballet flats. Their hands collide as they both reach for the same loaf of bread . . .

  “Rammed his cart right into mine, right there in the frozen food section,” she continues. “And it wasn’t an accidental tap, Grace. He’d seen me staring into the freezer and purposely bumped into me.”