God is in the Pancakes (26 page)

“Hey, are you okay?”

That's the last thing I hear.

O
ne of the super-vivid memories I have of my dad is when I fell off a jungle gym after Little League practice years ago. Practice had just ended, and a bunch of us ran to the field's nearby monkey bars as we waited for some parents to arrive and for those who were already there to stop their jabbering and drive us home. I'd been hanging upside down, showing off for no one in particular, when I took that spectacular spill, hitting a hard patch of mud, splitting my lip and scraping most of the skin off my knee and chin. Dad hadn't been that far away, but his back was turned, and as I came crashing to the earth I can remember the sound of his laughter mixing with that of another mother's on the playground. It took a second for my brain to register what had happened, but as soon as it did, and the pain rocketed through my body, I started to wail. When my tears mixed with snot and the taste of blood and caused me to shriek even louder, Dad came running toward me, his dark hair flopping around his face as he ran. When Dad reached me he scooped me into his arms and started rocking me back and forth, trying to make me stop crying. It was as if he thought I was still an infant and this would be the magic cure. It worked. By his simply being there, I knew I'd be okay.

That's the taste I have in my mouth when I open my eyes and feel Isabelle's cool hand on my forehead. The room is dark, but I can see we're alone in her bedroom.

“You gave us quite a scare there,” Isabelle says, smiling down at me.

I reach my fingers to my lip, which feels puffy under a small bandage. “What happened?”

“You made Cole move more quickly than I ever knew he was capable,” she laughs. “He said you two had just been chatting out on the porch, and when you tried to stand you fainted. You hit your chin on the step when you came down. Gave it a good wallop. How does it feel?”

“My whole head hurts.”

“I think you came down pretty hard. The old ladies around here wanted to take you over to the hospital facility on the grounds, get you looked at by some of the doctors. But I knew you'd live, so I didn't want to take any chances by sending you over there.” She smiles, pointing her head in the direction of the main house.

I look at Isabelle and realize I have to tell her the truth; whatever happens to me when she hears it, happens. I can't live with this secret any longer. It's time for me to take responsibility for my actions.

“Isabelle, there's something I need to tell you, but I'm not sure . . . I mean, I don't know how to tell you except just to say it.”

“Well, whatever it is, Grace, there's no need to be embarrassed. You know there are no judgments here,” she says, patting my hand.

I swallow, but my throat is completely dry. “I . . .” I shut my eyes, not wanting to see the look on her face when I finally say it: “I killed him.”

“What?”

I open my eyes and see Isabelle has recoiled, her back straightening like a rod. “I'm sorry. I . . . He asked me to help him.”

“Oh, Grace, oh my god, no,” Isabelle replies, the back of her hand covering her mouth. She stands and turns away from me, walking toward the window.

“I'm so sorry. I thought—”

“No, Grace, no.”

I am desperate to explain, desperate to not lose Isabelle too. “It wasn't my idea. I mean originally I told him no. I didn't want to do it.” I can feel a lump rise in my throat and lodge there. “But he kept getting worse, and I knew that was exactly what scared him the most. I just thought it would be merciful. Isabelle, I'm so sorry. I thought helping him die was the right thing to do.”

“Don't say that,” she says again, this time much more quietly. Isabelle walks over to the door and pulls it closed, then turns back to me and comes over to the bed. She sits down and doesn't say anything for what feels like an eternity. Then she bows her head. “You
weren't
responsible for Frank's death, Grace. You just weren't.”

“No, I'm telling you.” I wonder how much detail I should give her. “He gave me some pills—”

“Grace, you didn't kill him,” she says sternly.

I stare at Isabelle. I think she must be so distraught, she doesn't even realize what she's saying. “Look, Izzy, I mean thank you for saying that, but I made the decision to help him take the pills. You have to know that.”

“Grace, I knew. I knew that's what Frank wanted.”

“What? You knew? This whole time?”

“No, no. I meant I knew he
wanted
to ask you to help him, but
not
that he actually asked. Oh, Grace, I can't tell you how horrible I feel about this,” Isabelle says, balling her hand to her mouth as her body starts rocking back and forth.

“I'm . . . confused.”

Isabelle pauses for a moment to regain her composure, but still won't meet my eyes. “The day after you and I first met, I asked Frank more about you and he just went on and on about what a great young lady you were.” Isabelle stops, then finally looks back up at me. “Now, don't get me wrong, since I've gotten to know you, I completely understand why Frank was so enthusiastic. But on that day I found it quite odd that my husband was making such a fuss,” she says. “So I pressed him on it. I said, ‘Tell me what it is you like so much about Grace.' And Frank wouldn't elaborate. He tried joking around. Told me I was jealous of a pretty young girl! Maybe I even was a little.”

“You were jealous of
me
? Why?”

A smile fixes on Isabelle's face. “Grace, I'd been married to that man for almost fifty years and yet in the last years, since his health had been declining, there was nothing I could do to make him feel any better. It wasn't for lack of trying, believe me! But he was just getting sicker and we both saw the life was washing out of him. That someone else had managed to make him happy during this time, well, that upset me a bit, I confess. Though this is all somewhat beside the point now.” She shakes her head and rubs her hands against her legs before continuing. “Anyway, as I was saying, I pressed him on it, brought up your name again. That's when he said you were a person of great character, he trusted you . . . I just had a terrible feeling that I knew what that meant to him.” Isabelle stops for a moment.

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, still feeling guilty and defensive.

“Grace, Frank and I had always promised each other that if things ever became too painful, too awful to go on, we would . . . well, help each other. We'd made that pledge when we were in our prime and healthy, though. I just never really thought—I never really thought that I'd be in the position where it'd become a necessity. You learn not to dwell on these things. You can't. You have to live for the day, so you just put them out of your head as best you can.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I guess.”

“Well, a few months back, when it had become clear that he wasn't getting any better—nor would he—he reminded me of our pact.” Isabelle fidgets in her seat and starts wringing her hands. I'd never thought that term “wringing her hands” could be so literal before, but Isabelle actually looks like she's trying to squeeze something out of them, like water or blood.

“He said to me, ‘Izzy, you and I, we had a deal,' ” she continues. “But I wouldn't have it. I pretended like I didn't hear it, and acted like I didn't know what he was referring to, which, of course was a damn lie. And that's when he said that if I wouldn't help him, he'd find someone who would. I never thought he'd go through with it, Grace, and please, please believe me that I had no idea he seriously considered approaching you—” Isabelle reaches for my hand. “I mean, to think he'd ask a child to do something like . . .” She trails off again and shakes her head, sobbing quietly.

I don't know if I'm supposed to just let her continue, tell her something to make her feel better, or just start screaming. But my throat feels paralyzed, I'm so thrown by what I'm hearing.

She takes a tissue out of her sleeve and wipes the corners of her eyes. “I can't tell you how angry this makes me, Grace,” Isabelle says, her eyes piercing mine.

“I didn't mean to make you mad,” I reply lamely.

“No, dear, I'm not mad at you. I'm mortified, horrified by him. By my husband. That he would put something like that on you. It's not like he was asking you to fetch his slippers or air out the room.” Isabelle stands and starts pacing around. “Once or twice, I admit, I had twinges that he might have actually said something to you, but I just couldn't bring myself to think that of a man I'd loved. That he'd put such a burden on your shoulders, it's monstrous.”

“Well, why didn't you just ask me?”

“I don't know, part of me thought this was a private thing between my husband and me, and asking you meant a break in my trust of him. Now, of course, I see I should have asked. That would have been the right thing to do, but”—she looks to me with a twisted smile—“I suppose it was also easier for me to pretend as long as I blocked out the possibility, it couldn't happen.”

“I know how you feel,” I reply. “The whole time I kept wondering if you knew or if you were totally in the dark. And I didn't know how you felt about the whole thing in the first place.”

She comes back down to the bed and crosses her legs, then begins picking at the hem of her dress. “The last thing I wanted was for you to have to struggle with this. Grace, he was a very ill man. Everyone kept saying he was on ‘borrowed time.' Borrowed time, I hate that phrase.” She shakes her head. “But the truth was, he was in hell there at the end. That he died wasn't your fault.”

The more Isabelle tries to excuse it—the more she condones my decision to help—the more it's making me feel like I need to tell her all the details of how it went down. Even if she knew, I was still responsible. “I went into his room that night,” I say, looking away from her. “And I took the pills he gave me and smashed them up and—”

“No, Grace, you don't understand what I mean. I mean pills or no pills, you aren't the one responsible for his death. I am.” Isabelle puts her hand under my chin so that I have to look at her. “I am.”

“But I gave him the pills,” I say.

“I disconnected his respirator,” she replies, tears starting to leak from the corners of her eyes.

“What?”

“The evening he passed, that's when
I
finally made the decision to help him. I felt enough was enough. I knew the man I'd loved my whole life would be incredibly angry at me if I let him languish like that. I couldn't stand that idea. So I made the decision. I'd watched the nurses enough times to know how to disable the alarm on the respirator. Those machines beeped so frequently when nothing was wrong, they'd come into the room, push a few buttons on the front panel, and stop the noise. So that's what I did after I loosened the connection on his respirator. Then I said my final good-bye to Frank and left the room. I should have stayed, but I couldn't be there to watch the life go out of my love.” Isabelle stops talking and closes her eyes. “You must have come in after I left.”

“How long does it take for a person to die after the respirator is disconnected?” I ask, trying to do the time line in my head: When did Isabelle pull (“
loosen
”) the plug compared to when I gave him the pill mixture? Who
really
killed him?

“Well, I'm no expert, but my understanding is that it varies from person to person. I think it depends on how greatly they were relying on the machine to breathe for them,” she replies. “Apparently some people pass a few minutes after the artificial ventilation stops. With others, it can take a few hours up to several days or even weeks.” Isabelle looks at me and can no doubt see this wasn't quite the answer I was hoping for. “But, Grace,” she continues, “I must tell you, each step of the way I talked Frank through it. I explained what I was doing because I felt that once he knew I'd done my part, he'd marshal his will and take care of the rest as quickly as he could. Knowing my husband, I feel sure that he would have wanted all of our suffering to end as quickly as possible. When I came back to his room very early the next morning it was over.”

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No,” she replies. “This was one of the last things my husband and I needed to do together. I didn't want anyone else's input or thoughts on the subject. It wasn't any of their business. Oh, Grace, can you ever forgive me?”

“Yes, of course I forgive you. How could I not?”

“Thank you,” she says.

She then takes my hand and we sit there for a while, both of us lost in our own thoughts, together. As she looks down, I look up and think about the new chance I've been given, and how much I have to be grateful for.

“Thank you,” I whisper to the universe.

L
ater that night I stare in my bedroom mirror examining the bruise on my chin. I'd not only clipped my chin when I'd fainted, I also bit down on my lip, making it look slightly swollen, and not in a good way. As I try to determine if putting lipstick over it will make it look better or worse, the phone rings.

“Hey, it's me,” Eric says when I pick up.

“Oh, hi.” Oh, man.

“We need to talk.”

I know what he's referring to, of course. I think about what Isabelle had said about how dumb it is to try to avoid conversations like this. But sometimes even knowing what the right thing is doesn't make doing it any easier. “I thought we already talked about that,” I say. “Natalie came over, ‘attacked' you, and now you guys are like ‘couple of the year.' ”