God is in the Pancakes (19 page)

When we get home, I grab the tube of slice and bake cookies from the freezer and go to my room. I push up on the raw dough and squeeze it out like toothpaste on my index finger as I lie on top of my bed and stare at the ceiling.
“Any thoughts?”

No response.

“I know. I know. I didn't deal and now I may have permanently screwed things up with Eric. And by holding my breath for Mr. Sands—hoping for a miracle instead of doing something—I may be adding to his pain. But if I help him to die, will I be able to live with myself? Or is that something I'd regret doing as long as
I
live?”

Ultimately the big question seems to be this: What do you do when you realize “hoping for the best” is a losing strategy?

A
s I'm getting dressed for school I think about Lolly's advice, and instead of putting on a T-shirt and sweats, I take the nice black V-neck sweater that I got for Christmas—a cashmere blend, as Mom repeated several times—out of my drawer and pair it with my best-fitting jeans. I still might not be a fashion plate, but it's a better look than normal.

Eric's standing by his locker when I get to school, so I walk over as he finishes talking with guy next to him.

“Hey,” I say, “hope you're still getting props on your performance last night.”

“What?” Eric replies, distracted.

“The game? Your three-pointer? Don't tell me you're so cool that you've already forgotten it?”

“Oh, yeah, no. I mean thanks,” he says. “I just don't want people thinking it was such a big deal because I don't want them to think I'm always going to be able to pull off a shot like that.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “That'd be the worst. People constantly talking about how good you are and the great expectations they have for you.”

Eric smiles. “I just hope it wasn't a fluke.”

“Of course it wasn't a fluke!” I say, leaning against a locker. “You're really good and I'm sorry, but you're just going to have to live with that fact.”

“Thanks,” Eric replies, but from the jumpiness of his eyes and the fact that he won't seem to hold my gaze, I get the feeling that there's more here. That something else is going on.

“Okay, what's with your face?”

“What do you mean?” Eric runs his hand over his jaw.

“I mean I can see something's bouncing around in that head of yours.”

“Un-uh,” he replies.

“I know that look, and I've known you too long for you to deny it.”

Eric runs his left hand under his nose a few times.

“And there's your tell,” I say.

“What?”

“Mr. Sands taught me that when people are trying to bluff at poker, they almost always give some sort of sign that they're doing it. It's unconscious, of course, but almost everyone has one. It's as if we're not really programmed to lie, so our conscience betrays us. That nose wipe is your tell. You did it right after you denied something was up. So why don't you just tell me what you're trying to hide and it'll save both of us a lot of time.”

“Okay.” Eric shakes his head, knowing he's busted. “Well, as I was leaving the gym last night, Natalie was driving by in the parking lot and offered to give me a ride home.”

“Well, that's weird. I mean, she knew your parents were there.”

“Yeah, I know, we were even walking to our car together when she stopped. But my dad had left something at the office and needed to stop downtown first, so he kind of encouraged me to go with her,” he says quickly, making eye contact and then looking away.

“Okay . . .” I feel the knots in my stomach start to tighten.

“Anyway,” Eric continues, “we're driving and she's just talking about the game and stupid school stuff, and the whole time I'm wondering what's going on. Why is Natalie Talbot giving me a ride a home? And then I remember that conversation we had in the cafeteria when she said that weird thing about how you weren't the only one talking about me. What did you say to her, Grace?”

“I didn't say anything, really,” I say, “just might have told her you thought she was pretty or something. So what happened?”

“Well, so when we pull into my driveway, she just puts the car in park, like she's not going anywhere for a while. Then she starts saying all this stuff about how nobody really understands her, how people seemed to have this image of her that isn't who she is.”

“She didn't try the whole ‘no one thinks I'm pretty thing' did she?” When Eric nods, I swallow hard. “Well, what did you do? Did you tell her it wasn't true? Wait, wait! Did you reassure her that you think she's ‘the prettiest girl in school.' What was it? Or ‘the prettiest girl in school. By. Far.' ”

“Not exactly those words, no. But I told her I thought she was cute, yeah.” Eric shifts on his feet. “Then she goes, ‘Prove it.' ”

“Uhm, what?” I crook my leg and put my foot against the locker wanting to look like I'm coolly handling the news. Which I'm not. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. I didn't do anything,” he says, and I feel my body relax. “The whole thing seemed so bizarre, I was half convinced the guys on the team had set it up and there was some sort of video camera running. I mean especially when she leaned over and . . . ” He trails off and shrugs.

“And what?
What?
What does that mean?”

“Grace, I don't think we should be talking about this.”

“You can tell me,” I say, needing to know
and what.
“You're the one who likes to talk, right?”

Eric looks profoundly uncomfortable. “She started kissing me and stuff, okay?”

“And did you kiss her ‘and stuff ' back?” I stare at him, but Eric looks to the ground.

“Grace, what do you want me to say?”

“Natalie Talbot. Well, good for you,” I reply, shaking my head and turning away, yet again unable to express my true thoughts.

 

I don't want to be alone this afternoon. If I am, I know I won't be able to get the image of Eric kissing Natalie out of my head. So I head to Hanover House even though it's not my assigned day. I go directly to Mr. Sands's room, hoping I'll find Isabelle there too, so I can just listen to her tell more stories about their relationship. But Isabelle isn't in Mr. Sands's room when I get there after school, and when I walk in, I see that he's hooked to another machine now, a tube running into his mouth.

“Hi, Mr. Sands, it's Grace,” I say, approaching him like I've done so many times in the past.

His eyes flutter open and he blinks at me several times.

“Well, thank you for noticing. I
do
look nice today, don't I?” I smile. “Dressed up just for you.”

Mr. Sands winks with his left eye. Despite what he's going through I'm pretty sure that he's calling me out on the lie. Just like he's done so many times in the past.

“Okay, so maybe it wasn't
entirely
for you that I put on pants that buttoned,” I say. “But you seem to be the only one who appreciates it.”

“Good afta-noon, Mr. Frank,” Nurse Victoria says, charging into the room, pulling a cart loaded with medical devices behind her. “Grace,” she says with a nod in my direction. “I hafta take some blood, check your pressure, and oh, ya drooling again! Well, let's take care of that first.” Victoria pulls a small device off the cart, holds the base of the unit in her left hand and its straw-like tube in her right. She inserts the tube in Mr. Sands's mouth and the unmistakable dentist's office sound of a gurgling saliva vacuum fills the air. “Can ya cough for me, Mr. Frank?” He does his best, but even this natural reflex seems like a challenge. “That's fine,” she says, “just want ta make sure we're getting as much of that phlegm as we can.”

“Should I go?” I ask Victoria, hoping she'll excuse me from observing the rest of their routine.

“No, ya don't need ta.” She puts the suction machine back on the cart and takes a washcloth to Mr. Sands's face to mop the drool that had previously escaped. “Won't be here too much longer. Just need to measure tha sugar.” Victoria lifts Mr. Sands's left hand and pricks his middle finger to draw a drop of blood. “And how's the other hand feeling today?” she asks, lifting his right arm from the bed. There's a practiced swiftness to her actions, which makes Victoria's sudden but perceptible reaction to the condition of his right hand all the more surprising.

I look from Victoria to Mr. Sands's hand, now seeing what she does: Mr. Sands's fingers have curled into a claw. Gently, Victoria tries to move the fingers apart, but from the moan Mr. Sands manages to emit, it's clear this is a painful procedure.

“Okay, Mr. Frank,” she says compassionately, resting the hand back down on the bed. “I'm sorry about that. I'm not trying to hurt ya. Just trying to see what we're dealing with here. Now I'm gonna have a look at those nice legs of yours.” Victoria smiles at him as she lifts the sheet covering Mr. Sands's legs, and I consider looking away to give some semblance of privacy, but I can't after glimpsing what look like legs that seem to belong to two different people. The left is substantially bigger than the right, swollen I suppose, and the color is different too. The upper thigh of his left leg is also much redder than its mate. Victoria nods. “I'm going to ask Dr. Baker to come by,” she says, trying not to sound troubled by what we both see. “I think he should have a look at this.” Victoria puts her hand on my shoulder, then gathers her equipment back on the cart and walks out, leaving us alone again.

Mr. Sands blinks rapidly several times, but I can't decipher the code. What I can read though is his look of discomfort; his
dis-ease
. It's the look of a man forced to endure his worst fear.

I sit against the side of his bed since it seems like it'll be easier to “talk” to him at closer range.

It isn't.

“This is hard, isn't it?”

Mr. Sands closes his eyes for a long second, then opens them, effectively communicating the words: “No shit, Sherlock.”

I break his stare and look out the window, not wanting to see him when I ask the next question: “It's going to get worse still, isn't it?”

Mr. Sands takes an exaggerated breath, reminding me that in the last stages of this disease, you can't even breathe—the most basic life function—on your own either. I think Mr. Sands would turn away from me now if he could, because that's when he starts crying. It seems the tears rolling down his cheeks are the only part of his body that can flow so easily.

My eyes well and I wipe off my face with the back of my sleeve, knowing how much he's suffering.

“Mr. Sands, do you still want . . .” I can't quite get it out.

Mr. Sands blinks slowly, then he blinks again. Summoning what's probably the last reserve of his strength, he moves his body a bit on the bed.

“That's a yes? Just blink once if that's a yes.”

Mr. Sands blinks once, then stares into my eyes.

That's the signal, the clear sign that tells me I need to do right for my friend. Before my head can even process what my gut and heart already know, I'm in motion. No one will know it was me. I walk to the nightstand and reach far back into the drawer where I'd left my report card envelope containing his pills. No one will suspect the fifteen-year-old candy striper. Then I take the envelope out of the drawer and stick it in the back pocket of my jeans. It will all seem natural.

“I'll be back,” I say. “I'll help you.”