God is in the Pancakes

by Robin Epstein

  “Excuse me,” I say to the male orderly. “Was Mr. Sands taken for some tests or something?”

  “Oh, you mean the guy who was in this room?” he asks.

  I nod. “Uh-huh, Frank Sands?”

  “Yeah, he passed.”

  “What?”

  “He died,” he says, as if I need the translation.

  “When?” I ask, needing to know the precise details of what happened after I left.

  He shrugs his shoulders. Then the female orderly, who’s holding a trash can and wearing a pair of rubber gloves, nods. “You mean the guy in here? I heard he passed in his sleep,” she says. “I overheard the nurses talking about it. They were pretty upset. His wife found him early this morning before they’d come to do their rounds.”

  “Oh, no.” I clasp my hand to my mouth. Hearing this description of the inevitable adds a whole new reality: He’ll never smile again. Never crack a joke again. He’ll never be able to say good-bye to his family. He’s just gone. And it’s because I helped him leave.

  The man puts his hand on my shoulder. “He’s in a better place,” he tells me. As if this piece of information will calm me. “You know, he went quiet, in his sleep, like everyone wants to go.”

  “Do they know . . . do they know what caused it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says, looking over to the woman, but she shakes her head.

  “I think he was real sick, so . . .” she says.

  I drift into the room, still hoping that Mr. Sands will be there, that there will be some trace of him. The two orderlies follow me. But Mr. Sands really isn’t here. And neither is the envelope. “Where did they take him?” I ask.

  “Funeral home came around this morning,” the woman says. “I think they keep that place on speed dial over here.” She cracks a smile and the man laughs, covering his mouth.

  “You looking for something?” he then asks, noticing that I’m not so nonchalantly scanning the room.

  How am I supposed to respond? Is it really smart or fantastically stupid to ask if they’d found an envelope of crushed-up pill dust in the room of a dead man? It’s a question Eric could help me with, but that would mean confessing—and possibly making him an accessory to the crime. If it’s a crime. And maybe it’s not even, maybe it’s euthanasia. But is that considered better or worse than assisted suicide? Or are they the same thing?

  I’d been so sure that I’d never be suspected that it never occurred to me that I could be caught! Suddenly all of the legal questions I should have asked myself before I made the decision to help Mr. Sands—all of the things that would have been important to think about when I was focused on stopping his suffering—now attack my brain.

  “Um, well actually I can’t find the envelope with my report card in it, and I thought I might have left it there when I was in his room yesterday.” I nod.

  “And you probably need to get that signed by your mom, right?” the woman asks, now with a note of sympathy in her voice. “Well, when someone passes, they try to get the room cleared as quick as possible so it don’t upset the other residents. Night crew might still have been on duty, so you should ask Miro, the head of sanitation.”

  What I should do is get out of here before my head explodes. “Okay, thanks,” I say. I need to see Isabelle, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

  Not now.

  Not yet.

  But as I leave Hanover House and head to school, I take out my phone and start dialing her number. I’m not sure what I’m going to say, not even sure that I won’t hang up as soon as she answers.

  “Hello?” says a female voice I don’t recognize.

  “Is Isabelle there?”

  “She’s resting now,” the voice replies curtly.

  “Well, do you know when she might be up?”

  “No, she’s been given some medication to help her sleep. She’s had a very difficult morning.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “I know.”

  “Would you like to leave a message?”

  I have to think about this for a moment. “Yes, please. Thank you. Could you just tell her that Grace called and I’m sorry about . . .” My voice catches and I can’t finish the sentence.

  “Of course, dear,” the voice says, softening. “It’s very nice of you to call.”

  The image of Mr. and Mrs. Sands in that wedding photo floats through my mind—that, combined with the idea that I’m responsible for taking Isabelle’s husband away from her . . .

  I spend the entire day at school in a fog. Nothing registers and nothing seems quite real. I don’t speak a word to anyone. I have two classes with Eric today, but I’m careful to avoid his glance and I skip lunch, spending the period in the girls’ room instead. Hidden in a stall, I examine my hands, the knuckles, the fingers, the palms: the hands that did the deed. When I look up, I don’t bother asking if what I did was right or wrong. It’s too late for that one now. I simply ask “What next?”

  No response.

  When the school day ends, I can’t stay away. I have to see Isabelle. I’m scheduled to work at Hanover House this afternoon, but I don’t bother checking in at the Activities Office; instead I head straight back to the Sandses’ cottage. The door is open behind the screen, so I knock, then enter.

  “Hello?” I say, not seeing her. “Isabelle?” I move through the house, as if on a mission. And then I see her. She’s in her bedroom, lying flat out over the white eyelet bedspread, her arms folded over her chest, and for a moment, I’m convinced she’s dead too. She decided living life without her husband wasn’t worth it. She couldn’t go on. Her heart literally broke. And it was my fault.

  My heart catches in my chest and I gasp. Isabelle’s eyes open and she looks at me hovering. “Grace,” she says, her lips turned down, her wide-set brown eyes rimmed with red. “You heard about Frank?”

  I nod.

  “He passed away peacefully in his sleep this morning.” She sits up, rubs her eyes, then reaches out for me to take her hand. “That’s what he said he always wanted. ‘Izzy, I just want to fall asleep and not wake up,’ he’d say. ‘You may not get to cheat death, but at least you get to cheat the alarm clock!’ ” She laughs a little at this. “That was my Frank.”

  When she says this, I hear myself exhale. “Well, I’m glad he went the way he wanted.”

  Isabelle shakes her head. “This is what he wanted, but it’s not what I wanted. It’s all my fault.”

  “That’s not true,” I say quickly, but she doesn’t react. We sit there for another moment and I stare at my hand in hers. The hand that turned her life upside down.

  “Oh, Grace, what am I going to do now?” Isabelle asks, fresh tears springing to her eyes.

  “Um.” I shake my head, incapable of saying anything more helpful or profound because of the plum-sized lump rising in my throat. I need to tell her what I did, but I now feel so guilty about what my actions have done to her, I can’t get it out. I feel like I’m suffocating.

  “That’s okay.” She rubs my hand and smiles a bit. “I don’t have any idea either. But I’m sure my daughters will have some opinions on the subject.” Isabelle rolls her eyes, then looks skyward. “Sarah will be back here shortly and Jill, my younger daughter, is making her way back from Paris and should be in over the weekend.”

  “Well,” I say, drawing back a sob, “that should be nice, to be surrounded by family.”

  “Just between us,” Isabelle replies, lowering her voice, “I’m sort of dreading it.”

  “You are?”

  “It’s just that it will make all of this very real. Very final, you know?” Isabelle closes her eyes and exhales. After a few moments of silence, she looks back to me. “I just keep expecting Frank to walk through the front door like he used to do, day in and day out. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

  “No, it’s not.” I shake my head. “But maybe that’s why it’ll be good to have your daughters with you.”

  Isabelle takes a moment, then she stands up and smoothes d
own her skirt. “I’m sorry, Grace, can I get you something to drink?”

  “Oh, uh, I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “I think I’m going to have a little whiskey, myself,” she says. “I know it’s not yet five p.m., but I don’t really care.” Isabelle walks to the kitchen and I follow behind her.

  She takes the bottle of Jack Daniels from the cabinet and then takes down two glass tumblers. She starts pouring the dark orangey-gold liquid into one of the glasses and fills it halfway. “Would you like some?”

  “I’m not really sure if I should.”

  “Well, of course you shouldn’t, but that’s not what I asked you,” Isabelle says. “You do want some, don’t you?”

  I can tell she wants me to have this drink with her. I’ve tried alcohol before, but I never really liked it. I don’t want her to have to have this drink alone, though, so I nod.

  “Yeah, okay, thanks,” I say, taking the glass that she’s already poured for me. I wait until she pours one for herself to lift it up to my lips.

  “To better days,” Isabelle toasts, taking a swallow.

  The smell penetrates my nose before the stinging liquid hits my tongue and starts burning down my esophagus. I cough a little. I didn’t expect the drink to be nearly as powerful as it is. It’s what I imagine lighter fluid would taste like. “Strong,” I say.

  This makes Isabelle laugh. “Strong indeed.” She smiles. “You do get used to it, but it always remains blessedly strong.”

  “Does it ever start tasting better?” I hesitantly put my nose back toward the cup.

  “Just tastes strong to me,” she says. “And especially at times like these, I think that tastes good. Come on, let’s get some cheese and crackers and sit in the living room like ladies, shall we?” She moves toward the refrigerator, but when her hands land on a wedge of white cheese flecked with blue veins, an idea comes to me.

  “Actually, why don’t I make us a little something?” I say, taking a few items out of the refrigerator.

  “Sure, whatever you like.” Isabelle leans against the counter and swirls the drink in her hand, looking into the depths of her glass as if it contained an answer.

  I find the rest of the things I need and grab a mixing bowl from beneath the sink. I don’t bother looking for the measuring cups. I just estimate the ingredients as I add them together and start beating the mixture until I have the right consistency: smooth but for some character lumps.

  “Do you have a griddle?”

  Isabelle shakes her head and takes a swallow of her drink with a look that seems to convey terrible disappointment. “That’s okay, really, it’s no problem,” I reply, taking another quick swig from my cup and opening the cabinet under the range to find a frying pan. When I see one that’s suitably large, I turn the burner to medium, then toss in a pat of butter to grease the pan. As it heats, the butter skates around the pan’s surface, leaving behind a wet, whitish trail as it melts into oblivion. I lift up the handle and roll my wrist, speeding its fade.

  I find a ladle in the utensil drawer and spoon out the batter into four good-sized dollops, then sneak a look back at Isabelle, who’s standing there, staring blankly out the window. I glance out to see what she’s looking at, but there’s nothing there; she just looks inconsolably lonely. I take another sip of my drink, then turn my attention back to the pancakes and wait for the bubbles to appear. When Isabelle lets out a sigh behind me, it gives me the chills and I get the strangest feeling that the bubbles won’t rise to the surface today. It almost seems like the atmosphere here’s too heavy to support them, as if their lightness would be offensive.

  But then all of a sudden and out of nowhere, one bubbles up.

  And then another.

  And then four more bubbles cluster at the edge of one of the pancakes. As each bursts into the world, unaffected by anything that’s come before or will happen after, the bubbles take their privileged moments in time. I know what needs to be done now, so spatula in hand, I flip the pancakes before they burn. Isabelle looks over to me when she hears the spatula scrape the pan.

  “Pancakes?” she asks.

  “Comfort food,” I reply. “There’s just something about pancakes that makes me feel better.”

  “Then I’m glad you made them.” She raises her glass to me. “But I’m sorry, I don’t think we have any syrup.”

  The small jug of syrup is sitting in my bag, but there’s no way in hell I can take it out now. “Really not a big deal,” I answer. “We don’t need it.” When they’re ready I turn off the burner and plate the pancakes. “Here you go, Isabelle,” I say, handing her two good-looking flap-jacks.

  “Thank you, Grace, and my true friends call me Izzy, so you should, too.” She gathers the contents of our impromptu cocktail and pancake party and walks to the living room.

  When we sit down, Isabelle leans back into the couch and puts her feet up on the coffee table. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when my daughters get here,” she says, taking a forkful of pancake and closing her eyes. “Mmm, that is good, thank you.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know what you’ll do?” I ask, lifting my fork and taking a bite. It’s good, but it really could use a little syrup . . .

  Isabelle takes another swallow of her drink and puckers her lips. “My daughters don’t really like me.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “No, it is. I know it’s true. There was never one big falling out, and yet, there’s just this thing between us. This ugly gray cloud that just hangs there. I don’t know where I went wrong with them,” she says with a shake of her head. She looks down into her glass and swirls the liquid before taking a sip.

  “Well, did you ever think it’s them—their fault—not yours?” I drink more, hoping to show I’m totally on her side. I want to do anything I can to make her feel better right now. “I mean, make them step up.”

  “It’s hard for a mother to do that, Grace. I’m the one who raised them after all, so somehow it all has to be my fault, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” I reply. “Un-uh.” Do I blame my mother for the relationship we have? . . . Okay, maybe that’s a bad example.

  Isabelle pauses, then takes another generous swallow of her whiskey. “Still, I always hoped—I’d always assumed—that things would eventually even out. That we’d all be okay with one another at some point. Now, with Frank’s death, I can’t even imagine what they’ll think of me.” She raises her eyebrows and the lines on her forehead run together.

  I rack my brain for something smart to say, but it’s not like I’ve got any wisdom to offer, and I don’t exactly have any insight from the relationship I have with my mother to give. So I just force down a big gulp of my drink, then slice off a hunk of the pancake. But before I put the fork to my mouth, I dunk it in the whiskey. Not bad.

  “Now there’s some ingenuity,” she replies with a smile, pouring more Jack Daniels into both of our glasses and then dunking a forkful of pancake into hers. “Yeah, that’s nice. And you know what? I think it is making me feel better,” she says. “You know I can’t recall when I had my first drink—I suppose I was about your age in high school—but it’s amazing how quickly the time goes. I remember when I was younger, summer seemed to last forever. And a school year just went on and on.”

  “No kidding,” I say, “and it’s so weird because weekends will pass in the blink of an eye, but the school week drags like the rusty tailpipe off the back of a Chevy Impala.”

  “I think that whiskey’s making a poet out of you, Grace.” She laughs. “But you’re right, we’re taught to think of time as a constant, measured off in minutes, hours, and days. But it sure doesn’t feel that way.” She takes another sizable swallow, and I, still following her lead, do the same. The warm feeling in my stomach is beginning to spread to my arms and legs and it feels good.

  I wonder what my mother would have to say about this conversation if she were here. Until this talk with Izzy, I’d never thought
things wouldn’t get better with my mother either. I know we’re at each other a lot and have all sorts of stupid fights, but I guess I just didn’t think that would really continue. Or maybe it’s more that I never really bothered thinking about us in the future.

  “Mom,” a voice calls out, before the sound of a rapid knocking at the screen door.

  “Speak of the devil,” Isabelle says softly, standing up. “Come on in, Sarah, I’m in the living room.”

  “I should go, Izzy,” I say, liking the way her nickname sounds coming out of my mouth.

  “No, please, Grace,” she replies, taking hold of my hand again. I’m a little startled by the gesture, and when I hesitate briefly she says, “I mean, only stay if you want to, but I’d like it if you did.”

  There is no way I’m going to say no to this woman. So when the door opens and Sarah, the woman I’d seen before with Izzy in Mr. Sands’s room, walks in, I just stand there and wait for Izzy to explain me.

  “Hi?” Sarah says, nodding at me with a half smile as she walks over to Isabelle and gives her a hug.

  “Sarah, this is Grace. I’ve asked her to stay with me for a little while,” Izzy replies to the unasked “Who is this kid and when is she leaving?” question.

  “I’m so sorry about your father,” I say, my head shaking back and forth. I really want—need—Sarah to know how much Mr. Sands meant to me. “He was so great. I liked him so much.”

  But these words don’t seem enough. They can’t even touch the relationship we had. They don’t convey the strength of his presence in my life, and the fact that one of the things I liked most was that the steadiness didn’t mean seriousness. Mr. Sands taught me that despite whatever drama was playing out, it was not only okay but important to find the humor in the situation, dark though it might be. And he reminded me to laugh because that’s what gives life color.

  “I gave him a Mohawk,” I add, nodding at Sarah.

  “Oh, uh-huh,” she replies, turning away from me.

  But Isabelle laughs, getting it. “And Dad sure liked her,” she says, smiling at me, then looking back to Sarah.