When Girlfriends Chase Dreams by Savannah Page Page B

else? Then I’m left with nothing.”
    Both attendants smile warmly and insist there won’t be any trouble. They’ll keep this one that I’m wearing as their sample and go ahead and order in two dresses—one in this size and one in a size smaller. They say that guaranteed satisfaction is their policy, with gowns ready for the bride on their special day, just the way they want them.
    All I can do is trust that they know what they’re doing. I gave license to Melissa, and she’d already kind of screwed the pooch on the invites…but certainly everything here on out can go well. I mean, how many flubs can a girl have in one wedding?

Chapter Seven

    Mr. Craddock is my third and last patient of the day. Mr. Crabby Craddock is more like it. Oh, what a tough day at work! But I suppose not every day can be as fun as finding your dream wedding gown.
    Normally my patients are relatively amicable, as are my relationships with them. Mr. Craddock, unfortunately, is not one of them. He refuses, even after two years of care, to agree to a first-name basis. He’s a grouchy old man who has been left embittered by three divorces, a son whom he has disowned because of irreconcilable political differences, and an amputated left foot, because he refused to heed the doctors’ excessive warnings of what type 2 diabetes could do to his body. I’ve always tried to practice patience, understanding, and kindness, especially in my work, but Crabby Craddock sure makes it difficult sometimes.
    “Mr. Craddock,” I repeat to the stubborn bald man who’s sitting in his wheelchair, his back purposely turned to me. I was trying to tell him that he needed to continue to eat his heart-healthy breakfast. His strict diet isn’t something to be cheated on.
    I’m not the only caretaker of Mr. Craddock’s, however. I’m one of a handful the hospital sends his way, and unfortunately there’s one among us who doesn’t raise much hell when Mr. Craddock has a suspicious green and white paper carton protruding from his trash receptacle.
    “I don’t know why you continue to hurt yourself,” I tell him, waving about the Krispy Kreme box for added emphasis of my point.
    It’s not worth it, since Mr. Craddock’s chosen to tune me out. When he starts doing that, there’s no end. Once he’s chosen to say “See ya, girly!” (and he actually says that, with a spin on his two large wheels), there’s no going back. It’ll be a silent day.
    “Mr. Craddock,” I repeat, still maintaining patience and composure, “I’m only looking out for your best interest.”
    “Hmph.” He actually makes a noise in reply. That’s a rarity.
    “Mr. Craddock.” I walk around to face him and he refuses to meet my eyes. “Sir?”
    He gruffly crosses his arms and continues to deflect my questioning with an aggravating silence and a glare at the front room window.
    I give up. If the man refuses to help himself, then how can I even try?
    I toss the empty box of doughnuts into the recycling bin, where it belongs, and make a small scowl when I realize the bin is empty, whereas the garbage can is overflowing. Boy, that really peeves me. What will happen to our planet if we continue to trash it?
    “Ugh,” I groan. I start to tidy up the kitchen: take out the garbage after attempting a sort of recyclables from the trash, wipe down the crumb-covered countertops, put in a load of dishes, and sweep up the equally crumb-covered floors.
    When I finish I look over at Mr. Craddock. He’s now wheeled himself to the television and is trying to turn it on, muttering to himself things like, “Confounded contraption!” and “This infernal machine!” and a single, but loud, “Dagnabbit!” as he waves a wrinkled fist at the confusing electronics.
    I toss the drying towel onto the counter and offer to help him find the channel he’s looking for. Still refusing to meet my eyes, he shoves the remote at me, then points to the top of the DVD player and says something about how I