Chapter 23: The Plaque

I brought my own plaque to the garden on a Saturday morning in May.

It was a rectangle of dark bronze, the size of a cookie sheet, wrapped in a dish towel.

The stonemason in Grove City who had made my father's headstone had cast it for nothing.

He wouldn't even take a tip.

The Healing Garden sat in a corner of the hospital courtyard, behind the Whitbread Family Wing.

It had a low stone wall, a crabapple tree in white bloom, and a bench.

Four people from the grounds crew were already waiting by the wall.

So was a woman from the hospital's front office with a clipboard.

Behind them stood a dozen nurses in scrubs, who had come on their break.

I hadn't invited any of them.

"Somebody put it on the intranet," one of them told me, shrugging. "We wanted to see."

My mother came up the path with her purse on her arm.

Kip walked beside her, in a gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

He carried a cordless drill and a bag of anchors.

"You said no help," he said. "This is a loan."

"Fine."

"I can also stand here and hold your coffee."

"The drill, please."

He grinned and handed it over.

The old plaque was bolted to the wall at eye level, bright and polished.

THE WREN HAZARD MEMORIAL HEALING GARDEN.

A gift of the Whitbread Family.

I read it once and put my hand on the cold brass.

"Ma'am?" the woman with the clipboard said. "I was told to let you know that this is hospital property. You'll need..."

"I'm Wren's mother," I said. "This one is mine to change."