God is in the Pancakes (21 page)

I take the cup and bring it to Mr. Sands's lips and pour the remaining solution down his throat. Then I take the sleeve of my shirt and rub it against his mouth, drying off his face and chest as best as I can.

I can't say it. I don't want to say good-bye. So I just turn away from him, grab my book bag, and rush for the door. I look left then right to make sure the nurse is still in the other room before I move. When I'm convinced it's all clear, I run down the hallway for the side door and slip out of the building. As soon as I'm outside, I pick up my bike, jump on it, and start sprinting. I pedal until the cramps in my calves force me to stop. And then I crumple at the waist, my elbows giving out and my chest dropping to the handlebars. I gasp for breath. As the cramps in my legs stop throbbing, the full force of what I've done slams into me and registers throughout my entire body: He's dying right now because of me.

I get off my bike and walk it the rest of the way home. When I finally get back to the house I unlock the door, numbly walk up the stairs, and collapse on my bed. I close my eyes but instead of darkness, I can only see Mr. Sands drifting out of consciousness.

W
hen the alarm goes off the next morning, it feels like I've been asleep for less than a minute. I drag myself into the shower and then make the water as hot as possible. I try to feel something other than numb. I lift my chin in the direction of the showerhead, letting the steaming water beat down on my face. I don't know how long I stand there, but the only thing that makes me move is the banging on the bathroom door, and a shout informing me I need to vacate the premises. I towel off and keep my eyes down as I exit the bathroom, not yet ready to face Lolly or Mom. Not yet ready to face the day.

I dress quickly, go downstairs, and pour out a bowl of cereal, then stare into the bowl and start holding down the Corn Pops in the milk with my spoon. They resurface one by one.

A wave of nausea hits me. I dump the rest of my cereal in the sink and wash the bowl as the next horrible thought hits me.

I have to get out of here. I don't know where to go, but I need to outpace the thoughts in my head. Big Blue lies in the yard where I left it last night, but I don't think I'm steady enough to ride the bike this morning. Instead, I just start walking. I don't usually chew gum before 9:00 a.m., but I'd probably grind my teeth or gnaw through my cheek without it right now, so I put my hand in the side pocket of my bag to hunt for my pack.

As I slide my hand deeper into the pocket, I feel the blood drain from my face; the envelope containing my report card isn't in there. The envelope in which I'd kept Mr. Sands's pills. The envelope—with my name printed in full and no doubt some of the remaining semi-crushed pills that I'd used to “help” my friend—is missing.

“Wait, stop,” I say aloud as if to reassure myself. I just must have missed it—it must be here. I stop dead in my tracks to look in the pocket, then burrow both hands deeper into the bag.

But it's not.

The envelope is not there.

I begin searching the main compartment more spastically now. The envelope isn't in there either. Okay, it must be here. It's gotta be here. I turn the bag inside out, dumping all the contents onto the ground—books, pens, papers, the mini-sock change purse where I keep all my cash, the small jug of gourmet syrup that I didn't even have time to give Mr. Sands.

Holy. Shit. It's not there. I must have left it in his room last night.

I scoop up everything from the ground and throw it back in my bag, starting to breathe very heavily as I jog-walk farther away from my house. I'd been worried about facing Isabelle, but now I have a new worry: facing criminal charges.

I have to get over to Hanover House to find that envelope before anyone else does. Thankfully Patty's not at the front desk when I arrive, just some woman I know only by sight. She nods hello.

“I forgot a book here yesterday!” I say as nonchalantly as possible, which is not at all nonchalant. I am sweating. I walk down the hallway toward the constant care ward and nod at the nurses on duty. “Left a book.” I head straight for the room of Mr. Sands. But, oh god. There are two orderlies near his door. I walk past the room, trying to steal a peek inside and since I don't see the feet poking underneath the blanket on his bed, I double-back to look in again.

Mr. Sands isn't there. The room is empty. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. I guess I wasn't really expecting him to be gone because it doesn't seem real and it doesn't seem possible that he could just vanish. That this man, this life force, could just cease to exist in some form . . . and that I'm responsible for vanishing him.

“Excuse me,” I say to the male orderly. “Was Mr. Sands taken for some tests or something?”

“Oh, you mean the guy who was in this room?” he asks.

I nod. “Uh-huh, Frank Sands?”

“Yeah, he passed.”

“What?”

“He died,” he says, as if I need the translation.

“When?” I ask, needing to know the precise details of what happened after I left.

He shrugs his shoulders. Then the female orderly, who's holding a trash can and wearing a pair of rubber gloves, nods. “You mean the guy in here? I heard he passed in his sleep,” she says. “I overheard the nurses talking about it. They were pretty upset. His wife found him early this morning before they'd come to do their rounds.”

“Oh, no.” I clasp my hand to my mouth. Hearing this description of the inevitable adds a whole new reality: He'll never smile again. Never crack a joke again. He'll never be able to say good-bye to his family. He's just gone. And it's because I helped him leave.

The man puts his hand on my shoulder. “He's in a better place,” he tells me. As if
this
piece of information will calm me. “You know, he went quiet, in his sleep, like everyone wants to go.”

“Do they know . . . do they know what caused it?” I ask.

“I don't know,” he says, looking over to the woman, but she shakes her head.

“I think he was real sick, so . . .” she says.

I drift into the room, still hoping that Mr. Sands will be there, that there will be some trace of him. The two orderlies follow me. But Mr. Sands really isn't here. And neither is the envelope. “Where did they take him?” I ask.

“Funeral home came around this morning,” the woman says. “I think they keep that place on speed dial over here.” She cracks a smile and the man laughs, covering his mouth.

“You looking for something?” he then asks, noticing that I'm
not so nonchalantly
scanning the room.

How am I supposed to respond? Is it really smart or fantastically stupid to ask if they'd found an envelope of crushed-up pill dust in the room of a dead man? It's a question Eric could help me with, but that would mean confessing—and possibly making him an accessory to the crime.
If
it's a crime. And maybe it's not even,
maybe
it's euthanasia. But is that considered better or worse than assisted suicide? Or are they the same thing?

I'd been so sure that I'd never be suspected that it never occurred to me that I could be caught! Suddenly all of the legal questions I should have asked myself before I made the decision to help Mr. Sands—all of the things that would have been important to think about when I was focused on stopping his suffering—now attack my brain.

“Um, well actually I can't find the envelope with my report card in it, and I thought I might have left it there when I was in his room yesterday.” I nod.

“And you probably need to get that signed by your mom, right?” the woman asks, now with a note of sympathy in her voice. “Well, when someone passes, they try to get the room cleared as quick as possible so it don't upset the other residents. Night crew might still have been on duty, so you should ask Miro, the head of sanitation.”

What I should do is get out of here before my head explodes. “Okay, thanks,” I say. I need to see Isabelle, but I can't bring myself to do it.

Not now.

Not yet.

But as I leave Hanover House and head to school, I take out my phone and start dialing her number. I'm not sure what I'm going to say, not even sure that I won't hang up as soon as she answers.

“Hello?” says a female voice I don't recognize.

“Is Isabelle there?”

“She's resting now,” the voice replies curtly.

“Well, do you know when she might be up?”

“No, she's been given some medication to help her sleep. She's had a very difficult morning.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I know.”

“Would you like to leave a message?”

I have to think about this for a moment. “Yes, please. Thank you. Could you just tell her that Grace called and I'm sorry about . . .” My voice catches and I can't finish the sentence.

“Of course, dear,” the voice says, softening. “It's very nice of you to call.”

The image of Mr. and Mrs. Sands in that wedding photo floats through my mind—that, combined with the idea that I'm responsible for taking Isabelle's husband away from her . . .

I spend the entire day at school in a fog. Nothing registers and nothing seems quite real. I don't speak a word to anyone. I have two classes with Eric today, but I'm careful to avoid his glance and I skip lunch, spending the period in the girls' room instead. Hidden in a stall, I examine my hands, the knuckles, the fingers, the palms: the hands that did the deed. When I look up, I don't bother asking if what I did was right or wrong. It's too late for that one now. I simply ask “
What next?”

No response.

When the school day ends, I can't stay away. I have to see Isabelle. I'm scheduled to work at Hanover House this afternoon, but I don't bother checking in at the Activities Office; instead I head straight back to the Sandses' cottage. The door is open behind the screen, so I knock, then enter.

“Hello?” I say, not seeing her. “Isabelle?” I move through the house, as if on a mission. And then I see her. She's in her bedroom, lying flat out over the white eyelet bedspread, her arms folded over her chest, and for a moment, I'm convinced she's dead too. She decided living life without her husband wasn't worth it. She couldn't go on. Her heart literally broke. And it was my fault.

My heart catches in my chest and I gasp. Isabelle's eyes open and she looks at me hovering. “Grace,” she says, her lips turned down, her wide-set brown eyes rimmed with red. “You heard about Frank?”

I nod.

“He passed away peacefully in his sleep this morning.” She sits up, rubs her eyes, then reaches out for me to take her hand. “That's what he said he always wanted. ‘Izzy, I just want to fall asleep and not wake up,' he'd say. ‘You may not get to cheat death, but at least you get to cheat the alarm clock!' ” She laughs a little at this. “That was my Frank.”

When she says this, I hear myself exhale. “Well, I'm glad he went the way he wanted.”

Isabelle shakes her head. “This is what he wanted, but it's not what I wanted. It's all my fault.”

“That's not true,” I say quickly, but she doesn't react. We sit there for another moment and I stare at my hand in hers. The hand that turned her life upside down.

“Oh, Grace, what am I going to do now?” Isabelle asks, fresh tears springing to her eyes.

“Um.” I shake my head, incapable of saying anything more helpful or profound because of the plum-sized lump rising in my throat. I need to tell her what I did, but I now feel so guilty about what my actions have done to
her
, I can't get it out. I feel like I'm suffocating.

“That's okay.” She rubs my hand and smiles a bit. “I don't have any idea either. But I'm sure my daughters will have some opinions on the subject.” Isabelle rolls her eyes, then looks skyward. “Sarah will be back here shortly and Jill, my younger daughter, is making her way back from Paris and should be in over the weekend.”

“Well,” I say, drawing back a sob, “that should be nice, to be surrounded by family.”

“Just between us,” Isabelle replies, lowering her voice, “I'm sort of dreading it.”

“You are?”

“It's just that it will make all of this very real. Very final, you know?” Isabelle closes her eyes and exhales. After a few moments of silence, she looks back to me. “I just keep expecting Frank to walk through the front door like he used to do, day in and day out. Isn't that ridiculous?”

“No, it's not.” I shake my head. “But maybe that's why it'll be good to have your daughters with you.”

Isabelle takes a moment, then she stands up and smoothes down her skirt. “I'm sorry, Grace, can I get you something to drink?”

“Oh, uh, I don't want to put you to any trouble.”

“I think I'm going to have a little whiskey, myself,” she says. “I know it's not yet five p.m., but I don't really care.” Isabelle walks to the kitchen and I follow behind her.

She takes the bottle of Jack Daniels from the cabinet and then takes down two glass tumblers. She starts pouring the dark orangey-gold liquid into one of the glasses and fills it halfway. “Would you like some?”

“I'm not really sure if I should.”

“Well, of course you shouldn't, but that's not what I asked you,” Isabelle says. “You do want some, don't you?”