God is in the Pancakes (27 page)

Eric exhales loudly. “Look, I know you're pissed.”

“I'm not pissed,” I lie, flopping down on my bed.

“Okay, maybe that's the wrong word then.”

I bite down on my lip and a twinge of pain from the bruise radiates through my jaw. “Actually, ‘pissed' is fair.”

“You know I debated whether I should tell you about it at all. Ninety-eight percent of me said, ‘Don't do it, nothing good will come of it.' But the other two percent somehow managed to convince me that I should.” He lets out one of those little laughs that makes it sound like he's marveling over his own stupidity. “I wish I could tell you that that two percent was the good angel sitting on my shoulder, saying, ‘Tell her the truth, honesty is the best policy!' but I don't think that was it. I think part of me really just wanted to get a rise out of you. Make you mad.”

“Nice job.”

“Grace, things have been totally bizarre between the two of us recently.”

“I know, and it's been my fault, I get it. This whole thing with Natalie is like my punishment for being weird or something, right?”

“No, that's not it. I didn't want to punish you. Maybe I just wanted to get a real reaction from you.”

“That's great, Eric, thanks.”

“Grace, come on.”

“What do you want me to say? That I'm happy for you? I'm sorry, Eric, I know maybe as your friend I'm supposed to be psyched for you that you're hooking up with the hottest girl at school. I mean, I know that's some big accomplishment. And I know how other girls look at you now, like Chelsea Roy and all the rest. It's like they've suddenly ‘discovered' you and now see what a great, cool guy you are. But it didn't take me seeing you toss a ball through a hoop to realize that. I always knew it and I just thought, I don't know, maybe that we had something. Or—”

“Or what?”

“Or it doesn't even matter now, so let's just drop it.”

“I'm not going to drop it. Look, Natalie just called me because she wanted to talk about us going to the dance together.”

“Oh yeah? So have you two color coordinated your outfits yet?”

“I told her I wasn't going to go after all.”

“Perfect,” I laugh bitterly. “Now I can have her all to myself! But I'll bet people will be dying to know how someone like me managed to get a date with a girl as hot as her.”

“Grace, stop,” Eric says. “I never wanted to go to that dance with Natalie. You know that. I asked you, remember?”

“But that was before you knew you could have her.” I stand again and look at myself in the mirror. All I can see is damage.

“I don't want her! I don't want Chelsea or anybody else,” Eric yells. “Don't you get it? It's you. I want you.”

And that's when I tell Eric everything. That's when I tell him what had been going on with Mr. Sands. That's when I tell him about my last conversation with Isabelle.

“Holy shit,” replies Eric.

“Yeah, I've said that a few times myself.”

“So you're not the one who
actually
killed him, are you?” he asks.

“That's kind of a tough question to answer.”

Eric pauses, and I listen for the judgment in the sound of his breathing. But when he speaks again he simply says, “I'm just trying to imagine what I would have done if I were you . . . I don't know.”

“Well,” I reply, “you probably would have thought about it for a long time and then you would have come to some conclusion that factored in quality of life and personal responsibility and morality and divine intervention and family and love and suffering and autonomy and fairness and consequences. And after weighing all that, you still might not have known what the right answer was, or if there
is
a right answer at all. But hopefully whatever you chose to do you'd feel like it was a good decision. So if I haven't quite been myself lately, that's probably why. I've had a few things on my mind.”

“Yeah, just a few,” he says, with a disbelieving laugh. “There anything else you've been thinking about that I should know?”

“Uh, just one more thing.”

“
Seriously
?” Eric doesn't sound like he can stand to hear any more, but I need to tell him this one last thing.

“I never got a chance to say how much you being there for me every day has meant to me.”

“You don't have to.”

“I know,” I say, “which is part of why I want to.”

On Friday night I reach deep into my closet and feel around for the Cignal bag that I'd thrown to the back as soon as I'd gotten home from my shopping trip the other day. I hadn't allowed myself to touch it again and tried not to think about the red silk dress wrapped inside. It was a present to myself that after purchase I felt sure I didn't deserve, and though I'm still not sure I deserve it, I am sure wearing the dress will make me “better.” Or at least look better. In keeping with that theme, for the past several days I've been trying to eat better too. Or at least eat less. I cleaned out all my pockets of junk food and tossed the candy I'd stashed around the house.

When I finally free the Cignal bag from the mountain of crap at the bottom of the closet, I carefully remove its tissue-papered contents. I slide my finger under the sticker seal and pull the protective sheets back. My breath catches when I see the beautiful red silk fabric shining up at me. If possible, the dress is prettier than I remembered. I hold it against me and glance at myself in the mirror, wanting to preserve the image of what I could look like before trying the dress on in case the Cinderella moment doesn't happen, and the dress doesn't fit so perfectly again.

But after I slip off my robe and step into it, I know its magic is working because the zipper closes easily—in one fluid movement—even without me taking a deep inhale. I spin on my heels and I watch in the full-length mirror as the dress twirls around me. It takes less than a second to spot a critical error: shoes. Now if I happened to own shoes other than Pumas or Chuck Taylors, this would not be such a big deal. The problem is that the only shoes I own are rubber soled and ink tattooed, and even the thought of putting them anywhere near this beautiful dress is just wrong. I'm shoeless, and it's an hour and a half before the dance.

What's almost worse is that I can picture the perfect pair for the dress: black sequined T-straps, piped with vintage-looking silver leather with a high red satin stiletto heel. These shoes are an outfit to themselves. And they're sitting at the top of Mom's closet in a box that hasn't been reopened since Mom and Dad's twentieth anniversary party last year.

For the many differences between the Manning women, we all have size 7½ feet, so I know they'd fit me. I consider my options: I could sneak into Mom's bedroom, take the shoes, and pray they don't get scuffed or spilled on, returning them to the box when she's out tomorrow. I could take the box and stick it in Lolly's closet, assuming that by the time Mom ever goes looking for them (presumably no time soon), the two of them would work it out. Or I could go downstairs, ask her to borrow them, and do the right thing.

This is not a decision I make quickly. But in light of all the rest, I decide to try harder on this front too.

“Mom?” I call as I walk down the steps, assuming she's in the kitchen.

“My stars,” she says, glancing up from her magazine. Mom's camped out on the couch in a pair of sweats and fuzzy slippers. “Look at you.”

“Oh.” I'm immediately self-conscious and worried she's about to ask where I got the dress or how I managed to pay for it on my own. I'd never bothered bringing up the subject of it or the dance again after we'd fought about it. “Does it look okay?”

“Does it look
okay
? It's gorgeous.” Mom motions me to the couch, then shuts her magazine and sits up. “Oh, Grace, I don't think you've ever looked prettier.”

“Thanks,” I say, pleased and a little surprised.

Mom laughs. “So I guess this means you and Eric worked things out, huh? Or are you going with someone else and this dress is designed to make him regret that decision?”

“No, Eric and I talked and kind of figured some things out.”

“I'm glad to hear that. It's good to know you were both smart enough to make up. I'm proud of you.”

“You are?”

“Of course I am,” she replies. “Especially because I know I haven't been the best role model for this sort of stuff. I mean, I wish I were better at it, and I have to think if your dad and I could have given you a happier example, this would just be easier all around, but . . .” Mom shrugs, unable to finish the sentence. “Just to be clear, though, you do know that I'm on your side and that I love you, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, “most of the time.”

Mom tips her head side to side as if considering this. “That's fair.” She doesn't ask if I mean that I think she's on my side most of the time, or whether she means some of the time she's not. But I think we both get it.

Still, I'm a little scared that asking to borrow Mom's special anniversary party shoes will immediately march us two steps back, so I send up a silent prayer that she won't hit the roof when I mention them. “Hey, uh, Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“So there's one little problem.” I point to my bare feet. Before I can even mention borrowing her shoes, a smile comes across her face.

“I have the
perfect
solution!” she says, hopping off the couch, taking my hand, and leading me upstairs. Mom flips the light on in her bedroom and I realize I haven't been in here much over the past few months. Though we've all been living under the same roof, we've pretty much existed in our own pods.

Minus the T-shirts Dad usually left in piles at the corners of the room, and the various objects he'd clear out of his pockets and spread on his dresser, the room hasn't changed much. As Mom walks over to her closet, I glance at her bureau and see she still hasn't moved the silver framed wedding photo of her and Dad that's been there forever. In the photo Mom and Dad are looking at each other as they're exiting the church just after they were married. Dad is dressed in one of those old-fashioned tuxedos and he's gazing at Mom like she's the only woman on earth. Mom beams back at him, looking like it would be impossible for her to be any happier. I assumed that the photo would have been the first thing to go after Dad left. But seeing it sitting there on dresser, making it look like nothing has changed when, in fact,
everything
has changed, causes a new lump to form in the back of my throat.

Mom turns around and catches me staring at the photo. She walks over and lets out a long breath. “I know,” she says, “I keep thinking I should put it away. But every time I pick it up to shove it in a drawer, I wind up putting it right back there.”

“Well, it's a great picture,” I reply, thinking about what Isabelle said about missing Mr. Sands, and how hard it must be to let go.

“Look at us. So full of hope for our lives together.” She shakes her head and smiles. “I think part of the reason I haven't packed the picture away is because I like seeing that hope in my eyes. I know your father's gone, and it's not just about pining for him anymore. It's also about me, and reminding myself that happiness like this is possible.”

“I get that. And I'm a believer too.”

“Thank you, honey,” Mom says, reaching out and squeezing my arm. “Now, on to another very important matter.” From behind her back Mom reveals a pristine gray shoebox. “Ta-da!” She holds on to the bottom of the box as I remove the lid, and yin-yanged inside is the perfect pair of shoes. I take each shoe from the box and slide into them before bending over and buckling their T-straps. They're so high, I almost fall forward as I stand back up, but Mom catches my arm and prevents me from face-planting in her carpet.