God is in the Pancakes (8 page)

“Please, Grace,” he replies, “I still feel terrible about that. I should never have asked you. It was a low moment, to say the least.” Mr. Sands's eyes close. “Please let's not speak of it again, okay?” He's exhausted, that's clear.

“I'm going to let you rest,” I say, and he gives a quiet moan of response. I keep my eyes on him as I back out of the room. Though it's not an official rule, I know the staff prefers the doors on this hallway to remain open. But I want to give Mr. Sands the privacy and dignity he deserves, so I close the door behind me.

It's not much, but it's all I can think to do to help him right now.

I need to focus on something new. A change of scenery. A drastic modification. If a person's aura has a particular color, what I'm looking for is something to help me get to the other side of the rainbow. But right now the selection of a new hair color at the Fulton Pharmacy is going to have to suffice. As I walk there from Hanover House I try to reassure myself that like the ads promise, a new hue will give me “a whole new outlook!”

Before heading to the hair care section, I pick up a sour apple Blow Pop from the front stand and stick it behind my ear flower-style to keep both hands free for box comparison purposes. Maybe I was born to be a golden blonde but got colored by the wrong cosmic crayon? I glance at the rounded shoplifter mirror that hangs above the shelf to see if I can envision myself as “Platinum Ice,” but instead of seeing myself, the image I see reflected in the mirror is Lolly's boyfriend, Jake.

Normally seeing Jake wouldn't particularly bother me. Sure, he's a turd, but usually he's a turd easily sidestepped. Not today. Right now I can't seem to take my eyes off him in that mirror because Jake is standing there kissing a girl.

A girl who is not my sister.

This is not good. And, even worse, the girl Jake is kissing happens to be Natalie Talbot. The girl from Milk Bar. Pretty Natalie Talbot. Popular Natalie Talbot. Everybody loves Natalie Talbot. I'm barely blinking as I stare slack-jawed into that mirror. Jake's got his hand around her waist and he's moving it up and down. The only thought that occurs to me in the moment is “Run!” because the last thing I want to do is be seen by that two-timing dipwad mid-two-time. I put the hair dye box back on the shelf without making any sudden movements, then head for the door. I don't look back, I just keep my eyes on the parking lot ahead of me, and finally exhale when I arrive at the second row of parked cars. As I comb my hands through my hair, the sour apple Blow Pop drops from behind my ear and falls onto the asphalt.

I pick up the wrapped lollipop and realize I've technically just stolen it. I've done a lot of stupid things in my day, but this is officially the first thing I've lifted. People
intentionally
shoplift all the time. This was a total mistake. It's a twenty-five- to fifty-cent mistake at most, and I know it's not that big a deal . . . yet I also know that if I don't go back and give the cashier the money, I'll obsess about it later. I'll worry that any good karma I've built up will be erased, and my prayers will be dismissed for the price of a Blow Pop.

I walk back into the store
. Grace, don't let your eyes wander, just keep staring at the woman behind the register.

Thankfully there's no one in line ahead of me, so I set the lollipop down on the counter. “I accidentally walked out of the store without paying,” I explain, digging a quarter out of my pocket and holding it out to her. “But it was a mistake, I swear.”

“What is this, a joke?” the cashier asks.

“No, I just—” I start to say, then realize it's not worth it. I just need to get out before Jake and Natalie spot me. But when I hear two aluminum cans being set down on the counter behind me, I know it's game over. I turn around.

“Hi, Jake,” I say, pronouncing his name as if I were saying the word
fuckface
.

“Oh, hey.” He nods trying to look casual as he slides both energy drinks closer toward him. “Blow Pop, huh?”

If he makes a joke about me practicing blow jobs on the Blow Pop—and seriously, he has that kind of sense of humor—I might “accidentally” pop him in the nuts.

“Yeah,” I reply.

“Sour apple.” Natalie nods, stepping out from behind Jake to take a look. “Those are my favorite too. Hey, Grace.” She smiles.

Hey, Grace?
Natalie Talbot knows my name?

“Sour apple is so much better than watermelon,” she adds. And she's right
.
I wonder if she also knows my sister is dating the bonehead she was just kissing.

I nod.

“Oh, man, Jake, you should have seen the last project Grace did in our art class. It was so funny, it was this collage of celebrity faces framed by a border of words, from articles about their scandals,” Natalie says, pulling at the sleeve of his shirt.

“Cool, maybe you can show it to me sometime,” he says with a smile.
If he thinks that's enough to buy me off, he's sadly mistaken
. When Jake gets his change back from the cashier, he turns to Natalie. “We should go.”

“Okay.” She smiles again. “See ya, Grace.”

“Later, G.M.” Jake nods.

I am completely stunned. I wait for them to get into Jake's Mustang before I walk out of the store myself. I'm already composing the conversation with Eric in my head. He's going to love this. I look at my watch and assume practice will probably be over, so I grab my cell and call his home number.

“Hello?” Mrs. Ward says when she picks up.

“Hi, Mrs. Ward, it's Grace.”

“Hey, honey! Oh, you just missed Eric. He got back from practice, hit the shower, then said he was going to be meeting up with some friends at Milk Bar.”

Part of me wants to ask Mrs. Ward who these friends are, but a bigger part of me doesn't really want to know. Or is scared to. “Oh, right,” I reply instead. “Milk Bar.”

“I'm sure if you head over there now you'll catch them.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks. Bye, Mrs. Ward.”

“Bye, Grace.”

I know it's stupid to be mad that Eric is going to “our” coffee shop with other people, and yet I can't deny the twinge I feel. I unwrap my Blow Pop and jam it into my mouth. But not even a sour apple lollipop tastes good to me now. So when I pass the first trash can I see, I chuck it and hear the candy shatter as it hits the bottom of the pail.

A
s soon as I open the front door to Hanover House on Tuesday afternoon, Patty Ray gives me the royal welcome.

“Grace!” she yells down the hall. “How are we today? ”

“We're good, thanks. How are you?”

“I am regretting that my lunch salad contained both onions and asparagus,” Patty replies, fanning her hand in front of her mouth. “I stink from every direction! T.M.I., I know, just can't help myself,” she says cheerfully. “And I have a special message for you.”

“You do?” I ask, keeping my distance as I try to remain outside the smell zone.

“Jeff wants you to drop by his office when you get a chance.”

“Really? Why?”

Patty shakes her head. “Well, I don't really know . . . but it might have something to do with that nice couple the Sandses.” This woman knows everything. I'm tempted to press her on the subject, but I'd rather not run Mr. Sands's business through the gossip channels myself if I can help it.

When I knock at his office door, Jeff waves me in. “Grace, come, sit,” he says, motioning to the little couch to the side of the room. Once I take my seat he stands, closes the office door, then sits next to me.

“Heard you met Isabelle Sands the other day. She's quite a character, isn't she?” He shakes his head and smiles.

“She seems nice, I guess,” I say, already wondering if she's asked him to tell me I should stop visiting Mr. Sands so much.

“Well good, I'm glad you think so, because I'd like you to start spending some time with her when you're here too.”

“But . . .”
What? No!
“Why?” I say as coolly as I can.

“I've worked here quite a while now, Grace, and I've found that there are just a few illnesses that are harder to deal with than others. I think Lou Gehrig's disease is one of them, not only because of the way it debilitates the sufferer, but because of the toll on the person's family too. That's why if I can find a way to make the care-giver's life a little better, I try to.”

“Okay . . . but why do you want me to visit with Mrs. Sands?”

“Because, Grace,” Jeff says, smiling and shaking his head, “I think you'd help make her life better.”

“No, but really, why?”

“I am completely serious.” He laughs. “I'm sure she'd like your company and I think you'd be a real lifeline to her. That's why I'm asking you to embrace the friction.”

“
Huh
?” I recoil.

“Warrior slang.” Jeff nods. “When a commanding officer tells his troops to ‘embrace the friction' or ‘embrace the suck,' he's saying that he understands the situation he's sending them into is tough, but he needs them to march forward and do their jobs anyway.”

I bite my lip. Ordinarily, spending time with a resident who's healthy and happy to take care of herself is the kind of assignment everyone here wants. Basically those are the people who don't want you to do anything for them. They see it as a point of pride to do everything themselves, so you wind up doing way less than you're supposed to. Play your cards right and they even bake stuff for you. But especially after my last conversation with Mr. Sands, I don't want to be disloyal to him. I don't want him to think I'm “cheating” on him. Especially not with his wife.

“Well, when I met her she seemed like she was handling things pretty well. And I'll bet she's the kind of woman who has tons of friends around here. So I'm sure she wouldn't want someone like
me
hanging around and bothering her.”

“Grace, I think you'll be able to give her a certain amount of comfort that no one else here can.”

“How?”

“Go to her, Grace, talk to her.”

“About what?” I shrug with great exaggeration.

Jeff gives one of his easy smiles. “About anything you want. Whatever feels right. Okay?”

“I'm not sure—”

“I'm not asking you to clean bedpans, Grace.” And with that, Jeff rises and points me to the door. “I think you'll find Mrs. Sands in her unit on Jane Lane right now. You know, you're earning some serious karma points here.”

“Great,” I say as I leave the office wondering if she knows that her husband had slipped me an envelope of pills. “I'm sure I can use them.”

I walk out of the main building of Hanover House and head for the cottages. There's definitely a different feeling around these little places than in the main building. They're built to look like bungalows, and they'd be a cool place to live—if only they weren't on the grounds of a retirement community. I look up to the sky, which is a beautiful shade of blue and full of cotton-ball clouds.
“What is the point to this? And what exactly am I supposed to do here?”
Though I asked Jeff similar questions, I wasn't satisfied (or happy) with his answers. And even though no further response seems to be coming, I still can't help asking another: “
Why me?”

The Sandses' cottage has a cheerful exterior and there are marigolds growing in the window boxes. It almost looks like one of those houses on a postcard, with a big American flag waving out front, suggesting that good, solid citizens live here. The front door is open, so I knock on the side of the screen door, but there's no response. I can hear the TV on in the background so I'm pretty sure Mrs. Sands is home. But when I knock again, more loudly this time, still no answer.