God is in the Pancakes (11 page)

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.

“
S
o 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 hundreds 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.”

“Ha! What'd you do?” I ask, pulling my knees up to my chest. “I probably would have chased him through the aisles until I had him cornered, then taken either the best
or
most embarrassing item out of his cart and held it hostage until he apologized.”

Isabelle laughs. “That's what I should have done, but I just shrieked!” She shakes her head. “It was so
very
not cool of me, and it made getting back into the pose of cosmopolitan sophisticate downright impossible that afternoon.”

“So what did
he
do? ”

“Frank laughed at me and said, ‘Well, normally I don't get that response from a girl until
after
I've asked her out!' ”

I laugh again, thinking that sounds exactly like the Mr. Sands I know; a guy so cool and secure, he makes fun of himself with ease . . . not unlike Eric.

She smiles. “Though at first I was furious at this overly confident cart-bashing oaf, with that line, he charmed me. It made me realize that maybe, just maybe, some of my assumptions about this fellow had been wrong.”

I nod. “I make an ass of myself by making assumptions about things all the time.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself, Grace,” replies Isabelle. “I'll bet your gut instincts are better than you're giving yourself credit for. But you're allowed to reassess and change your mind about things. Frank and I both learned that when I left him to go back to Washington.”

My head tilts to the side. “Wait a minute,” I break in, “you left him?”

“That's right. I stayed in town through my father's illness. But I had a life and a job I loved in DC. I'd been moving up the ranks at the Smithsonian Institution. American art and portraiture had been my specialty, and I'd been hoping to become head of the division, a rarity for a woman at that time. So I told Frank I was going and do you know what he said?”

“Was it something like, ‘
The hell you are!
'” I say in my best imitation of the Frank Sands grumble.

Isabelle shakes her head. “He said to me, and I quote, ‘Well, I'll miss you.'”

“That was it?” This does not sound like the Mr. Sands I know. The Mr. Sands I know wouldn't have let the woman he loved get away. He always went after what he wanted—
stuck to his guns
, as he might say. “No, I don't believe it.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Surprised? I was so mad, I almost spit at him,” Isabelle continues. “It's funny, sometimes you don't realize how much you want something until it's taken away. That's what happened when Frank said, ‘I'll miss you.'
^I
But he didn't say, ‘No! You can't go, Izzy, I won't let you.' He wasn't even saying ‘please don't go.' Just, ‘I'll miss you.'”

An interesting point: The person worth being with is the person who knows what you're worth and who fights to keep you. “But you two did wind up together—I mean, you're married now.” Isabelle nods her head. “So what happened?”

“Do you know it took that man a year and a half to realize he'd let the best thing that ever happened to him slip through his fingers?” She laughs, fanning herself in mock modesty. “A year and a half! We'd kept in touch somewhat during that time, but it wasn't until I mentioned I'd gotten serious with a boy down in Washington that Frank Sands sprung into action. He hopped into his truck and didn't stop driving until he got to my front door. He said, ‘Izzy, I felt more alive when we were together than I even knew possible. I want to feel that way again, and for the rest of my life.' ”

I try to imagine how I'd respond to words like those. Try to picture the guy who would say something like that to me. “So, did you just jump into his arms at that point?”

“No,” Isabelle responds with a devious smile. “I made him suffer. I told him he needed to convince me why I should choose him. Plus it was a little bit of revenge for him taking that long to come to his senses.”

“I'm not sure I would have been able to pull that off. I probably would have thrown myself on him right then and there.”

“Grace”—Isabelle shakes her head—“if you don't value yourself, no one else will either.”

“My dad left my mom for another woman.” This comes out of my mouth before I even think about what I'm saying.

“Oh, Grace, I'm sorry, I know how hard something like that can be.”

“Understatement,” I mumble.

“And there isn't a thing in the world anyone else can say or do to make it better.”

“Most people seem to make it worse.” I pick at the threads in the knee of my jeans, wishing I hadn't brought this up.

Isabelle looks down at her hands, and seems to consider whether she should say more. “You're entitled to feel angry, you know. None of this was your doing and yet here you are in the middle of it.”

I nod. “It's not fair.”

“No, it's not. But I think when you're ready, letting the anger go will help a great deal.”

“I don't think I'm there yet.” Part of me doubts I'll ever be there.

“No rush.” Isabelle shakes her head. “People act selfishly, Lord knows I have. Frank has too. No one—no one—is perfect.”

Though this isn't exactly a newsflash, hearing the words now, it almost sounds like a revelation. “I'm afraid that doesn't change much even as we get older,” she adds.

“So mentally we all just stay teenagers for the rest of our lives? Please do not tell me life is high school.”

“More like middle school,” Isabelle says with a laugh. “And you're wonderful, Grace, you really are. I thank you for coming here today, it means a lot.”

“I don't think I've cheered you up too much.”

“You've done better than that,” she replies. “Because you and I, we haven't been pretending here, have we? Neither one of us is speaking to the other like she's a child. We've just been talking things through, the both of us understanding that life's messy and hard and constantly requires reexamination.”

I nod and smile at Isabelle. I like her even though I don't want to. Liking her complicates things. Liking her means I'll probably wind up thinking about her . . . and worrying about her . . . which is the last thing I need. And because I know I shouldn't invest, because I know liking her will only make life more difficult, it makes her friendship that much more interesting to me.

When I leave the cottage, determined to “embrace the suck” and deal, I head for Mr. Sands's room in the main building. His door is open, so I walk in. “Mr. Sands,” I say, barreling forward and approaching his bed. “Have I got a story for you!” I want to keep things as breezy as possible this afternoon and get back to our usual banter.

“Grace,” he says in a low, croaking voice. He doesn't look good; his skin is dry and yellowy-gray, and a pungent smell comes from his mouth.

“Are you okay?”

I look at Mr. Sands lying there and take him in. I've never
really
looked at his body before because he's usually dressed in some sort of flannel shirt and chino pants. But today he's wearing a pajama top that's open enough at the neck that I can see the loose skin on his sternum that's threaded with blue veins. I watch his chest rise and fall, trying to get air. But instead of deep, rhythmic breaths in and out, its shallow, up and down movement makes it look like he's attempting to catch up to something, but he's falling helplessly behind. I wonder how Isabelle can stand to see him—the man who'd once rammed her supermarket cart, the man who'd pursued her to Washington—like
this
. I wonder if he asked her to “help” him too. Or if he asked me because people would suspect her involvement.

“Do you want to play cards or checkers or something?” I finally say. “You know I might even let you win.”

“No,” he replies, “not just now.”

“That's okay, I was just kidding. I wasn't going to let you win.”

To my relief, this makes Mr. Sands laugh. “Oh, Grace,” he softly slurs.

“I'm sorry,” I reply, breaking eye contact and looking down at my shoes. “My stupid jokes probably aren't helping.”

Slowly and with great effort, Mr. Sands says, “Your stupid jokes mean the world to me.”

Whether it's from the tone or the sentiment, I'm suddenly overcome, and I try to smile as I feel hot tears sting the corners of my eyes. “Well then,” I reply, “you're in luck, because stupid jokes, I've got a million of them.”