Free God is in the Pancakes by Robin Epstein Page A

me?”
    The Sandses’ cottage has a cheerful exterior and there are marigolds growing in the window boxes. It almost looks like one of those houses on a postcard, with a big American flag waving out front, suggesting that good, solid citizens live here. The front door is open, so I knock on the side of the screen door, but there’s no response. I can hear the TV on in the background so I’m pretty sure Mrs. Sands is home. But when I knock again, more loudly this time, still no answer.
    â€œHello?” I call out.
    Nothing.
    â€œIt’s Grace Manning,” I say. I wait for another minute. “Hello?” When I don’t get a response, suddenly I’m a little worried, so I open the screen door and walk in. The entry that leads to the main living room area is dark, but there are pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Sands on the front table. I bend forward to get a better look, and I see a picture of Mrs. Sands, with a ridiculously high hairdo, a sleeveless blouse, capri pants, and Keds sitting on top of a llama and smiling widely, as if she’s completely aware of how ridiculous she looks but is having so much fun, she doesn’t care. Next to it, there’s a photo of Mr. and Mrs. Sands standing in front of some incredibly ornate temple, the kind I always picture when I think of Thailand—probably because I’ve seen images like this on the front of the local Thai restaurant’s takeout menu. On the other side of that, there’s a picture of a little boy who looks about five years old, standing in seersucker short pants and a little bow tie with a pained expression on his face. He’s dressed like it’s the 1920s or something, but from the digital date stamp on the side, you can tell that it was only taken eleven years ago, making the kid about my age.
    When I look up, my eyes having finally adjusted to the darkness, I see a figure sitting on the couch in the living room, staring blankly in the direction of the television.
    â€œMrs. Sands?” I walk toward her.
    At this, she finally turns and looks at me. She smiles slightly, but it’s more one of those dazed who are you and what the hell are you doing in my living room ? kind of expressions. I’m wondering the same thing myself.
    â€œHi,” I say, wanting to follow up with “And bye!”
    â€œOh. Hello,” she replies in a tone that suggests she’s not sure who I am.
    â€œGrace.” I point to myself and nod.
    â€œYes.” Mrs. Sands nods her head. “I recall.” She quickly brushes her index fingers under her eyes, then drops her hands back to her sides. It’s the same gesture I use when I’m watching a stupid movie—or worse, a sappy commercial—that makes my eyes leak. Especially if I’m with Eric and I don’t want him to see that I’m crying, I try to make it look like I’m just adjusting any eyeliner that’s smearing down my face. But when another fat teardrop drips off Mrs. Sands’s eyelash, she just shakes her head, realizing it’s no use. “Forgive me.” She puts both hands in front of her eyes. “I’ve never understood those people who say a good cry can make you feel better. Crying just makes me feel worse.” She shakes her head. “And it’ll prematurely wrinkle your eyes, so you should be careful.”
    â€œI’ll try.”
    â€œThese days, I can’t seem to help myself, though,” she says, as if chastising herself. I look to the wall clock and try to figure how long I need to spend here before I can flee. Mrs. Sands wipes her nose and looks back to me. “I’ve started carrying extra tissues wherever I go. I practically have a whole tissue box shoved up my sleeve.” She waves her wrist in the air and there is a bulge right under her cuff. “At least when I used to shove tissues in my shirt, I’d distribute them to better places.” She points to her chest, and I