God is in the Pancakes Read online

  Even though this is the first funeral I’ve been to, I think I know what he means. “Yeah,” I say, “I cried when Jill told that story.”

  “Me too,” Jeff replies, then smiles at me.

  I wait for him to say something Jeff Potts-like, like, “But don’t tell the ladies that,” or possibly even more Pottsian, “Now be sure to tell the ladies that so they know I’m a sensitive guy,” but he doesn’t, and his genuineness makes me like him more. “The Sandses are such good people. They really cared for each other so deeply.”

  “I just wish they could have found a cure in time to save him.”

  “I know,” he replies. “And I know this may be hard to hear, but considering the suffering and frustration Frank would have faced as the disease progressed, this”—Jeff tilts his head toward the casket—“was almost certainly a godsend.”

  I press my lips together wondering what Jeff would say if he knew I was involved—me, Grace Manning, “agent of God’s will.” A godsend . . . I doubt it, but it sure would be nice to believe he’s right.

  I’m one of the first to arrive back at the Sandses’ house, and I volunteer to help prepare some of the fruit platters. I’m concentrating so hard on trying to carve perfectly shaped cantaloupe balls that I jump when I feel a hand on my waist.

  “Oh, my,” Isabelle says. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Me neither,” I reply. “I guess I was sort of in my own little cantaloupe world there for a minute.” This makes Isabelle smile, but I feel like I should say something less doofy, considering the circumstances. “It really was a nice service,” I say.

  “Frank would have approved,” she replies. “And he would have been especially gratified by the turnout. Do you know what I did? Counted heads,” she says in a low voice. “Isn’t that terrible?”

  “Would it be terrible to ask how many heads you counted?”

  Isabelle smiles, then takes my wet, cantaloupey hand and gives it a squeeze. “Yuck,” she says, now looking at her wet hand before wiping it directly on her dress. “See? There are advantages to wearing a frumpy dress after all.”

  I laugh quietly. “It’s really not so bad.”

  Isabelle rolls her eyes; she’s not buying it. “There were about a hundred and eighty people present, give or take. Some of them I could have done without,” she says quietly. “Like the old shrews who kept nagging me to get an autopsy to see if there’d been negligence.”

  “Oh,” I say, my breath quickening, “so you didn’t do an autopsy?”

  “No,” she replies. “We know what took Frank. His poor body had been through enough and I was going to be damned if I would let anyone disturb him further.”

  I nod, unable to speak. We do know what took Frank, and I feel my shoulders and back unclench. There won’t be a probe. There won’t be an investigation, a trial, or an official sentence of guilt. Now if only I can find a way to live with myself.

  “Isabelle, what a beautiful service,” a woman says, coming over to us at the sink and putting her arms around her shoulders. “Come, let me make you a sandwich, you must be hungry.”

  “Really, no, I’m not hungry at all. I think my body knows food wouldn’t sit so well right now.”

  “You have to eat, Iz,” she insists. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  “Hardly,” she replies, but the woman doesn’t take no for an answer, takes Isabelle’s hand and leads her into the living room. As she leaves the kitchen, the Sands daughters walk in and I look at them wondering how Lolly and I would be behaving to each other if we were in their position. Do you act like you always have, like nothing’s changed? Or do you finally let everything from the past go?

  “I’m just going to—” I say to no one in particular, then pick up my plate of misshapen cantaloupe balls and quickly head out of the kitchen.

  “Hey,” Cole says, approaching me. He’s wearing a navy blue blazer with a gray and blue striped rep tie over gray flannel pants. It’s like he stepped out of the J. Crew College Admissions/Funeral Catalog.

  “Hi,” I say. “Do you want any?” I offer the plate of mangled circle-esque fruit.

  “Uh, no, that’s okay.” He makes a face. “I’m not really hungry. You want to go outside or something?” He loosens his tie and unbuttons his top button as we walk out the door. The catalog model look is now complete. We sit down on the porch stairs and look out over the rest of the Hanover House complex.

  “I got to spend a lot of time with your grandfather,” I say. “He was a really great guy. And your grandmother, she’s amazing too.”

  “I never really spent a lot of time with them myself,” Cole replies. “But do you know they were married almost twice as long as they were single?”

  “It’s kind of amazing. All my relationships seem to break up after the first kiss.”

  “Well, I guess we know what that means,” says Cole, nodding his head.

  “No, what?”

  “You must be an awful kisser.” When he laughs, I freeze. It’s as if Cole’s channeling Mr. Sands. The delivery, the sound of his laugh, it sounds just like his grandfather. “Uh, I was just kidding,” Cole adds when he sees the expression on my face. “I mean, I’m sure you’re great at it.” He grins impishly, and Mr. Sands flashes through again.

  I need to say something clever; I need to hear that laugh again.

  “Yeah, you know what they say, ‘Kissing is just the best way of getting people so close they can’t see what’s wrong with each other.’ ” Cole nods and smiles at this, but it makes me think about Eric and all that’s gone on between us. I think about how long we’ve been friends, and yet how quickly things seemed to have changed between us. How is it possible that something that took years to build could break so fast? Then I think about my mom and dad, and wonder how long their relationship was breaking before it gave out. And that makes me think about Mr. and Mrs. Sands, and how long their relationship lasted before I came along and shattered it to pieces. “I should get back inside to see if they need any help,” I say. But when I try to stand up, I feel my heart throbbing. I put my hand up to my chest and try to catch my breath.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  That’s the last thing I hear.

  Chapter Seventeen

  One 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.”