“You don’t have to care,” she told me once. “You just have to do it. The caring comes later.”
She was right. It did.
My mom remarried when I was nineteen and moved down to Florida. We talk on the phone. It’s fine. But Grandma is the one who raised me, really. Grandma is the one who came to my college graduation in a purple hat and cried so loud everybody turned around. Grandma is the one who held Sarah’s hand at our wedding and told her, “If he ever gives you any trouble, you call me.”
I thought I knew everything about her.
We pulled into the parking lot of St. Andrew’s Medical Center a little after seven.
It’s an old hospital. The main building is red brick, four stories tall, with a big white cross on top. Over the years, they’ve added new wings in glass and steel. There’s a big shiny one on the east side with a name carved into the stone over the door. CALLOWAY PAVILION.
