God is in the Pancakes by Robin Epstein Page A

is up to her mouth and from the crinkle around her eyes, it’s pretty clear she finds this all very amusing.
    â€œForgive me,” the woman says. “I think I interrupted you in a private moment.”
    â€œWell,” I reply, instead of yelling something to the effect of: “No kidding, lady, I’m in the bathroom!”
    â€œWere you praying?” she asks.
    â€œSort of.”
    â€œThat’s what I thought,” the woman says with a nod,
    â€œwhich is why I spoke up. I like the idea of answering prayers,” she says. “Plus, I figure I’m so old, I could have been God’s babysitter.”
    I look at her and she’s smiling. I can’t help but laugh a little myself.
    â€œGood,” the old woman replies, “I’m glad you laughed. You know, a lot of people around here don’t have any sense of humor at all. They would have said, ‘Oh, you’re not that old!’ And then I’d have to explain that I know I’m not that old, I was merely trying to make a joke, which would make the whole thing just absurd. When you have to explain why something’s funny . . .” She trails off. “You know what I mean?”
    â€œToo well,” I reply, smiling. I can’t remember any of the other lady residents making me laugh—especially not in a place or time like this. I stare at the woman and try to place her, but she doesn’t look familiar to me. “Did you just move to Hanover House?” I ask.
    â€œNo, I’m part of the cottage community around back.”
    â€œOh, are you sick?” She doesn’t look sick, but I think sometimes it can be hard to tell with old people, and I wonder how this would affect her status as one of the cottage folk cool kids.
    â€œNo,” she replies, pausing and looking down in a way that makes me realize I probably shouldn’t have asked the question. “Just visiting. But how rude of me! I don’t think I introduced myself. I’m Isabelle.” She straightens her back a bit, then extends her hand to me.
    â€œI’m Grace,” I reply, returning her surprisingly firm handshake. It sort of feels like the woman could crush rocks if she—
    â€œGrace!” Isabelle says. A mischievous smile reappears and makes me wonder if she’s about to make a pun on my name. Everyone thinks they’re the first to tell me “You don’t look graceful .” Instead she simply says, “Well, it’s so nice to meet you officially. I’ve heard great things about you.”
    â€œYou have?”
    Isabelle nods. “You shouldn’t sound that surprised,” she says, “it’s a dead giveaway that you’re really an awful person.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œGrace, I’m teasing you!” Isabelle laughs. “What happened to that sense of humor you had a minute ago?”
    â€œSorry, I guess I’m a little off today.”
    â€œMmm, I’ve had a lot of those days recently,” she responds. “Anyway, my husband mentioned you by name to me, which means he thinks you’re quite special—my husband never remembers anyone’s name.”
    â€œOh, thank you.” I smile.
    â€œI’m heading home now,” Isabelle says. “But if you have a moment, please come visit us.”
    â€œSure,” I reply. “What’s the room number again?” I think this is a pretty clever way of getting out of admitting that though I may have made some sort of impression on her husband, he was just a muddle of white hair and wrinkles to me.
    â€œThree twenty-three. Wait.” She pauses. “Is that right? Maybe it’s two thirty-two. Numbers confuse the hell out of me, always have, and don’t let them convince you that trigonometry will ever be important in your life. It’s a damn lie.”
    â€œI always had that suspicion.” I nod, deciding that whatever else I was supposed to be