Women’s Hospital by Anne P. Beatty

Women’s Hospital by Anne P. Beatty

They are tearing down Women’s Hospital, where I gave birth to my youngest two, a girl against the flame-bright maples of November, a boy in June’s fat sweat. For years, the hospital stands silent, as we drive to the dentist, to the bookstore, to the carwash. I think nothing of it—well, maybe not nothing, but only the tiniest shivers of memory: the nurse saying, why don’t you take a walk, the nurse saying, it’s too late to get in the tub, the nur…