God is in the Pancakes (9 page)

“Hello?” I call out.

Nothing.

“It's Grace Manning,” I say. I wait for another minute. “Hello?” When I don't get a response, suddenly I'm a little worried, so I open the screen door and walk in. The entry that leads to the main living room area is dark, but there are pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Sands on the front table. I bend forward to get a better look, and I see a picture of Mrs. Sands, with a ridiculously high hairdo, a sleeveless blouse, capri pants, and Keds sitting on top of a llama and smiling widely, as if she's completely aware of how ridiculous she looks but is having so much fun, she doesn't care. Next to it, there's a photo of Mr. and Mrs. Sands standing in front of some incredibly ornate temple, the kind I always picture when I think of Thailand—probably because I've seen images like this on the front of the local Thai restaurant's takeout menu. On the other side of that, there's a picture of a little boy who looks about five years old, standing in seersucker short pants and a little bow tie with a pained expression on his face. He's dressed like it's the 1920s or something, but from the digital date stamp on the side, you can tell that it was only taken eleven years ago, making the kid about my age.

When I look up, my eyes having finally adjusted to the darkness, I see a figure sitting on the couch in the living room, staring blankly in the direction of the television.

“Mrs. Sands?” I walk toward her.

At this, she finally turns and looks at me. She smiles slightly, but it's more one of those dazed
who are you and what the hell are you doing in my living room
? kind of expressions. I'm wondering the same thing myself.

“Hi,” I say, wanting to follow up with “And bye!”

“Oh. Hello,” she replies in a tone that suggests she's not sure who I am.

“Grace.” I point to myself and nod.

“Yes.” Mrs. Sands nods her head. “I recall.” She quickly brushes her index fingers under her eyes, then drops her hands back to her sides. It's the same gesture I use when I'm watching a stupid movie—or worse, a sappy commercial—that makes my eyes leak. Especially if I'm with Eric and I don't want him to see that I'm crying, I try to make it look like I'm just adjusting any eyeliner that's smearing down my face. But when another fat teardrop drips off Mrs. Sands's eyelash, she just shakes her head, realizing it's no use. “Forgive me.” She puts both hands in front of her eyes. “I've never understood those people who say a good cry can make you feel better. Crying just makes me feel worse.” She shakes her head. “And it'll prematurely wrinkle your eyes, so you should be careful.”

“I'll try.”

“These days, I can't seem to help myself, though,” she says, as if chastising herself. I look to the wall clock and try to figure how long I need to spend here before I can flee. Mrs. Sands wipes her nose and looks back to me. “I've started carrying extra tissues wherever I go. I practically have a whole tissue box shoved up my sleeve.” She waves her wrist in the air and there is a bulge right under her cuff. “At least when I used to shove tissues in my shirt, I'd distribute them to better places.” She points to her chest, and I see a smile forming on her lips. “Good thing they didn't have those water bras in my day. With my luck the darned thing would have sprung a leak, and I would have wound up with papier-mâché breasts.”

“Never thought of that,” I say with a laugh.

“Hey, you gotta be careful—” Mrs. Sands warns, a note of mock seriousness entering her voice, “or the smile lines will get you too.”

“Yeah, my mom calls her wrinkles smile lines, but she doesn't smile enough to have earned all those creases in her face.”

“That's a terrible thing to say, Grace,” Mrs. Sands responds, “and I'm beginning to understand why my husband likes you so much! Come, sit.” She beckons me to the couch. “You know I still can't believe it took us this long to finally meet.”

“I know.” I try to make myself comfortable on the cushion farthest away from her. “I'm just surprised we didn't bump into each other sooner.”

“Well, I think by the time you arrive in the late afternoons, Frank has already kicked me out for the day. I spend mornings over there when you're at school, I suppose. Then at a certain point after lunch every day, he shoos me away. ‘Get out, Izzy! Do some of the fancy activities they have here, do some exercise,' he says.” Mrs. Sands laughs. “Exercise, honestly! Never enjoyed it as a young woman, don't think that's really going to change at this age.”

“I hear you.”

She laughs again. “We run through this same routine every day. Silly, I know, but I think it makes both of us feel better. Oh, Grace, where are my manners? Can I get you something to drink?” Standing, Mrs. Sands looks livelier, more like she'd seemed the other day. “Maybe a Pepsi?” she suggests. “I have to warn you, though, I only have the caffeine-free stuff.”

“Oh, that's okay,” I reply, thinking that though I could explain to Mr. Sands that I came here because it was a job requirement, part of me doesn't want him to think I might enjoy it.

“Well, I'm not much of a fan of the caffeine-free stuff, myself—if you can't enjoy the buzz, why bother?—but my doctor seems to feel I get enough of it in the coffee I drink. Six cups a day,” she whispers. “No way he'll get me to give that up. He'll have to pry the Folgers out of my cold dead hands.”

Mrs. Sands then reaches into the freezer and takes out one of those old-fashioned 1950s ice trays. The metal kind with the handle you pull to help the ice cubes come out without making you have to bang the tray against the counter. “I mean what's the point of living if you take all the little pleasures away, right? Speaking of . . .” She opens a cabinet, pulls out a bag of those giant Pepperidge Farm chocolate chunk cookies, and holds it out for me to take over to the coffee table. “Only live once, right?”

“Sure, thanks.” I nod as Mrs. Sands takes two glasses down from the cabinet, puts a few ice cubes in each, then pours out the can of soda, half in each glass.

“So tell me, Grace.” She hands me the glass. “Why are you working in an awful place like this?”

“It's not that bad.” I shrug. I want to tell her that I actually enjoy spending time with her husband, but I don't want to sound like a suck-up. Instead, I just open the white Pepperidge Farm bag and take out an oversized cookie.

“Oh, please!” exclaims Mrs. Sands. “I had a job I hated when I was your age too. I worked the cash register in my father's grocery store. Oh, it was so miserable. I wanted to quit every day, but when your dad's your boss—”

“You're screwed.” I take a bite of the cookie and sink my teeth right into a chunk of chip. The bittersweet chocolate makes me feel better almost immediately.

“Exactly,” she laughs, plucking a cookie from the bag. “It was the worst. All the popular girls used to come into the store and they'd seem so care-free, so lucky. And I'd feel so, well, stuck.”

“But now you're going to tell me that those were their glory days and they're never as popular again as they were in high school, right?”

“Ah . . . no.” Mrs. Sands smiles. “You're not stupid, Grace,” she says. “Those girls almost always find a way to get what they want.
But
,” she says with emphasis, “I promise they do become less important in your life until eventually they don't matter at all. Popularity, like being really rich, isn't always as much fun as it seems. I've seen enough of both cases to know that's true.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn't mind giving either one a shot for a day or two.” I envision myself standing through the sunroof of a limousine waving to passersby, a tiara affixed to my perfectly styled hair, which, though blowing in the breeze, miraculously avoids getting stuck to my lip gloss.

Mrs. Sands nods. “I know what you mean, but be careful what you're wishing for. I've also learned that the man upstairs can have a very wicked sense of humor.”

“So you have daughters, right?” I ask, swirling the ice cubes in my drink.

“Two,” Mrs. Sands replies. “What about you, any kids?”

“None that I'm aware of.”

“Good,” she laughs, “just checking. What about siblings?”

“Yeah, I have an older sister, Lolly.”

“Lolly? Short for Lorraine?”

“Yep, but nobody ever gets that,” I tell her. “Actually, she won't admit it anymore, but she's known as Lolly because of me. I couldn't pronounce the name Lorraine when I was a kid, and just used to say ‘Lolly,' which stuck.”

“Do you two get along?”

“Er, mostly,” I say. “She's just really into being her boyfriend's girlfriend right now.”

“I see.” She nods.

“She's always trying to impress him, laughs at everything he says. And trust me, he's
really
not that funny.”

“Sisterhood isn't easy,” Mrs. Sands replies. “It's supposed to be the most natural thing in the world, and yet an overabundance of estrogen can really screw things up.”

“Yeah, at my house it's just my sister, my mother, and me now, so we've got a lot of that going around.”

“Well.” Mrs. Sands wipes the bottom of her perspiring glass on her pants before setting it down on the coffee table. “Please know that if you ever need a break, you are more than welcome here. And,” she continues, sticking her index finger in the air, “I promise I'll keep out of your way. You can sit, watch TV, talk if you want, or not talk if you don't want to, and I'll respect that.”

“Thanks.” I believe she really would do just that. “That's really nice of you.”

“Nonsense,” she replies. “It's not nice of me at all. I say this for purely selfish reasons. See, you coming here and spending time with me will make all the rest of the crabby old ladies in this place very jealous!”

“Thank you.”

“Well, I don't want to keep you now, I'm sure you have other tasks you're supposed to accomplish before you can get out of here.”

My head bobs from side to side. I'm not sure if this is her cue or mine, but I think I probably have spent enough time here today to satisfy everyone, so I stand. “I'm back in on Thursday, so I'm sure I'll see you then.”

“Oh, and hang on a second, Grace.” Mrs. Sands stands up and walks over to her purse, which is sitting on the kitchen chair. She reaches into her wallet and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill. “Take this,” she says, handing me the cash.

I eye the money suspiciously, wanting to take it from her, but not sure if I should. “What's it for?”

“It's for nothing. It's because I want you to have it.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Sands I really couldn't,” I protest, shaking my head but still wanting the money. “I get paid to work here, so—”

“So I'm sure they're not paying you enough and it's always nice to have a little extra,” she says with a wink.

“But . . .”

“Please, Grace, you're such a breath of fresh air in this dreary place—and you've really been going above and beyond the call of duty helping Frank—so I want you to have it. Buy something fun for yourself.” She folds my hand over the bill, then pats it, signaling the discussion is closed.

When I leave the cottage, I head back to the main building to drop in on Mr. Sands. His door is closed again, but before my knuckles connect with the door, my hand drops back to my side. Part of me is scared that Mr. Sands will be mad when he hears I spent time with his wife. Then there's the other part: the part that's worried that if I knock, a new nurse will come to the door and tell me his condition has gotten worse. What Jeff said about this disease taking an extra toll on the patient's family runs through my head. The not knowing, day to day, if this will be the visit I find him unable to move, breathe, chew, or talk, makes me anxious. Makes me wonder how much he's suffering.
If there's anything I can do to relieve that suffering.
And it makes me feel pretty horrible to admit that what I'm hoping for now is that his suffering won't last very long . . .

The more I think about it, the more uneasy I get. I can't go in. But as I turn and walk away from Mr. Sands's door, the nerves are replaced by the hollow feeling. It's not that I think a visit from me could make anything better for Mr. Sands, it's more that I'd like to be able to help and yet feel totally useless.

 

“Don't!” Lolly yells from upstairs as I turn on the TV in the living room.

“What?” I yell back, flipping through the channels and sitting down on the couch.