All the Single Ladies Read Free Page B

And every time you visit, her spirits perk up, and by the time you leave, she honestly feels better. Who could ask for better friends? Y’all have done everything that anyone could do.”
    â€œThank you,” Suzanne said, and then paused, gathering her thoughts. “Oh God! I really hoped, or I had hoped, that she’d get to a place where she could come to the beach to convalesce. The salt air would do her so much good.”
    â€œWell, for now I think we just take one day at a time.”
    â€œYes,” Carrie said. “God, this stinks. This whole business stinks.”
    â€œIt sure does. But, listen. Keep talking to her, even when she appears to be sleeping,” I said, “because she can probably hear you. She just can’t respond. Y’all are helping her in ways you can’t even imagine.”
    â€œAnd shouldn’t we pray?” Carrie said. “Prayer can’t hurt.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Suzanne said to no one in particular.
    â€œPrayer helps everyone. I’ve seen some pretty amazing things happen when ­people pray.”
    They looked at me and I knew they were hoping against reason that I was going to tell them I’d seen ­people miraculously cured. I’d heard of miracles, lots of them in fact, but I had not seen one. I was sorry. I wished I had. I wanted to give them hope where there was so very little, but I failed. I could not lie to them or give them false reassurance.
    As the day crawled by, I became more and more disheartened. Every time I went by Kathy Harper’s room, she seemed a little worse. By the time I got home, I was beside myself with dread and all sorts of claustrophobic and woeful feelings. But Pickle was at the door and all but swooned with happiness to have me back. Dogs were so great. I adored mine and could never resist her enthusiasm.
    â€œHey, little girl! Hey, my sweet Pickle!” I reached down and scooped her up in my arms and she licked my face clean. “Did you go outside today? Did John and Mayra come and take you to the park?”
    Pickle barked and wiggled and barked some more. Apparently, John and Mayra Schmidt, my dog-­loving next door neighbors, had indeed taken Pickle somewhere where she found something to roll around with or to challenge because she smelled like shampoo. They were retired and kept a set of keys to my house. Mayra spent a lot of time making note of the personal comings and goings of all our neighbors. She was always peeping through her blinds like Gladys Kravitz on that old television program Bewitched . I loved her to death.
    â€œWhat did you do, Miss Pickle, to deserve a bath today? Hmm? Did you find a skunk?”
    Pickle loved skunks more than any other mammal on this earth. Maybe it was the way they moved in their seductive stealth, low to the ground. They held some kind of irresistible allure. That much was certain.
    She barked again and I’d swear on a stack of Bibles that she said yes, she’d been rolling around with a dead skunk. But most dog owners thought their dogs spoke in human words as well as dog-­speak. I took her leash from the hook on the wall and attached it to her collar.
    â€œLet’s go, sweetie,” I said, and we left through the front door.
    John and Mayra were outside getting into their car. I waved to them and they stopped to talk.
    â€œHey! How are y’all doing?” I said.
    â€œHey! Good thing we had tomato juice in the house!” Mayra said. “Our little Pickle ran off with Pepé Le Pew this morning!”
    â€œPickle,” I said in my disappointed mommy voice.
    I looked down at her and she looked at the ground, avoiding eye contact with me.
    â€œSo John baptized her with a huge can of tomato juice and then I shampooed her in the laundry room sink.”
    Mayra squatted to the ground and held out her hand. Pickle was so happy to be in Mayra’s favor again that she pulled hard against her leash,