God is in the Pancakes (17 page)

“Mom, I'm a high school sophomore. Every day is that horror. What happened?”

“Well,” she says, leaning toward me, “actually he was very sweet and he didn't make it awkward at all. He just said, ‘To what do I owe this surprise? Such a lovely lady escorting me to my seat? Must be my lucky day!' ”

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I told him that someone needed to set the example, and when I looked around the restaurant, I realized I was the only one qualified to do it!” Mom smiles broadly and I can tell she's still proud of herself for coming up with that line.

“Very nice!” What's strange is that I am genuinely pleased by my mom's response. Here she is telling me about the fact that she's flirting with a man who's not my dad, and I'm actually happy that she seems so happy. This is the first time we've ever had a conversation like this, but instead of tiptoeing around the subject, it feels like we're both hungry to have it. “So do you know Tom's deal yet? I mean, is he dateable?”

Mom rolls her eyes. “I don't know,” she says quickly. “I think he's a few years younger than me and I don't think he has any kids, so . . .”

It never occurred to me that two teenage daughters might not be the best accessory to have on a first date. Lolly and I are like two strikes against Mom. We're the equivalent of two big zits on her nose and forehead, but worse because we never go away. I'd never thought about how lonely she must feel sometimes. “Well, are you going to make the first move?”

“Definitely not. What would that get me?”

“Dinner and a movie?”

“I'm telling you. They might be interested in you for a little while if you're really forward—especially if you're putting out for them—which, heaven forbid you're doing,” Mom says. “But once they've had their fill, they'll just split. I hate to say it, but all that stuff they try to tell you about women being empowered and about how it's fine for a woman to ask a man out, well, it's crap.”

I look down at my watch. “Seven fifty-three p.m.”

“What does that mean?”

“Official time of death of feminism,” I reply, and Mom laughs, but my mind drifts to Eric, and how I was the one who kissed him first. From what Isabelle said and from what Mom has just implied, I'm already screwed.

“Believe me,” she says, “I wish that weren't the case. I've just tried the other way enough times to learn a thing or two about human nature. So how's your friend Eric?” A smile comes across her face like she knows something.

I'd never had any intention of telling my mother what had been going on between Eric and me, but since she does have all this experience, I'm kind of curious to get her opinion on the situation. “
Well,
things have been a little weird between us, but he did ask me to go to the school dance with him.”

“Really?” she replies. “That's exciting.”

“Yes and no.”

“What does that mean?”

“The only reason he wants to go is so he can hang out with the upperclassmen on the basketball team.” What I really want to hear is for Mom to defend me against . . . myself. I need her to tell me that that's
not
the reason Eric asked me to the dance.

“Ouch,” she says instead.

I shrug. “Anyway, it's not like I have anything to wear if I did go. I'd probably need to get a new outfit because I've outgrown any fancy stuff I ever owned.” Now it would be nice for me to hear something like “Oh, honey, you'll be the best-looking girl at the dance regardless of what you're wearing.”

“It does seem like a waste to spend good money on a new dress when you're just being brought along as ‘the friend.' ” Mom raises her eyebrows, and her forehead creases into a series of raised rows and trenches. “Maybe Lolly would loan you one of her old dresses.”

“Yeah okay,
thanks
, Mom. That's
exactly
what I want.” Showing up in my sister's reject clothes. As if I don't already feel like enough of a reject already.

“Hey, I'm not the enemy here,” Mom replies, sounding like I'm the one who offended
her.

“I'm sorry I brought it up.”

“Grace, don't be like this,” she calls after me as I head for the stairs.

“
Don't be like this?”
I repeat, stopping in my tracks. “How do you think I got this way in the first place? Ever think that maybe if I had some decent role models I wouldn't be so messed up? I might even have a fighting chance at being normal?” I storm up to my room, dizzied by how quickly the tears spring to my eyes. It's like they've been waiting right there in the corners, ready to roll at a moment's notice. Ready to wash down and flood out the anger, frustration, sadness, confusion, and all the rest of the crap that's floating through my head.

I
find Isabelle still sitting in Mr. Sands's room when I drop in during my Tuesday shift, and I have a bad feeling. She doesn't look like she's moved since the last time I spied her here. She glances up when I enter.

“Grace!” she says, smiling at me, then looking back to Mr. Sands. “Frank, Grace is here. I didn't think you came in today!”

I don't want to make her feel bad for mixing up the days, so I just smile and say, “I wanted to come say hello.” I start walking toward the bed, waiting for Mr. Sands to say something witty about his gathering harem. But he doesn't respond. “He sleeping?” I whisper.

Isabelle looks down at her hands and shakes her head. “No, he's just . . . well, he's having some difficulty speaking today.”

Over the past several weeks I'd noticed Mr. Sands's voice had been more nasal-sounding and he'd been slurring his words with more frequency, but even though I knew losing the ability to speak was one of the symptoms of his disease, I couldn't really believe it would happen . . . That it
was
happening.

“Will he be able to speak again?” I ask her, almost ignoring the fact that Mr. Sands is still in the room with us.

“Oh, I'm sure he will, won't you, Frank?” Isabelle says, rubbing her hand against his shoulder. But I can't tell if she said that because it's really true, whether it was for his benefit or mine.

Mr. Sands grunts and rolls his eyes, sending a pretty clear signal that he's not only very much still present, but also quite capable of expressing his opinion despite today's difficulty with words.

“So tell us, Grace, how was your day?” Isabelle asks, and I can tell she wants me to carry the conversation for a while. “What's going on with your friend Eric? Have you seen him play in any basketball games yet?”

“Actually, his first game's tonight,” I reply.

“How exciting!”

“I guess,” I say, pulling two chairs around from the back of the room so Isabelle and I can both sit down. “But things have gotten a little weird between Eric and me, so I'm not really sure I should go. I don't want to be a distraction or anything.”

“Hmm,” she replies. “That sounds like utter nonsense to me, what do you think, Frank?”

Mr. Sands doesn't make a sound, but he closes his eyes, which we both take as assent.

“Yeah, but see we . . .” I'm too self-conscious to explain what happened in Eric's room the other night.

“Wait! Wait! Don't tell me. Did you do this?” Isabelle asks, leaning over Mr. Sands and kissing him lightly on the lips.

When I nod, she giggles. My mortification is now complete.

“I had a feeling that would get Frank's attention,” she says. “Okay, so what happened after that?”

“Well, Eric wanted to talk about it when I saw him in school. But I said if we just pretended like the whole thing never happened, we could just go back to the way things were.”

“You didn't really say that, did you?” Isabelle replies with a laugh.

“Why, was that bad?”

“No,” she says at first, then quickly adds, “Actually, yes. Well, it just sounds like something I would have said myself,” Isabelle replies. “But that thing you're trying to avoid by burying your head in the sand? It'll sit right next to you, waiting for you to come up to take a breath. And when you do, you'll realize it's only gotten bigger and won't leave your side until you deal with it.”

As Isabelle Sands says this, I keep my eyes on her husband lying there next to her. I can't help thinking about his request for “help.” If he asked Isabelle, how did she react? What did she say? Did she think his life wasn't hers to take away? Did she worry she'd be charged with murder? Or maybe Mr. Sands couldn't bring himself to ask his wife . . .

Looking at Mr. Sands, present but silent, here but not here, it's impossible to ignore what's happening to him now: the thing he most feared.

“Nothing exactly feels normal anymore,” I confess. “I'm trying my hardest to make things seem fine, but there's all this stuff hanging in the air.”

Isabelle nods. “Do you know what Eric's thinking about all this?”

“Not really. I mean, he might even be interested in this other girl at school—or a couple of other girls at school—but I'm not sure.”

Isabelle pats my hand. “Well then, aren't you lucky this happened between you and your best friend and not just some random fellow you met on the bus?”

“Lucky? Lucky how? If this had happened between me and some random guy, I wouldn't care. But because it's Eric, I do care. I
really
care.”

“Well, there you have it.” She smiles. “You ‘
really'
care for him. Seems to me that's the best foundation for a relationship you can have, no? If I've learned anything from my years with Frank it's that relationships are hard. Isn't that right, honey?” Isabelle strokes Frank's arm, and we both watch him breathe for a moment. “Life just has a way of throwing all sorts of curveballs. But if you truly care about the well-being of the other person, eventually you'll find the way to do right by them.” Isabelle adds softly, “I hope we're doing right by Frank here.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “I hope so . . . You think there's any way to know that for sure?”

Isabelle exhales and I look away from her, wondering if she's thinking about the same thing I am—whether it's doing right to allow someone to languish.

I find Lolly sprawled out on her bedroom floor when I get home later that afternoon. I'd been so much in my own head today, I hadn't given any thought to the fact I hadn't seen her at school. Though it isn't uncommon for us to pass each other in the halls without speaking, it is weird not to see her at all . . . which makes me wonder if she was there . . . which makes me wonder if hiding out is a Manning family trait. “Hey, everything okay?” I ask as I pass by her door.

“Not really,” she replies. “You want to come in for a minute?”

“Yeah, okay, sure.” I walk in and awkwardly stand over my sister for a moment, before I realize I should probably join her on the floor. I flop down and cross my legs, yet still feel like I'm hovering above Lolly. She looks even smaller to me than she did yesterday.

“What's wrong with them, Grace? Why are all guys so screwed up?”

The question catches me off guard. I'd been so focused on other things, it takes a moment for me to change the mental channel. “Um, I'm not sure
all
guys are screwed up,” I reply, trying to return to her wavelength. “Just most of the ones we seem to know.”

“I don't understand why he had to be
such
an ass, though, you know? I mean, the way he played both me and Natalie? He's such a jerk. Is she really upset too?”

Now is not the time to tell Lolly that Jake didn't play Natalie, it was more like the other way around. “I think she's just disgusted by him.”

“You were right. I know you've always had this thing about him, but before now I just thought it was because you were jealous.”

“Jealous of Jake?” I'd never given that idea any thought, but now that she mentions it, maybe I was. As soon as he came into the picture, it seemed like all of her energy was taken up by him. I guess I
was
jealous.

“No, jealous of me!” She laughs. “I thought you had a crush on him.”

“Ha! Uh, no, Lolly, that was never an issue.”

“Well, okay I see that now.” She rolls her eyes. “You always knew he was a jerk, didn't you?”

I nod. “I could see how you would think he was cute, though.”

“He is cute, right?”

“I actually meant that in the ‘some people think giant ferrets are cute and I don't understand that either' type of way, but I get that everyone has her own taste—weird as it may be. But thinking he'd be a good boyfriend? No, that never crossed my mind. You were always too good for him.”