God is in the Pancakes by Robin Epstein Page A

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?”
    â€œIt’s for nothing. It’s because I want you to have it.”
    â€œOh, no, Mrs. Sands I really couldn’t,” I protest, shaking my head but still wanting the money. “I get paid to work here, so—”
    â€œSo I’m sure they’re not paying you enough and it’s always nice to have a little extra,” she says with a wink.
    â€œBut . . .”
    â€œPlease, 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.

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    â€œDon’t!” Lolly yells from upstairs as I turn on the TV in the living room.
    â€œWhat?” I yell back, flipping through the channels and sitting down on the couch.
    â€œI was just going to watch my soap,” she says, coming down the stairs with the remote in her hand.
    â€œYou have it recorded, you can watch it anytime.”
    â€œI don’t care,” Lolly replies, shaking her head and waggling her finger back and forth.
    â€œYou look like Mom when you do that.”
    â€œNo, I don’t!” Lolly yells, stopping her finger mid-wag. I look at my sister standing there in that white V-neck undershirt, cut-off army pants, her hair knotted in a fat bun at the top of her head, and all I can think about is that Jake is cheating on her. “And move, ’cause I want to lay on the couch. Seriously, Grace, my back is killing me and I have cramps,” Lolly says, throwing down the period card.
    The period card is like the Joker—it’s one of those wild cards that signals to the other player, “You have been warned: I can’t be held accountable for my behavior if you disturb me now.” If I had been considering telling Lolly about Jake and what I’d seen at the pharmacy the other day, I know now is definitely not the right time to do it. Not that there really is a right time to learn about that kind of stuff. There definitely wasn’t a right mood for Mom when she found out Dad had actually left for another woman.
    After he split but before Mom heard someone else was in the picture, I’m pretty sure Mom also believed Dad would come back and things would work out again. Yeah, she was pissed that Dad had just disappeared, but I think part of her held on to the idea that nothing was