“Have you told anyone else about this?”
“No,” she replies. “This was one of the last things my husband and I needed to do together. I didn’t want anyone else’s input or thoughts on the subject. It wasn’t any of their business. Oh, Grace, can you ever forgive me?”
“Yes, of course I forgive you. How could I not?”
“Thank you,” she says.
She then takes my hand and we sit there for a while, both of us lost in our own thoughts, together. As she looks down, I look up and think about the new chance I’ve been given, and how much I have to be grateful for.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the universe.
Chapter Eighteen
Later that night I stare in my bedroom mirror examining the bruise on my chin. I’d not only clipped my chin when I’d fainted, I also bit down on my lip, making it look slightly swollen, and not in a good way. As I try to determine if putting lipstick over it will make it look better or worse, the phone rings.
“Hey, it’s me,” Eric says when I pick up.
“Oh, hi.” Oh, man.
“We need to talk.”
I know what he’s referring to, of course. I think about what Isabelle had said about how dumb it is to try to avoid conversations like this. But sometimes even knowing what the right thing is doesn’t make doing it any easier. “I thought we already talked about that,” I say. “Natalie came over, ‘attacked’ you, and now you guys are like ‘couple of the year.’ ”
Eric exhales loudly. “Look, I know you’re pissed.”
“I’m not pissed,” I lie, flopping down on my bed.
“Okay, maybe that’s the wrong word then.”
I bite down on my lip and a twinge of pain from the bruise radiates through my jaw. “Actually, ‘pissed’ is fair.”
“You know I debated whether I should tell you about it at all. Ninety-eight percent of me said, ‘Don’t do it, nothing good will come of it.’ But the other two percent somehow managed to convince me that I should.” He lets out one of those little laughs that makes it sound like he’s marveling over his own stupidity. “I wish I could tell you that that two percent was the good angel sitting on my shoulder, saying, ‘Tell her the truth, honesty is the best policy!’ but I don’t think that was it. I think part of me really just wanted to get a rise out of you. Make you mad.”
“Nice job.”
“Grace, things have been totally bizarre between the two of us recently.”
“I know, and it’s been my fault, I get it. This whole thing with Natalie is like my punishment for being weird or something, right?”
“No, that’s not it. I didn’t want to punish you. Maybe I just wanted to get a real reaction from you.”
“That’s great, Eric, thanks.”
“Grace, come on.”
“What do you want me to say? That I’m happy for you? I’m sorry, Eric, I know maybe as your friend I’m supposed to be psyched for you that you’re hooking up with the hottest girl at school. I mean, I know that’s some big accomplishment. And I know how other girls look at you now, like Chelsea Roy and all the rest. It’s like they’ve suddenly ‘discovered’ you and now see what a great, cool guy you are. But it didn’t take me seeing you toss a ball through a hoop to realize that. I always knew it and I just thought, I don’t know, maybe that we had something. Or—”
“Or what?”
“Or it doesn’t even matter now, so let’s just drop it.”
“I’m not going to drop it. Look, Natalie just called me because she wanted to talk about us going to the dance together.”
“Oh yeah? So have you two color coordinated your outfits yet?”
“I told her I wasn’t going to go after all.”
“Perfect,” I laugh bitterly. “Now I can have her all to myself! But I’ll bet people will be dying to know how someone like me managed to get a date with a girl as hot as her.”
“Grace, stop,” Eric says. “I never wanted to go to that dance with Natalie. You know that. I asked you, remember?”
“But that was before you knew you could have her.” I stand again and look at myself in the mirror. All I can see is damage.
“I don’t want her! I don’t want Chelsea or anybody else,” Eric yells. “Don’t you get it? It’s you. I want you.”
And that’s when I tell Eric everything. That’s when I tell him what had been going on with Mr. Sands. That’s when I tell him about my last conversation with Isabelle.
“Holy shit,” replies Eric.
“Yeah, I’ve said that a few times myself.”
“So you’re not the one who actually killed him, are you?” he asks.
“That’s kind of a tough question to answer.”
Eric pauses, and I listen for the judgment in the sound of his breathing. But when he speaks again he simply says, “I’m just trying to imagine what I would have done if I were you . . . I don’t know.”
“Well,” I reply, “you probably would have thought about it for a long time and then you would have come to some conclusion that factored in quality of life and personal responsibility and morality and divine intervention and family and love and suffering and autonomy and fairness and consequences. And after weighing all that, you still might not have known what the right answer was, or if there is a right answer at all. But hopefully whatever you chose to do you’d feel like it was a good decision. So if I haven’t quite been myself lately, that’s probably why. I’ve had a few things on my mind.”
“Yeah, just a few,” he says, with a disbelieving laugh. “There anything else you’ve been thinking about that I should know?”
“Uh, just one more thing.”
“Seriously?” Eric doesn’t sound like he can stand to hear any more, but I need to tell him this one last thing.
“I never got a chance to say how much you being there for me every day has meant to me.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know,” I say, “which is part of why I want to.”
On Friday night I reach deep into my closet and feel around for the Cignal bag that I’d thrown to the back as soon as I’d gotten home from my shopping trip the other day. I hadn’t allowed myself to touch it again and tried not to think about the red silk dress wrapped inside. It was a present to myself that after purchase I felt sure I didn’t deserve, and though I’m still not sure I deserve it, I am sure wearing the dress will make me “better.” Or at least look better. In keeping with that theme, for the past several days I’ve been trying to eat better too. Or at least eat less. I cleaned out all my pockets of junk food and tossed the candy I’d stashed around the house.
When I finally free the Cignal bag from the mountain of crap at the bottom of the closet, I carefully remove its tissue-papered contents. I slide my finger under the sticker seal and pull the protective sheets back. My breath catches when I see the beautiful red silk fabric shining up at me. If possible, the dress is prettier than I remembered. I hold it against me and glance at myself in the mirror, wanting to preserve the image of what I could look like before trying the dress on in case the Cinderella moment doesn’t happen, and the dress doesn’t fit so perfectly again.
But after I slip off my robe and step into it, I know its magic is working because the zipper closes easily—in one fluid movement—even without me taking a deep inhale. I spin on my heels and I watch in the full-length mirror as the dress twirls around me. It takes less than a second to spot a critical error: shoes. Now if I happened to own shoes other than Pumas or Chuck Taylors, this would not be such a big deal. The problem is that the only shoes I own are rubber soled and ink tattooed, and even the thought of putting them anywhere near this beautiful dress is just wrong. I’m shoeless, and it’s an hour and a half before the dance.
What’s almost worse is that I can picture the perfect pair for the dress: black sequined T-straps, piped with vintage-looking silver leather with a high red satin stiletto heel. These shoes are an outfit to themselves. And they’re sitting at the top of
Mom’s closet in a box that hasn’t been reopened since Mom and Dad’s twentieth anniversary party last year.
For the many differences between the Manning women, we all have size 7½ feet, so I know they’d fit me. I consider my options: I could sneak into Mom’s bedroom, take the shoes, and pray they don’t get scuffed or spilled on, returning them to the box when she’s out tomorrow. I could take the box and stick it in Lolly’s closet, assuming that by the time Mom ever goes looking for them (presumably no time soon), the two of them would work it out. Or I could go downstairs, ask her to borrow them, and do the right thing.
This is not a decision I make quickly. But in light of all the rest, I decide to try harder on this front too.
“Mom?” I call as I walk down the steps, assuming she’s in the kitchen.
“My stars,” she says, glancing up from her magazine. Mom’s camped out on the couch in a pair of sweats and fuzzy slippers. “Look at you.”
“Oh.” I’m immediately self-conscious and worried she’s about to ask where I got the dress or how I managed to pay for it on my own. I’d never bothered bringing up the subject of it or the dance again after we’d fought about it. “Does it look okay?”
“Does it look okay? It’s gorgeous.” Mom motions me to the couch, then shuts her magazine and sits up. “Oh, Grace, I don’t think you’ve ever looked prettier.”
“Thanks,” I say, pleased and a little surprised.
Mom laughs. “So I guess this means you and Eric worked things out, huh? Or are you going with someone else and this dress is designed to make him regret that decision?”
“No, Eric and I talked and kind of figured some things out.”
“I’m glad to hear that. It’s good to know you were both smart enough to make up. I’m proud of you.”
“You are?”
“Of course I am,” she replies. “Especially because I know I haven’t been the best role model for this sort of stuff. I mean, I wish I were better at it, and I have to think if your dad and I could have given you a happier example, this would just be easier all around, but . . .” Mom shrugs, unable to finish the sentence. “Just to be clear, though, you do know that I’m on your side and that I love you, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, “most of the time.”
Mom tips her head side to side as if considering this. “That’s fair.” She doesn’t ask if I mean that I think she’s on my side most of the time, or whether she means some of the time she’s not. But I think we both get it.
Still, I’m a little scared that asking to borrow Mom’s special anniversary party shoes will immediately march us two steps back, so I send up a silent prayer that she won’t hit the roof when I mention them. “Hey, uh, Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“So there’s one little problem.” I point to my bare feet. Before I can even mention borrowing her shoes, a smile comes across her face.
“I have the perfect solution!” she says, hopping off the couch, taking my hand, and leading me upstairs. Mom flips the light on in her bedroom and I realize I haven’t been in here much over the past few months. Though we’ve all been living under the same roof, we’ve pretty much existed in our own pods.
Minus the T-shirts Dad usually left in piles at the corners of the room, and the various objects he’d clear out of his pockets and spread on his dresser, the room hasn’t changed much. As Mom walks over to her closet, I glance at her bureau and see she still hasn’t moved the silver framed wedding photo of her and Dad that’s been there forever. In the photo Mom and Dad are looking at each other as they’re exiting the church just after they were married. Dad is dressed in one of those old-fashioned tuxedos and he’s gazing at Mom like she’s the only woman on earth. Mom beams back at him, looking like it would be impossible for her to be any happier. I assumed that the photo would have been the first thing to go after Dad left. But seeing it sitting there on dresser, making it look like nothing has changed when, in fact, everything has changed, causes a new lump to form in the back of my throat.
Mom turns around and catches me staring at the photo. She walks over and lets out a long breath. “I know,” she says, “I keep thinking I should put it away. But every time I pick it up to shove it in a drawer, I wind up putting it right back there.”
“Well, it’s a great picture,” I reply, thinking about what Isabelle said about missing Mr. Sands, and how hard it must be to let go.
“Look at us. So full of hope for our lives together.” She shakes her head and smiles. “I think part of the reason I haven’t packed the picture away is because I like seeing that hope in my eyes. I know your father’s gone, and it’s not just about pining for him anymore. It’s also about me, and reminding myself that happiness like this is possible.”
“I get that. And I’m a believer too.”
“Thank you, honey,” Mom says, reaching out and squeezing my arm. “Now, on to another very important matter.” From behind her back Mom reveals a pristine gray shoebox. “Ta-da!” She holds on to the bottom of the box as I remove the lid, and yin-yanged inside is the perfect pair of shoes. I take each shoe from the box and slide into them before bending over and buckling their T-straps. They’re so high, I almost fall forward as I stand back up, but Mom catches my arm and prevents me from face-planting in her carpet.
“Mom, they’re amazing.”
“And only worn once. Not exactly my everyday fare,” she laughs. “Okay, stand back so I can get a good look at you.”
I take a few steps backward and stretch my arms out like a model presenting a prize. “What do you think?”
“I think you have one very lucky date.” She smiles.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a big, goofy grin come across my face.
Mom looks at her watch. “Hey, have you eaten dinner yet?”
“Well, I was thinking maybe I should skip it so the dress doesn’t bulge out or anything.”
“Come on,” she says with a shake of her head. “You need to eat something before you go. You know, I saw the griddle in the dish rack. What do you say to me fixing us a quick pancake dinner?”
I run my hands down my hips and consider this for a moment. “I probably shouldn’t.”
“How about this,” she persists, “I’ll make a stack and you just have one?”
“Eat only one pancake! Is that even possible?”
“It’ll be a challenge,” Mom says with a nod, taking my hand and leading me downstairs. “But, you know what? I have faith in you.”
When the doorbell rings I actually feel my heart beating in my chest. I stand up from the kitchen table and look at Mom.
“Do you want me to get the door?” she asks, smiling.
“No, I got it, thanks.” I smile back at her and keep my eyes on my feet as I walk to the front door. “Who is it?” I say, trying to catch my breath as I look through the peephole and see Eric standing there, holding a bouquet of flowers.
“Pizza delivery.”
I laugh as I swing open the door and Eric stands there smiling back at me.
“Wow,” he says. “You look . . . wow.”
“Thanks,” I reply, blush starting to rise in my cheeks, which probably matches the redness of my dress. As soon as I’d slipped it on earlier, and the silk fabric rubbed against my bare skin, I got all goose-bumpy, which is pretty much how I’m feeling right now.
“Ooh, let me get a picture!” Mom says as she walks out of the kitchen.
“Mom!” I howl on reflex.
“Come on,” Eric says, nudging me with his shoulder, “I bet it’ll only hurt a little.”
When I look at him, and we give each other our conspiratorial sideways smiles, she snaps the picture.
The tables in the cafeteria have all been folded and neatly stacked in the back corner behind the DJ stand. The lights are down and even though the space is still very perceptibly the place where crimes against humanity are served for lunch every day, even the grouch in me must admit that the decorating committee has done a really nice job. A
gainst the back wall they’ve hung a black mural that’s been painted to resemble the night sky. Small white stars glitter when the light from the suspended, rotating mirror ball shines against them. I’d forgotten the theme was supposed to be “dancing under the stars,” but they’ve somehow managed to pull it off, lending the cafeteria a surprisingly dreamy feel.
I immediately see Lolly and Jake on the dance floor, her arms around his neck and his holding tightly around her waist. They’re swaying to the music, a song that’s not really slow enough to slow dance to, but neither of them seems to care. Looking at them you’d never know that there’d been any recent relationship problems, you’d never realize that Jake had originally wanted to be here with someone else. Of course, I wish Lolly had been strong enough to realize she didn’t need Jake and that she would have been better off without him. But there’s a giant smile on her face, and it’s obvious how happy she is now.
I can’t help but feel he’s going to hurt her again. I’m sure of it even as I watch her put her head on his shoulder and he tilts his head so it’s sort of nestled into hers. If it were up to me I’d banish him to another school, or better yet another state. But I know it’s not up to me, and I know that this is one of those things that despite the best arguments I present to my sister, she’s not going to pay me any attention. This is one of those serenity things that I’m just going to have to accept. It’s strange—I used to think that as I got older people would just necessarily take what I had to say more seriously. Or my opinions would be listened to. But mostly people just do what they want—follow some sort of interior voice, whatever that happens to be for them, and I guess part of the process of growing up (if that’s what it is) is learning to accept that people often want different things.
When the song changes to something more up-tempo, I take off my coat and turn to Eric. “Do you want to dance?”
God is in the Pancakes Page 19