God is in the Pancakes (22 page)

I can tell she wants me to have this drink with her. I've tried alcohol before, but I never really liked it. I don't want her to have to have this drink alone, though, so I nod.

“Yeah, okay, thanks,” I say, taking the glass that she's already poured for me. I wait until she pours one for herself to lift it up to my lips.

“To better days,” Isabelle toasts, taking a swallow.

The smell penetrates my nose before the stinging liquid hits my tongue and starts burning down my esophagus. I cough a little. I didn't expect the drink to be nearly as powerful as it is. It's what I imagine lighter fluid would taste like. “Strong,” I say.

This makes Isabelle laugh. “Strong indeed.” She smiles. “You do get used to it, but it always remains blessedly strong.”

“Does it ever start tasting better?” I hesitantly put my nose back toward the cup.

“Just tastes strong to me,” she says. “And especially at times like these, I think that tastes good. Come on, let's get some cheese and crackers and sit in the living room like ladies, shall we?” She moves toward the refrigerator, but when her hands land on a wedge of white cheese flecked with blue veins, an idea comes to me.

“Actually, why don't I make us a little something?” I say, taking a few items out of the refrigerator.

“Sure, whatever you like.” Isabelle leans against the counter and swirls the drink in her hand, looking into the depths of her glass as if it contained an answer.

I find the rest of the things I need and grab a mixing bowl from beneath the sink. I don't bother looking for the measuring cups. I just estimate the ingredients as I add them together and start beating the mixture until I have the right consistency: smooth but for some character lumps.

“Do you have a griddle?”

Isabelle shakes her head and takes a swallow of her drink with a look that seems to convey terrible disappointment. “That's okay, really, it's no problem,” I reply, taking another quick swig from my cup and opening the cabinet under the range to find a frying pan. When I see one that's suitably large, I turn the burner to medium, then toss in a pat of butter to grease the pan. As it heats, the butter skates around the pan's surface, leaving behind a wet, whitish trail as it melts into oblivion. I lift up the handle and roll my wrist, speeding its fade.

I find a ladle in the utensil drawer and spoon out the batter into four good-sized dollops, then sneak a look back at Isabelle, who's standing there, staring blankly out the window. I glance out to see what she's looking at, but there's nothing there; she just looks inconsolably lonely. I take another sip of my drink, then turn my attention back to the pancakes and wait for the bubbles to appear. When Isabelle lets out a sigh behind me, it gives me the chills and I get the strangest feeling that the bubbles won't rise to the surface today. It almost seems like the atmosphere here's too heavy to support them, as if their lightness would be offensive.

But then all of a sudden and out of nowhere, one bubbles up.

And then another.

And then four more bubbles cluster at the edge of one of the pancakes. As each bursts into the world, unaffected by anything that's come before or will happen after, the bubbles take their privileged moments in time. I know what needs to be done now, so spatula in hand, I flip the pancakes before they burn. Isabelle looks over to me when she hears the spatula scrape the pan.

“Pancakes?” she asks.

“Comfort food,” I reply. “There's just something about pancakes that makes me feel better.”

“Then I'm glad you made them.” She raises her glass to me. “But I'm sorry, I don't think we have any syrup.”

The small jug of syrup is sitting in my bag, but there's no way in hell I can take it out now. “Really not a big deal,” I answer. “We don't need it.” When they're ready I turn off the burner and plate the pancakes. “Here you go, Isabelle,” I say, handing her two good-looking flap-jacks.

“Thank you, Grace, and my true friends call me Izzy, so you should, too.” She gathers the contents of our impromptu cocktail and pancake party and walks to the living room.

When we sit down, Isabelle leans back into the couch and puts her feet up on the coffee table. “I don't know what I'm going to do when my daughters get here,” she says, taking a forkful of pancake and closing her eyes. “Mmm, that is good, thank you.”

“What do you mean you don't know what you'll do?” I ask, lifting my fork and taking a bite. It's good, but it really
could
use a little syrup . . .

Isabelle takes another swallow of her drink and puckers her lips. “My daughters don't really like me.”

“That can't be true.”

“No, it is. I know it's true. There was never one big falling out, and yet, there's just this
thing
between us. This ugly gray cloud that just hangs there. I don't know where I went wrong with them,” she says with a shake of her head. She looks down into her glass and swirls the liquid before taking a sip.

“Well, did you ever think it's them—their fault—not yours?” I drink more, hoping to show I'm totally on her side. I want to do anything I can to make her feel better right now. “I mean, make them step up.”

“It's hard for a mother to do that, Grace. I'm the one who raised them after all, so somehow it all has to be my fault, doesn't it?”

“No,” I reply. “Un-uh.” Do I blame my mother for the relationship we have? . . . Okay, maybe that's a bad example.

Isabelle pauses, then takes another generous swallow of her whiskey. “Still, I always hoped—I'd always assumed—that things would eventually even out. That we'd all be okay with one another at some point. Now, with Frank's death, I can't even imagine what they'll think of me.” She raises her eyebrows and the lines on her forehead run together.

I rack my brain for something smart to say, but it's not like I've got any wisdom to offer, and I don't exactly have any insight from the relationship I have with my mother to give. So I just force down a big gulp of my drink, then slice off a hunk of the pancake. But before I put the fork to my mouth, I dunk it in the whiskey. Not bad.

“Now there's some ingenuity,” she replies with a smile, pouring more Jack Daniels into both of our glasses and then dunking a forkful of pancake into hers. “Yeah, that's nice. And you know what? I think it
is
making me feel better,” she says. “You know I can't recall when I had my first drink—I suppose I was about your age in high school—but it's amazing how quickly the time goes. I remember when I was younger, summer seemed to last forever. And a school year just went on and on.”

“No kidding,” I say, “and it's so weird because weekends will pass in the blink of an eye, but the school week drags like the rusty tailpipe off the back of a Chevy Impala.”

“I think that whiskey's making a poet out of you, Grace.” She laughs. “But you're right, we're taught to think of time as a constant, measured off in minutes, hours, and days. But it sure doesn't feel that way.” She takes another sizable swallow, and I, still following her lead, do the same. The warm feeling in my stomach is beginning to spread to my arms and legs and it feels good.

I wonder what my mother would have to say about this conversation if she were here. Until this talk with Izzy, I'd never thought things wouldn't get better with my mother either. I know we're at each other a lot and have all sorts of stupid fights, but I guess I just didn't think that would really continue. Or maybe it's more that I never really bothered thinking about us in the future.

“Mom,” a voice calls out, before the sound of a rapid knocking at the screen door.

“Speak of the devil,” Isabelle says softly, standing up. “Come on in, Sarah, I'm in the living room.”

“I should go, Izzy,” I say, liking the way her nickname sounds coming out of my mouth.

“No, please, Grace,” she replies, taking hold of my hand again. I'm a little startled by the gesture, and when I hesitate briefly she says, “I mean, only stay if you want to, but I'd like it if you did.”

There is no way I'm going to say no to this woman. So when the door opens and Sarah, the woman I'd seen before with Izzy in Mr. Sands's room, walks in, I just stand there and wait for Izzy to explain me.

“Hi?” Sarah says, nodding at me with a half smile as she walks over to Isabelle and gives her a hug.

“Sarah, this is Grace. I've asked her to stay with me for a little while,” Izzy replies to the unasked “Who is this kid and when is she leaving?” question.

“I'm so sorry about your father,” I say, my head shaking back and forth. I really want—
need—
Sarah to know how much Mr. Sands meant to me. “He was so great. I liked him so much.”

But these words don't seem enough. They can't even touch the relationship we had. They don't convey the strength of his presence in my life, and the fact that one of the things I liked most was that the steadiness didn't mean seriousness. Mr. Sands taught me that despite whatever drama was playing out, it was not only okay but
important
to find the humor in the situation, dark though it might be. And he reminded me to laugh because that's what gives life color.

“I gave him a Mohawk,” I add, nodding at Sarah.

“Oh, uh-huh,” she replies, turning away from me.

But Isabelle laughs, getting it. “And Dad sure liked her,” she says, smiling at me, then looking back to Sarah.

“Cole's right behind me.” Sarah angles her head toward the door. “He's just parking the car.”

“Oh, wonderful. Well, Grace and I were just having a little afternoon snack. Can I offer you something to drink?” Izzy asks, almost formally.

Sarah takes a look at the remnants of our snack. “Mom, is that whiskey?” She eyes my glass and looks at me.

“It is,” Izzy answers in a tone so blasé, it almost sounds like a reprimand. “Would you like a bit? It'll warm you right up.”

“No,” Sarah says, moving quickly to clear our tumblers and dumping them in the kitchen sink. Izzy raises her eyebrows at me and I shrug. Well, I really didn't want any more to drink anyway since I'm feeling a little wobbly, but that was
kind of
rude.

The door opens a moment later and I first see the silhouette of a muscular guy who's probably six feet tall. When I first see the shadow I imagine it's Mr. Sands in his younger days, coming through the door, back from work, just like Isabelle mentioned. But as the figure enters the room and walks toward Isabelle, I see that he's got dark floppy hair, big brown eyes, and is probably a year or so older than me. That must be the little kid from the picture! Boy, time does move quickly.

“Hi Grandma,” he says to Isabelle as he moves next to Sarah.

“Cole, come here and give me a hug,” Isabelle replies. Cole glances at his mother, who lifts her head as if to say “go.” As Cole walks toward Isabelle, she turns to me and says, “If he thinks he's going to get away without giving his grandmother a hug, he's got another thing coming!”

There's some awkward laughter during the uncomfortable embrace, and when Isabelle finally releases Cole, who immediately walks back over to his mom's side, she says, “Grace, this is my handsome grandson, Cole.”

“Hello, Handsome,” I reply, before I realize
that
isn't his name. . . . “I mean Cole! Cole, hi.” A blush fire of mortification burns through my cheeks.

“Hey,” he says with a laugh and a slight blush himself.

“Grace works here at Hanover House as a doctor or a candy striper, I can't remember which,” she says with a laugh.

Even though I
might
be a little bit tipsy, I can see Sarah staring at her mother, wondering if she's drunk. I'm actually beginning to wonder the same thing myself. But drunk or not, Isabelle does seem a little happier now than when I first came in, and if that's the effect of the alcohol, I'd gladly pour her another drink.

“Mom,” Sarah says in an authoritative voice, “I think we should go out and get you a dress now.”

“I don't need a new dress, but thank you, Sarah, that's very nice of you to offer,” she replies.

“No, Mom,” Sarah says, with an exhale implying she doesn't want to be doing this either. “I mean a dress for the funeral on Wednesday.”

It's not as if Isabelle hadn't been thinking of the upcoming funeral, but I think she had momentarily managed to put it out of her mind, so when Sarah says this, it's as if a cloud of sadness drops back over Izzy's face.

“Oh, right,” she replies, sitting back down on the couch. “Well, whatever you think is best.”

“I think we should go and do it now,” Sarah says. “If you'll excuse us, Grace, we'll need to leave to get to the stores before they close.”

I shoot Izzy a look, checking in to see if it's okay for me to leave, but she's staring at the floor now and seems to have retreated into her own thoughts. “Well, I should probably get back to the main house,” I say. “I'll see you later, Iz—Mrs. Sands.”

“Good-bye Grace,” she replies as she escorts me to the door, “and thank you for the pancakes and the company.” She takes my hand between hers and I can feel something press between us. “Promise me you'll use it on something that will give you a little happiness, okay? Because I know that would make Frank happy, and that would mean a lot to me.”

When I get outside, I look in my hand and I see it's a fifty-dollar bill that she's folded in fourths. Her kindness only makes me feel worse about what I've done, so I need to get rid of this money as quickly as I can. I go to the one place that's reliably given me comfort when I've been upset before, Milk Bar.