Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [5]
But the majority of her time was blocked off for room 208 from 10:00 to 2:00 three days a week. From a WTF standpoint, Luella only spent an
hour with the other occupants of the room numbers on her list? One hour, once every two weeks? But lucky number 208 received twelve hours per week?
Didn’t someone in Administration find that strange and question her about it?
13
I scanned the time sheet for the previous month and found the identical schedule and no notation from Luella’s supervisor—B. Boner—just a scrawled signature as final approval. Although the name wasn’t listed I knew who lived in room 208. I also realized that no other volunteer’s initials were in any of the time boxes attributed to room 208. I thumbed through the remaining paperwork in the folder. On the last page marked Extra, at the top of the list, in roughly an hour, two full hours were blocked off as personal time for Luella Spotted Tail and Mr. Room 208—Vernon Sloane.
Guilt assailed me for my earlier dismissal of Amery’s concerns. As far as I could tell, no other resident spent time away from Prairie Gardens with Luella on a regular basis.
A door slammed, startling me. I returned to the reception desk and poked my head through the partition.
“Thanks. I think I have a better handle on this place now. I’ll just put this back”—and I purposely knocked the clipboard, the folders, and all the papers off Dee’s desk right onto the floor. “Oh jeez. I’m so sorry; I’m such a klutz; let me come on back there and help you clean it up—”
“No unauthorized people in the office; it’s against company policy,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry.”
She angrily hefted her girth out of the overtaxed office chair and lumbered to the jumbled mess. 14
Using the map, I trudged down the main hallway to the common rooms. I’d made it about ten steps when I heard a raspy voice behind me that sent chills up my spine.
“You’d be dangerous if you were half as sneaky as you think you are. I saw what you were doing. Give me a reason why I shouldn’t turn you in, young lady.”
15
Busted. I eased around slowly, afraid I’d find a battle-ax resembling my tenth-grade social studies teacher, Mrs. Bartelsby, itching to drag me back to the reception area to face the Muzak.
I looked down into a wheelchair at a shrunken woman, her thinning hair an unnatural shade of auburn, her watery blue eyes magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses. She wore a baggy gold lamé tank top, purple velour sweatpants, and Sponge Bob slippers. She’d gone braless. Her long, thin boobs rested on her skinny thighs as if waiting to be fashioned into balloon animals. I tried not to gawk at the droopy tubes or at the Sex Kitten tattoo melting down her right bicep.
“Hi there. I’m, umm—”
“Up to no good, aren’t you?”
“Ah, no. Actually, I’m lost.”
16
She snorted. “Actually, you have a map in your hand, which means you had no reason to paw through those private files.”
Crap. “I didn’t think anyone saw me.”
“Why?” She waggled a bony finger around the vicinity of my belly button. Because this is an old folks’
home? You see a sea of white hair and think we’re all blind, deaf, and dumb? Oblivious to our surroundings?”
“No, ma’am.”
She squinted at me. “What is your name?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I attempted to sidestep her; I’ll be damned if she didn’t maneuver her wheelchair like Earnhardt Jr. and run me into the wall.
“Don’t you try to get around me. I’ll ask you again: What is your name?”
Tired of being bullied by a woman half my size and three times my age, I leaned down until we were nose to nose. I smelled Emeraude perfume on her wrinkled skin and butterscotch