Grandma came every day too. I drove her. Twenty-eight miles each way, every morning at six-thirty. She’d bring a loaf of her homemade bread for the nurses and a thermos of coffee for Dr. Hale. She’d sit by the bed and talk to Ruth for hours. About Michael. About Frank. About Grace. About the cherry tree.
Kayla, the receptionist, met us at the front door the second morning. She looked like she hadn’t slept.
“Mrs. Walker,” she said. “I am so sorry. I had no idea. If I had known…”
“You were doing your job, honey,” Grandma said. “Rules are rules.”
“Not that rule,” Kayla said firmly. “Not anymore.”
She’d already added Grandma’s name to the visitor list. And mine. And under “Relationship to Patient,” she’d typed one word.
Family.
Sarah came on the third day. She was nervous. She stood in the doorway holding her belly, not sure if she should come in. Ruth saw her and held out both her thin arms.
