Umber (66)

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.