Lorraine sat in a rented hospital bed in her living room, walker nearby and television murmuring. Seeing my splinted wrist, she immediately turned off the news.
“Amara Jean Whitlock,” she said. “What in God’s name happened to you?”
I sat down on the edge of her bed and told her everything.
She listened quietly, how she used to listen to third graders explain why their homework wasn’t done. When I got to Hattie Greene, she closed her eyes.
“Hattie was my best friend for sixty years,” she said softly. “We taught Sunday school together at Mount Zion. She made the best sweet potato pie in Pell County. I sat with her family at the hospital when she died.” Her voice cracked. “They told us it was her heart. Just her heart. Old age. Nobody said a word about pills.”
“Deputy Miller wrote it down,” I said. “He kept it for fourteen months.”
