God is in the Pancakes (14 page)

“Yep.” I start thinking of all the “absolutes” that used to exist for me. I realize my head is tilting to the side as I try to figure out if he just told me he believed in prayer because it's easier to believe that or because he really
really
believes it does work. “So you think someone hears us or is listening when we pray?”

He smiles and I can see both the top and bottom rows of his teeth. “I've had moments of doubt. Of course I have. I don't know how anyone can live in this world where, let's face it, injustice takes place all the time, and
not
wonder if anyone's paying attention.” He shrugs. “But what I keep coming back to is the fact that life is so fragile, someone has to be looking out for us. At least in the most basic way. So for me, prayer is not just the asking of a favor—like ‘please God, let my mother be okay'—but as more of a thank you. A thank you for every minute I've had with her. I'm sure that kind of sounds corny, but it does help me appreciate the good things in my life. So when I say yeah, prayer works, it's because I think that if all I'm doing here is expressing gratitude for her life, that's okay. That's important.”

This certainly isn't the answer I'm expecting. But it is kind of interesting.

“Do you?” he asks.

“Do I what?”

“Believe?” the man says.

My first instinct is to say yes. Because he's right, it'd be the easiest answer. “I don't really know anymore,” I say instead. “I want to.”

“You do?”

“Well yeah.”

“Why?” he asks.

Why
? Why do I
want
to believe? Now that was a question I'd never even thought of before. Why do I want to believe? “I dunno. Part of it's probably that I like to think someone is listening when I do check in or ask a favor.”

“Well, what is it that you want? What are you asking for?” He puts his hands on his thighs and his elbows stick out as he leans forward on his bench back toward me.

There are a million answers to this question: I want everything to be okay. I want Mr. Sands to be healthy. I want things to be normal with Eric. I don't want to fail biology. I want to be prettier. I want to be able to speed read. I want world peace. I never want to get a zit again. I want to be able to eat anything I want and not gain weight. I want to be talented at something. I want to know Isabelle will be okay if I help Mr. Sands. I want to smell nice all the time. I want my dad to apologize for leaving. And then I want him to come back and stay. I want to live happily ever after. And I don't want to have to think about these things.

“Just the normal stuff, I guess.”

“You're not cutting school to hang out in the chapel of an old-age home on a Friday because you want the normal stuff,” he says. I shift uncomfortably on the horrible wooden bench. The man shakes his head. “Don't worry, I'm not going to alert the authorities and I don't mean to pry. I just wish I could help you.”

It's been a long time since I've heard anyone say that to me. “Thanks,” I say, looking down, feeling tears start.

“Is there anyone you can talk to?” he asks. And when I look back up at him, then roll my eyes upward, he smiles. “Oh, right,” he replies.

“I should probably . . .” I stand to leave, just letting the thought trail.

“Well, I'll include you in my prayers. I'll make it pretty general.” He clasps his hands together. “Just one of those ‘thank you for giving this young woman the faith she needs to get her through.'”

“How do you know I have it?”

“Because
I
have faith,” he replies.

I exit the chapel and walk toward Mr. Sands's room, knowing that he's someone I can talk to. He's given me sanctuary before too, and he'll understand why I'm cutting school. But I stop short in the hallway when I see Isabelle inside with another woman. The younger woman is dressed in a navy pantsuit with a pretty silk blouse underneath, and looks to be about my mom's age. I've never seen her before, but from the way she's leaning over Mr. Sands, I assume she's one of their two daughters. I'd like to meet her, but there'd be too much explaining if I went in now. So I move away from the door and for the next few hours I just move from one low-traffic area of Hanover House to another, hoping I won't arouse suspicion.

I haven't let myself look at my watch for a while now, figuring that I'd only be disappointed to see how slowly time was moving. But when I finally take a peek, I'm pleasantly surprised to see that it's past 2:17 p.m., and the school day is officially over. I can finally go home and once again be miserable in the privacy of my own bedroom. As I walk down the hall on my way to one of the side exits, though, I catch a glimpse of a pretty blond ponytail and for a moment I think it's Natalie Talbot. I take a step back and look again: It
is
Natalie Talbot.

“Grace?” Natalie yells, stopping me in my tracks. “Hey, I thought that was you.” She walks toward me. “One of your grandparents is here too?”

Since I'm not wearing my candy striper apron, I probably look like any other normal visitor at Hanover House—nervous, uncomfortable, and anxious to leave.

“Actually I work here.”

“Really?” Natalie's nose wrinkles. “Does that mean you have to, like, change the bedpans and stuff?”

“My job's more like handing out copies of
Us Weekly
and bringing mail to the residents.”

“Ah, so you get to see all the new magazines all the time?”

“Usually they're a little old.” I shrug. “I mean, it's not like anyone here really cares when they learn about some star's new baby or who's hooking up with who, just as long as they get a general idea so they can talk to their grandkids about it.”

“That kind of sounds like fun.” Natalie smiles, almost making me think she means it. “Hey, come into my grandfather's room!”

Before I say “Gotta run!” she's already slipped inside, and for some reason I find myself following right behind her.

It's not a private room like the one Mr. Sands has; instead there are two beds with patients inside, separated by a “privacy” curtain that looks like it runs on a zipper attached to the ceiling. The person in the half of the room near the door clearly gets shafted on the privacy part, because all visitors have to tromp through his space first. But I guess a lot of people here aren't really in the position to complain, or notice really. Since I don't see Natalie when I walk in, I assume her grandfather is in the second slot on the other side of the thin curtain, and have to smile at the unhappy-looking guy in bed #1 as I pass by.

“He's been out of it for a week,” Natalie says. “Think he knows we're here?” She passes her hand over his face like a magician doing a spell.

“Yes,” I respond immediately.

“Do they pay you to say that?” she laughs. “Like I always wondered if that wasn't just something they tell you to make you feel guilty for not visiting people here more often.”

“No, I don't think there's any conspiracy to make people feel guilty. I think feeling guilty just comes naturally around this place.”

Natalie laughs. “Oh, wait, do you need to get back to work or something? I don't want to keep you if you're going to get in trouble. But it's nice to have company in here.”

“Thanks,” I say, and then, before I can stop myself, add, “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” she says, pointing me to the chairs.

“Why were you kissing Jake the other day?” I don't know why I need to know the answer to this right now, but I do. Maybe it's just that if anyone would seem to have all the answers, it'd be a girl like Natalie.

“What?” She looks down. “What are you talking about? I wasn't kissing Jake.”

“Natalie, I saw you,” I say, cocking my head to the side in the
why are you lying to me?
position, “at the Fulton Pharmacy?”

“Yeah, I know,” she replies, examining the hem on her skirt, “we had that whole conversation about the green Blow Pops. And we were in total agreement that sour apple is the best flavor.” She glances back up at me to see if I'll let it go.

But if I've waded this deeply into awkward territory, why back away now? “No,” I respond, “I mean I saw you two before that. In the reflection of the shoplifter mirror.”

“Oh, you mean when we were in the beverage section?” she asks, as if she hasn't just been caught in a lie, but rather that this must just be another question. “Yeah, well, see, Rich and I—Rich is my boyfriend, or
was
anyway—so we've been fighting a lot lately. He'd been acting like a total dick since he got back from his college recruitment visits. Like he's suddenly way too cool for school now that some soccer coach at UVA expressed interest, you know?”

I have no idea.

“So anyway,” she continues, twisting her hair into a low ponytail by her right shoulder, “I know it probably wasn't the best way of handling it, but I knew it would make Rich jealous if I hooked up with Jake. Especially with Jake,” Natalie laughs, “because he and Rich used to be friends. But something happened between them and of course they won't talk to each other about it because they're
boys
, so they just kind of let it fester.”

“Uh-huh.” I nod.

“Anyway, I know your sister and Jake had been going out, so how's she taking the breakup?”

“Lolly and Jake haven't broken up,” I say with a shake of the head.

“No, they did,” replies Natalie, no trace of doubt in her voice. “Maybe she just hasn't said anything 'cause Jake told me things had gotten really weird between them and she was acting kind of—” She pauses and bites her lip.

“Kind of what?”

“Well, I don't really want to say anything bad because she's your sister.”

“That's
exactly
why you have to tell me,” I say.

Natalie nods, then looks me directly in the eye. “Okay, well, she started acting kind of stalker-y. Like, psycho, you know?”

Natalie's large green eyes look so open and honest, there seems no reason to doubt her, which is exactly why I need to stand up for Lolly. If Natalie had said she'd just been acting “bitchy,” it wouldn't seem like such a big deal. The word
bitch
is so overused, it's practically meaningless. But being called a psycho is different because it's impossible to defend against. If you try proving you're not crazy, you usually just wind up doing something stupid. Then the response is: “See? Told you she was a nut job.” So as I watch Natalie blink her curled golden eyelashes, I know I can't let her judgment sit on my sister.

“I think
Jake's
the one who's acting crazy. He's telling her one thing and you another.”

“Well.” Natalie shakes her head, certain that the version she has is right. “I don't know what he said to Lolly, but I'd feel terrible if she thought they were still dating, because Jake said he only wanted to go out with me.” Natalie takes my hand between hers. “Now I feel like I'm responsible for breaking them up, and I swear I never meant to do that.”

That she actually looks upset surprises me. “Natalie,
you
didn't break them up. It was Jake. No one was exactly holding a gun to his head and forcing him to kiss you. He did that all on his own.
He
's the one who cheated.” I don't say this to make her feel better. I say it because I really don't believe it was her fault. She might have been a temptation. But cheaters act with their own free will, a subject I spent a long time thinking about when my dad left us.

“Really? Okay, thanks,” she replies, giving me a hug as if I've just pardoned her for her sins.“God, now that I know he did that to Lolly, I don't even want anything to do with him anymore.”

“It's not like you have to,” I say.

“Well . . .” Natalie quickly glances back to her grandfather. “I already agreed to go to the dance with Jake, so I'm kind of stuck with him through that weekend.”

“So?” I shrug, following her eye line from her grandfather back out the window. “Tell him you changed your mind. Big deal if he gets upset or left alone. He deserves it.”

“I know you're right, but—” Natalie puts her index finger between her front teeth and bites down on it. “I also told Rich I was going with Jake, and you just should have seen the look on his face. It was classic.”

“Just find someone else to go with.” I put my hands out to show her what a no-brainer this one is.

“Right,” Natalie laughs, “like it would be that easy.”

“For you it would be.” And she laughs again like she doesn't believe me. “Are you kidding?” I say, “I, personally, know several guys who'd kill to go with you.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Like who?”

“Like who? Like everyone. Like my friend Eric, for instance. I mean, he even told me he thinks you're totally hot. But whatever, that's beside the point. You should follow your gut on this, and you shouldn't worry about what those boys will think. It's your decision and your conscience, you know?”

“I guess. I mean, I'll think about it.” Natalie considers this for a moment, then looks down at her watch. “Okay, well anyway, I've probably stayed here long enough. Karma points earned, check please! Right?” She tosses her hair, then walks back over to her grandfather and awkwardly reaches over the bed's metal railing to kiss him on the forehead. “Bye, Pop-pop. Love you. I'll see ya, Grace.” Natalie smiles, giving me a slight nod of the head before she walks out of the room just ahead of me.