Your House or Mine?. Cynthia Thomason

nothing. At the threshold she looked down upon an empty bed, stripped of sheets.

      Meg stood rooted in the doorway. “Oh, my God, no…”

      A worker came up behind her, touched her lightly on her shoulder. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

      Meg whirled around and stared into the young woman’s face. “My aunt. She’s gone. What happened?”

      The woman held up a stack of linens. “It’s not what you think. I’m just changing the sheets. Miz Ashford’s down the hall in the gathering room.”

      Meg felt limp with relief. She held on to the arm of a chair until she caught her breath. “Of course. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

      The woman set the sheets on a dresser, took the top one and flipped it open over the bed. The scent of bleach trailed in the wake of the fluttering cotton. “Five doors down,” she said. “You’ll find Miz Ashford.”

      “Thank you.” As she walked down the hall, Meg was able to think logically again. Of course Amelia wouldn’t spend every waking hour in bed. The staff would encourage her to mingle with other patients, at the same time giving the employees opportunity to keep the rooms maintained.

      At the door to the gathering room, Meg recognized the voice of Gene Rayburn coming from a big-screen television. Amelia was seated in a wheelchair several feet from the set. She was propped up with pillows and a thick floral throw covered her knees. She was, as yesterday, enraptured by the television show.

      Meg looked at the screen and watched celebrities give answers on Match Game. She pulled a chair close to her aunt and sat down. “Good morning, Aunt Amelia,” she said.