God is in the Pancakes

by Robin Epstein

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Acknowledgments

  DIAL BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Published by The Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa • Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2010 by Robin Epstein

  All rights reserved

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility

  for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Epstein, Robin, date.

  God is in the pancakes / by Robin Epstein.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Fifteen-year-old Grace, having turned her back on religion when her father left, now finds herself praying for help with her home and love life, and especially with whether she should help a beloved elderly friend die with dignity.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-42743-9

  [1. Assisted suicide—Fiction. 2. Old age—Fiction. 3. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—Fiction. 4. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 5. Sisters—Fiction. 6. Faith—Fiction. 7. Family life—Pennsylvania—Fiction. 8. Philadelphia (Pa.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.E72518God 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2009033857

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my dad,

  Dr. Paul E. Epstein, who is with me always

  Chapter One

  Here’s what I’ve come to realize about perfect happiness: It’s as fragile as the bubbles that form on the top of a pancake. I know a fair amount about the subject of pancakes because I used to eat them all the time—not just for breakfast. When my dad was in charge of meals, pancakes could and would be served for breakfast, lunch, snack, and “special pancake dinner” too. Whether we stayed at home and made them ourselves, went out for brunch at the local flapjack shack, or dined at that more famous “international” house of pancakes, I can say with confidence that I was quite the student of the pancake-making process.

  But back to the bubbles.

  When you make pancakes, you mix together all the ingredients and ladle the batter onto the hot griddle or in the frying pan. Then, the next thing you’re supposed to do is to look for the bubbles to appear, because when the time is right, they’ll float to the top and sides of the pancake. The reason these bubbles are important is because when you see them, that’s how you know you’re close; the time is near. It’s also your cue to give those pancakes a flip, because if you don’t they burn, and your cakes are toast. So those tiny bubbles signal everything’s about to get turned on its head.

  That’s why the perfect pancake bubble can only exist for a small moment in time. After it serves its purpose, making your mouth water in anticipation of what’s to come and letting you know it’s time for its world to turn upside down, it pops and fades away. What comes next—how the thing actually turns out—depends on your variables: what you’ve added to the mix, how much you’ve stirred the pot, your ability to blend, its general shape, fat content, toppings, timing, and luck.

  The comparison to high school is not lost on me either.

  “You have a bad attitude, Grace Manning,” Mr. Sands says, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly as he gives me the once-over. “I like it.”

  “And you have a lot of hair for an old man,” I reply, kicking the footrest of his wheelchair. “I think we should give you a Mohawk.”

  “A Mohawk?” Mr. Sands tilts his head back and curls the corners of his mouth into a smile. “Sounds painful.”

  “Bok . . . bok-bok!”

  “Are you clucking at me? Did you just cluck at me, young lady?” he asks, trying to straighten up in his chair.

  “I did.”

  “Implying I’m a chicken?”

  “If the wing fits, Sand Man.”

  “Miss Manning,” Mr. Sands says formally, in a tone I imagine he would have used in business meetings. “You are looking at a man who served in the First Marine Division in the Korean War, where I was stationed in the mountains by the Chosin Reservoir—the ‘Frozen Chosin,’ as it was known. The men of the First were officially called combat-ready soldiers, which meant we were the first on the ground fighting. Unofficially we were called ‘bullet catchers,’ because we gave the enemy something to shoot at. Over the course of my life I’ve been called a good-for-nothing jerk, a son of a bitch, and a whole lot of other things that would make both you and me blush if I repeated them. But in all my years no one but no one has ever called me a chicken. So go ’head, scalp me if you dare.”

  “You really want me to give you a Mohawk?” I ask. “Are you serious?”

  “I’d say ‘serious as a heart attack,’ but they don’t like people to joke about that around here.”

  Mr. Sands, a resident in the Hanover House Retirement Community, is one of the only people in this place who would make a joke like that, which is part of the reason he’s my favorite resident. More accurately, he’s my favorite resident by a mile and I’m not just saying that because he’s also the guy who taught me how to cheat at Texas hold’em.

  I’ve been working as a candy striper at Hanover House (“One of the premiere facilities for seniors in beautiful suburban Philadelphia!”) since school started, the beginning of my sophomore year. That was when my mother informed me it was time to get a job because, “It’ll help motivate you, Grace.” Before this time I’d never realized Mom thought my level of motivation presented a problem. I never knew she’d given the subject any thought at all, for that matter. But even though I’d never admit it to her, I actually wanted to get a job. Having a built-in reason to escape the house a few days a week seemed like a pretty good deal to me.

  Finding someplace to hire me turned out to be harder than I expected. I couldn’t get work as a waitress because no restaurant wanted to hire someone who’d never waitressed before. And retail was another “no fly” zone for two reasons: 1. I don’t care about clothes and 2. The girls who work in those stores freak me out. I always feel like they size you up according to your size.

  That’s why I applied for the job at Hanover House when I saw the ad on Craigslist. Being a candy striper seemed pretty low key, and amazingly, this place even paid a weekly stipend. Plus, I figured the old folks wouldn’t care that my idea of dressing up is zipping my hoodie. The surprise was that I actually wound up liking the job. But that ha
d a lot to do with Mr. Sands. I met him on the first official day of fall when I entered his room to water the plants. A troupe of local musicians who came to play in the residents’ room walked in behind me. But they only got to the first chorus in “The Circle of Life” before Mr. Sands stopped them.

  “I’m sorry, but my granddaughter,” he said, tilting his head in my direction, “had a very traumatic experience at a performance of The Lion King when she was younger, didn’t you, honeybunch?”

  His eyes gleamed as they connected with mine and I took the cue. “It was terrible.” I nodded, holding his gaze. “One of the giraffes lost his balance, fell forward, and took the whole chain of animals down with him.”

  “My poor girl learned the true meaning of survival of the fittest that day,” Mr. Sands continued. “Now, I’m sure you don’t want to bring up any unpleasant memories here, do you?” The musicians, who were usually greeted with big smiles from grateful residents, looked at one another, bewildered. “I didn’t think so,” he said, dismissing them. “Good-bye.” Once the troupe was a safe distance out the door, Mr. Sands winked at me, then started laughing.

  “Well, aren’t you the good little liar,” he said.

  “Guess it runs in our genes, huh Gramps?” I replied, cocking an eyebrow at him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Grace.”

  “Frank Sands,” he said. “How old are you, Grace?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “That’s a terrible age.”

  I nodded. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “It’s better than being eighty-four.”

  “You’re eighty-four?”

  “You were thinking I didn’t look a day over eighty-three, right?” Mr. Sands grinned. “Hey, you play cards?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a character flaw, Grace. But don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said. And I meant it.

  “You know, if this were a movie, this is when you’d roll me out of here and you and I would hit the road, conning people from coast to coast.”

  “If this were a movie,” I replied, “I’d have better skin, a better wardrobe, and a cool getaway car . . . or at the very least, a driver’s license.”

  “Details, honeybunch,” he responded with a chuckle. “Details.”

  But that feeling, like we were characters in our own screwball comedy, remained. And from that day forward, whether we were playing cards or chatting, the conversation was always fast and fun between Mr. Sands and me. It just felt like I was a sharper version of myself around him.

  I put my hands on my hips and look at Mr. Sands. “Okay, Colonel Sandsers,” I say, “if you’re seriously serious about this new hairdo, I’ve got some supplies in my bag. I’ll just go get it from the volunteers’ office.”

  “Colonel Sandsers, I like that,” he replies. “And yes, march!”

  “I will.” I turn for the door, assuming we’re both playing a game of chicken now.

  “Good, and then hurry back, Gracie, I’m a decrepit old man and I have no time to waste.” As I walk out of his room, I hear Mr. Sands yell, “Give me the Tomahawk Chop or give me death!”

  I stroll down the constant care ward back toward the main reception area and return the wave of Patty Ray, the official greeter of Hanover House and keeper of all H.H. gossip. Patty has these Swedish-fish-shaped eyes and a friendly smile that encourages you to tell her everything, which she later makes public for anyone interested. She’s always grilling me about what’s new in my social life, and I always answer the same way: “Nothing, Patty.” I’m a sophomore girl who’s never been kissed (or even asked on a date), so it’s more accurate to call what I have an “unsocial life.” Still, Patty just waves her hand at me dismissively and tells me my time will come. Suuuure.

  No one’s around when I walk into the volunteers’ office to get my book bag, which is good because I’d rather not have to explain “Mission Mohawk” to anyone. Hanover House isn’t one of those high-security nursing homes where people watch your every move. They make an effort to let residents feel like they’re still independent, even though a lot of them feel like they’ve been stuck here against their wills. “Like a prisoner at Gitmo,” as Mr. Sands has said. “Like a sophomore in high school,” I added. Still, you can tell that the brochure for this place, prominently featuring the stately front of the building, was created to ease the minds of the people who dump their aging parents here. Seems to me old people are basically like teenagers: Nobody really wants to see or deal with either of us, and when we’re trotted out at family functions, the adults just have to pray that we don’t say anything too embarrassing or offensive.

  “Okay,” I say as I reenter Mr. Sands’s room, “I have some good news for you. And then I have some really good news for you.”

  “Good news first,” replies Mr. Sands.

  “Turns out I have absolutely nothing that will effectively cut or shave your hair in my book bag.”

  “Thank God,” he laughs.

  “But,” I continue, raising my index finger, “here’s the really good news: hair gel. Hair gel I’ve got.” I unzip the front pocket of my bag and present the goop I keep in there for bang emergencies.

  “Holy hell, honeybunch, you’re going to make me smell like a rose garden, aren’t you?”

  “Yep, a very masculine rose garden. Now one final question before we begin.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Aren’t you even the tiniest bit worried that if we do this, people will think you’ve lost your marbles?” I figure I should give Mr. Sands one last chance to think this through.

  “Grace, they’ve been saying my marbles are gone for years, so what the hell do I care?”

  I squeeze a big blob of gel in the center of my left hand. “But doesn’t it bother you? People saying things like that?”

  “Can’t let it.” He purses his lips. “You can’t let what other people say about you affect the way you go about your business. You know why?”

  I shake my head, then rub my hands together to spread the gel evenly between them. I don’t exactly know how to make a Mohawk since I’ve only ever done one on myself in the shower, mid-shampoo. But it seems unlikely that Mr. Sands would have a “preferred” technique for spiking his hair, so I just go for it.

  “The reason,” Mr. Sands continues, “is because people get things wrong. All the time. They get things wrong over and over and over again, and once you’ve gotten that figured out, their judgments or what they say about you seems a lot less important.”

  “So . . . what? You’re just supposed to let it all go? Write everyone off as a moron?” I come to the front of Mr. Sands’s wheelchair to see how the hairdo looks head-on. A little off center, and more like a faux-hawk than full-on Mohawk, but fairly respectable considering what I had to work with.

  “Not everyone’s a moron,” he adds, “and it’s always a good idea to keep a few smart folks around to get a second opinion every now and again. That’s what my wife and I always tried to teach our daughters. But for the most part, it’s about following your instincts and doing what you think is right—your life, your control.”

  “Ah-ha,” I say, “but then how do you know you’re not one of the morons yourself?” I pull up the brakes on Mr. Sands’s wheels and roll his chair over to the full-length mirror on the back of the door so he can check it out.

  When Mr. Sands sees his reflection he starts to laugh. “Am I really supposed to answer that question looking like this?”

  “You like?”

  “The ladies in this joint are going to go wild when they see me!”

  I can’t help but laugh. “You’re always working it, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve always tried,” he replies with a smile. “Now my dear, I have a different sort of request to ask of you.”

  “Anything,” I say. “Name it.”

  Mr. Sands pauses and waits until our eyes connect in the mirror. I smile at him and he
smiles back. Then he says eight words that will change both of our lives forever:

  “Grace, I need you to help me die.”

  Chapter Two

  “Holy shit.” That’s the opening line of my prayer.

  “Holy, holy, holy shit.” That’s line two.

  I’m a little rusty at the prayer thing.

  At home, kneeling at the foot of my bed, I stare up at the ceiling, but my eyes keep darting back to the corner of my bedroom where I flung my book bag. The bag that contains the pills Mr. Sands gave me to “help him die.” I stashed the pills in the only envelope I had in my bag—the one containing the report card I keep forgetting to get Mom to sign. Since he no longer had the strength to do it himself, Mr. Sands asked that I chop the pills up, then put the contents into batter, so he could, in his words, “go out eating cake.” He tried to make it sound light and easy, like a joke. But no joke could sugar-coat a request like that.

  He said it would all seem natural, no one would ever suspect my involvement. Why would they? He said in anyone else’s eyes he’d just be a dying old man who’d gone and died, and I’d just be a kid with an after-school job in a nursing home. But to us, it would be one friend helping another with a favor he couldn’t accomplish on his own. So I left Hanover House this afternoon with twenty pills and a promise to Mr. Sands that I’d consider helping him with this “favor.”

  What was I thinking?

  What the hell was I thinking?

  Because if I know anything for sure, it’s that I don’t want to help Mr. Sands with this. I don’t even want to consider helping him. But when Mr. Sands explained how the disease he has, ALS, was going to kill him—was going to take him out slowly, shutting down muscle after muscle, paralyzing each one until all that’s left is a fully functioning brain locked in a body that can’t move, communicate, eat, or breathe on its own—I couldn’t exactly tell him that I was having trouble dealing with this.