God is in the Pancakes (20 page)

I pull ingredients from the refrigerator and kitchen shelves in a frenzy: flour, sugar, eggs, milk, salt, and baking powder. But as I'm putting my hands on an old jug of pancake syrup that we'd ordered from a special online gourmet shop, I flash to images of Mr. Sands's dinner trays. Over the course of the last few weeks, the food on those trays went from “solids” (chicken, pasta, fish) to “softs” (mashed potatoes, smashed peas, beef purees) to “shakes” (cans of high protein and nutrient-rich glop). And a terrible thought occurs to me: Mr. Sands probably won't be able to chew the pancake if I make it for him.

I push the chair back under the kitchen table and start mulling this when Lolly walks in, her cardigan ridiculously misbuttoned. Even with all the other things on my mind, I can't help but laugh. “Please tell me you went through school like that,” I say, and nod my head in the direction of the button fiasco.

“What?” Oblivious, Lolly glances down, “Oh, shit. Glad Mom didn't catch me looking like this!”

“Does that mean you were with Jake?”

“Don't make a big deal of this, Grace,” she says.

“Which means what?”

“Look.” Lolly lowers her voice and comes over to the kitchen table. “Jake and I talked after school and he told me what a huge mistake he'd made by breaking up with me. He told me how sorry he was and he asked me if I could forgive him. He was really upset. I mean, how could I say no?”

“By saying no.” I'm trying to hold back from telling her that the only reason he came crawling back was because Natalie dumped him—for Eric. “I don't get it, Lol. You're forgiving him just because he asked you? You know you don't have to do everything people ask because it makes
them
feel better.” When I make a sweeping motion with my hand, it accidentally knocks the bag of flour and a puff of white powder is released in the air. As I watch the particles fall, I realize what I've just said and wonder what circle of hell is reserved for hypocrites.

“Oh, like you've never done anything wrong? Like you've never needed to be forgiven anything because you're perfect. Right, Grace?”

“No, that's not what I mean,” I say softly, looking around at the ingredients I've gathered.

“Seriously, what gives
you
the right to judge me?” Lolly's words stick in my chest. She shakes her head at me, grabs a Diet Coke from the fridge, and walks out of the kitchen.

Of course I have no right to judge her, and the crazy thing is, I also know on some level,
the words
Lolly said made some sense: People do screw up. They constantly fall for all sorts of scams and plots, they act only according to their own best interest (often at the expense of others). They make mistakes big and small—sometimes even when they think they're doing right. And it
would
be terrible to think that we can't be forgiven for our errors.

I start thinking about that story on the news a long time ago. There had been this convict in Atlanta who escaped from a courthouse and went on a killing spree, terrorizing people in the city for a few days. He finally wound up taking this woman hostage, and randomly she turned out to be someone who'd had some encounters with the law herself. She'd had a drug problem, the father of her child had been stabbed to death in a bar brawl, and she'd been in mental institutions repeatedly. Anyway, when the fugitive guy started talking to this woman, whom he'd tied up on her bed with an extension cord, she starts telling him about her life. And she tells him that she's been trying to find the purpose in her life through God. She even starts reading to him from this book about God, and she later said that her reading helped calm him down. The woman actually manages to convince this cold-blooded killer to surrender. She's a hero, no question about it, even if the details of her life to that point never would have indicated it.

But the most interesting part of this story for me only came out a few months later, when the book she's written about the drama is about to be released. She admits then that this felon guy had asked her if she had any marijuana and she said no, because she didn't. What she did have, though—and what she gave to him—was crystal meth. Now whether you believe it was actually the meth that ultimately calmed this guy down and made him docile enough to surrender to the police, or whether it was, in fact, that she spoke to him about God's plan—well, I think that probably depends on how you were raised. But to me, it really doesn't matter. She had those drugs, which would have made her technically a sinner both in the eyes of the church and in the eyes of the law. But it's just possible that it was
only
because she had those drugs—only because she really was a “sinner” herself—that she was able to get through to this guy.

I like the story because it proves it's not just perfect people who do good, heroic things. Heroism is a choice. It's about making a hard decision—often without regard to how it'll affect you personally—and then following through on it. Being heroic means you don't take the easy way out; you take action because you know in your heart it's the right thing to do. And I don't know if I'll ever be in a position where I'll need to be heroic like that woman was, but it's nice to know that I haven't been disqualified yet. It's nice to know that I could. That I can.

They lock the front door at Hanover House at 9:00 p.m., but from the time Mr. Sands and I stole out on our little adventure, I know about the side entrance. I also know the nurses tend to keep it unlocked so they can sneak in and out for smoke breaks. I wait until just past 11:00 to head back to Hanover House, putting the envelope of pills, the small jug of syrup, and a spoon in my book bag. I know I'm going to have to dissolve the pills in water and have him drink the bitter cocktail, but if Mr. Sands can't go out eating cake as he wanted, at least he can have the sweet taste of syrup on his tongue.

I ride down the near-empty streets and ditch my bike near the door, not bothering to lock it. I don't want to risk being seen stashing it on the bike rack up front.

I can't get caught,
I repeat to myself partially as a mantra and partially as a warning.
I can't get caught.

Just as I assumed, when I try the side door handle it opens, and I walk down the corridor of the most gravely ill patients. A strong smell of antiseptic from the nightly cleaning crew's work stings my nose, and I'm aware of the dull sounds of machines beeping and whirring in the background. I usually don't hear them during the daytime when the area's full of people. I look at the names of the residents on these doors. They're written with Sharpies on pieces of white medical tape—just rip the tape off and the room's ready for its next victim. It's like they're not even bothering to pretend these people will be here next week.

The hallway is empty and I slip into Mr. Sands's room.

“Mr. Sands,” I say in a low whisper. “Mr. Sands,” I say again, leaning hard against his arm to rouse him. He stirs, and his eyelids flutter. “I'm here.” His eyes close again. “You told me you were ready,” I whisper. “This
is
what you want, right?”

He doesn't say no.

He doesn't say yes.

He lies there, no longer the man who always had the answers to my questions. Now he can't even answer the most basic one. I feel sick to my stomach.
Will this even work? . . . Worse: What if it does?

I take the envelope of pills out of my book bag and put it down on the windowsill before crushing my palm into it, breaking the pills into littler pieces. It might be more effective if I just stepped on the envelope and crunched the pills with my foot, but that seems disrespectful. As I'm crushing the contents of the envelope, I see a photo taped to the guardrail on his bed that I'd never noticed before. It's a wallet-sized wedding photo of Isabelle and him. He's in a white dinner jacket and black bow tie. She's in a long, column-like white gown, the train bustled at her feet. They're looking into each other's eyes promising till death do them part, but in this picture they are immortal.

I can't do this. I can't kill Mr. Sands. Isabelle's husband. My friend.

I can't help him die. Even if he wants to.

How would I live with myself? How would I live with the guilt?

I look from the picture back to the bed. But the man in the bed is not the same man as the one in the picture. And the man in the picture wouldn't recognize himself either. The man frozen in the picture would say the man frozen on the bed has no quality of life.

There's a pitcher of water at the end of the bed and two plastic cups stacked next to it, the kind they serve you juice in when you're in kindergarten. As I eyeball the cups, a geometry problem suddenly occurs to me—an actual real problem concerning volume. I can see the cups are not big enough to hold the water it'll take to dissolve the pills.

I need to get a bigger cup, but where am I going to get it? I could go to the cafeteria . . . but if I did that, there's a chance someone might see me. It's just too risky to get caught on the premises now because Mr. Sands was right, no one will have any reason to suspect my involvement unless I do something boneheaded like being seen here—after hours, near his room—the night he dies. Maybe I could use only half of the pills . . . but what if that's not enough to do the job? I couldn't bear the idea of having to come back and do this again . . . or leaving him even worse off than he is now. Which leaves me with the only other possibility: I'm going to have to use both of the cups. I'm going to have to do this twice.

I fill up one of the cups three-quarters full of water, then start shaking the pill dust into it. I swirl the liquid around and watch as some of the pill crystals absorb into the water, and the rest fall to the bottom of the cup. I move the cup toward Mr. Sands's mouth and put it up to his lips, pushing aside the vent tube in his mouth. I tilt the cup back, half expecting his eyes to snap open as the liquid drains down his throat. But this doesn't happen. Though something equally unexpected does: The solution starts dribbling down his chin and onto his hospital gown.

“Shit!” I say too loudly.

What if someone walks in here right now?
He'll have a big wet spot on the front of his gown, and I'll be holding a plastic cup of liquid death.

My actions will kill him.

What I'm doing is illegal. I know this. I don't realize my hands are shaking, though, until I see the solution splashing around in the cup. I feel my stomach turn sour and I get that familiar, disturbing metallic taste in my mouth.
Don't throw up, don't throw up!
I'm beginning to lose my nerve, and then I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. I quickly put the cup back to his mouth to pour more in, but this time I lift his head off the pillow, letting it fall back against my hand in a gesture I hope will better open his throat. Most of the water goes down this time, but even after I pour down the contents, I know I have to do it all again.

Tears make everything blurry. More blurry.
What am I doing?

I put the plastic cup down on the rolling cart where the pitcher sits and use the back of my other sleeve to wipe my face. I look at Mr. Sands lying there and then I glance at the photo of him, Isabelle, and their daughters that sits on the stand next to the bed. “This is what he wants,” I whisper, as much to myself as to them. Then I turn away from the picture so I don't have to see Isabelle's face.

The voice of a woman in the hall comes closer and I can hear part of a conversation. It keeps getting louder and clearer. I duck down by the side of the bed, taking the rest of the pill dust and placing it at the bottom of the cup. Then I reach up to get the pitcher and pour in the water, again swirling it around to make sure as much of it dissolves as possible. I wait until the voice recedes. Whoever it was was probably just chatting on the phone, heading for the exit. But I wait another thirty seconds just to be safe. Before giving the cup to Mr. Sands, I search his face for a reason to stop. “Mr. Sands,” I whisper. “Mr. Sands.” I take his hand. “Oh my god,” I exhale and blink away more tears. “You're supposed to be the one who stays.” My tears catch in my voice. I give his hand a squeeze, then set it back down on the bed, and as I do, the voice in the hallway returns.

“Yeah, I'm comin', I'm comin',” the voice says to someone at the other end of the hallway. “Just need to check vitals in rooms three twenty and three twenty-two.”

I have the sick certain feeling that woman will be walking into this room at any moment: My stomach drops to my knees and I know I have to get out of here. But first, I have to finish what I came here to do.