October 24, 2012 § Leave a comment
Apparently Benny was used to doing the old woman’s bidding, for he patted her arm indulgently and strode down the hallway toward the kitchen. Relieved, I triumphantly scrawled my name on the receptionist’s notepad and slowly followed Miss Tibbs down the hall. She moved at a turtle’s pace. When we got to the door of her room, I read the name plate next to the door. It said, “Oleander Tibbs.”
Oleander’s room was tiny and rather sterile-looking. It smelled of pork and beans, disinfectant, and carnation-scented bath salts. It contained a hospital bed, a microwave and a small refrigerator with a basket of yellow silk flowers on top. A round white plastic table by the window looked out on the junipers and the parking lot.