Free God is in the Pancakes by Robin Epstein Page B

see a smile forming on her lips. “Good thing they didn’t have those water bras in my day. With my luck the darned thing would have sprung a leak, and I would have wound up with papier-mâché breasts.”
    â€œNever thought of that,” I say with a laugh.
    â€œHey, you gotta be careful—” Mrs. Sands warns, a note of mock seriousness entering her voice, “or the smile lines will get you too.”
    â€œYeah, my mom calls her wrinkles smile lines, but she doesn’t smile enough to have earned all those creases in her face.”
    â€œThat’s a terrible thing to say, Grace,” Mrs. Sands responds, “and I’m beginning to understand why my husband likes you so much! Come, sit.” She beckons me to the couch. “You know I still can’t believe it took us this long to finally meet.”
    â€œI know.” I try to make myself comfortable on the cushion farthest away from her. “I’m just surprised we didn’t bump into each other sooner.”
    â€œWell, I think by the time you arrive in the late afternoons, Frank has already kicked me out for the day. I spend mornings over there when you’re at school, I suppose. Then at a certain point after lunch every day, he shoos me away. ‘Get out, Izzy! Do some of the fancy activities they have here, do some exercise,’ he says.” Mrs. Sands laughs. “Exercise, honestly! Never enjoyed it as a young woman, don’t think that’s really going to change at this age.”
    â€œI hear you.”
    She laughs again. “We run through this same routine every day. Silly, I know, but I think it makes both of us feel better. Oh, Grace, where are my manners? Can I get you something to drink?” Standing, Mrs. Sands looks livelier, more like she’d seemed the other day. “Maybe a Pepsi?” she suggests. “I have to warn you, though, I only have the caffeine-free stuff.”
    â€œOh, that’s okay,” I reply, thinking that though I could explain to Mr. Sands that I came here because it was a job requirement, part of me doesn’t want him to think I might enjoy it.
    â€œWell, I’m not much of a fan of the caffeine-free stuff, myself—if you can’t enjoy the buzz, why bother?—but my doctor seems to feel I get enough of it in the coffee I drink. Six cups a day,” she whispers. “No way he’ll get me to give that up. He’ll have to pry the Folgers out of my cold dead hands.”
    Mrs. Sands then reaches into the freezer and takes out one of those old-fashioned 1950s ice trays. The metal kind with the handle you pull to help the ice cubes come out without making you have to bang the tray against the counter. “I mean what’s the point of living if you take all the little pleasures away, right? Speaking of . . .” She opens a cabinet, pulls out a bag of those giant Pepperidge Farm chocolate chunk cookies, and holds it out for me to take over to the coffee table. “Only live once, right?”
    â€œSure, thanks.” I nod as Mrs. Sands takes two glasses down from the cabinet, puts a few ice cubes in each, then pours out the can of soda, half in each glass.
    â€œSo tell me, Grace.” She hands me the glass. “Why are you working in an awful place like this?”
    â€œIt’s not that bad.” I shrug. I want to tell her that I actually enjoy spending time with her husband, but I don’t want to sound like a suck-up. Instead, I just open the white Pepperidge Farm bag and take out an oversized cookie.
    â€œOh, please!” exclaims Mrs. Sands. “I had a job I hated when I was your age too. I worked the cash register in my father’s grocery store. Oh, it was so miserable. I wanted to quit every day, but when your dad’s your boss—”
    â€œYou’re screwed.” I take a bite of the cookie and sink my teeth right into a chunk of chip. The bittersweet chocolate makes me