God is in the Pancakes by Robin Epstein Page B

keeping him from reappearing in the same way. We all did. Once she got the news about Nancy Falton, the prayer leader at the church, though—the news that Nancy had been subbed in as her replacement—that was the kicker. Mom had run into Tina Cordell, a teacher in the church’s preschool and one of Nancy’s best friends, at the grocery store three days after he left, and Tina had casually asked Mom how she was doing “now that Daniel’s moved in with Nancy.” I don’t know how Mom reacted in the supermarket, but by the time she got home, she had completely lost it. The rest of the night she raged. “Even if that scumbag father of yours dares to come crawling back,” she yelled, “even if he admits what a stupid mistake he made, there’s no way. There’s no way I’d let him come back. I have too much pride for that.” Lolly and I just kind of sat there on the couch, not knowing if we were supposed to turn the TV off or sit there without moving until she stopped howling and the storm passed.
    Mom ranted on for a while and kept talking about pride this and pride that. But that was the part that made the least sense to me because pride’s one of those tricky things. Sometimes people tell you it’s good; you want to have it in the “I’m proud of you, son,” or “I’m proud to be an American” way. They tie it up with a sense of honor, self-esteem, and a lot of times with dignity. But there’s a difference. Unlike dignity, sometimes having too much pride is completely negative: It’s one of the seven deadly sins—the thing that’ll get you in the end and cause your demise. So when Mom said she had too much pride to let Dad come back ( if he ever tried to ), I couldn’t decide if that was the good pride or bad pride because in a weird way, it seemed like both.
    I look at Lolly standing above me on the couch, and I’m certain neither one of us is up to the “guess what I saw?” chat right now, even if it does seem like her pride could stand to be taken down a few notches. So I just shake my head and get up, surrendering the couch. I head upstairs to my room and close the door. Kicking my shoes off, I lie down on my bed and stare up at the ceiling.
    â€œ Me again ,” I say somewhat loudly, as if trying to wake a sleeping giant. Maybe he has been asleep at the wheel, since nothing has gotten better since I last prayed. “ Okay, I’m going to assume you can hear me, even if I speak a little softer ,” I continue, shifting my eyes back up to the ceiling. “I’ve got a couple of new questions for you today.” I’m trying to decide where to start, putting my list in the right order of importance, but my mouth is running again before I think the whole thing through. “Dad. I need a little help understanding him. When is he coming back? And how could you let him run away in the first place?” I barely get that question out of my mouth before I’m on to the next one, anger quickly building and crashing over me. “Okay, speaking of stuff that shouldn’t be happening, let’s talk again about Mr. Sands. I mean, why would you give him such a horrible disease? Why? He doesn’t deserve this.” The next thought dawns as quickly as the last. “ And tell me this: Lolly. Why so bitchy?” I exhale and stare hard at the ceiling.
    But there’s no reply.
    And there’s no movement.
    No nothing.
    The only thing I feel now is the heat radiating in my cheeks because the rest of me feels empty. My hands are cold, and as I bring them to my face to try to cool it down, I hear the doorbell ring downstairs.
    â€œGrace!” Lolly yells.
    I don’t reply.
    â€œGrace!” she shouts again. “Your BOYFRIEND’s here!”
    My what? Who? Oh, no, she must mean Eric . . . She didn’t just say that right in front of him! What is wrong with that