THE WOMAN WHO DIED IN MY SISTER’S NAME
THE WOMAN WHO DIED IN MY SISTER’S NAME
For twelve years, I believed my younger sister had died alone in a motel fire. Then a hospital social worker called to tell me that a woman recovering from surgery had listed me as her emergency contact—and when I heard her voice, I recognized the person I had buried before she even said my name.
The call came on a Wednesday afternoon while I was standing in the loading bay of the public library where I worked.
I was arguing with a delivery driver about six boxes of children’s books that had been sent to the wrong branch when my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
“This is Elena.”
“Ms. Elena Ruiz?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Dana Mercer. I’m a social worker at St. Catherine’s Medical Center in Richmond. I’m calling about a patient who has listed you as her emergency contact.”
I frowned.
“Who?”
There was a pause.
“Rebecca Ruiz.”
The loading bay disappeared around me.
Nobody had called my sister Rebecca in twelve years.
Not unless they were offering condolences.
“I think you have the wrong Elena Ruiz.”
“I verified the number twice.”
“My sister Rebecca is dead.”
Silence.
Not the awkward silence of someone realizing they’d dialed incorrectly.
This was heavier.
Professional.
Careful.
“I’m sorry,” Dana said. “Would you be willing to speak with the patient?”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What is this?”
“I understand how strange this must sound.”
“No, you don’t.”
Another pause.
Then I heard movement.
A rustle.
A faint mechanical beeping.
And a woman’s voice.
“Ellie?”
My knees nearly gave out.
Nobody called me Ellie anymore.
Not my coworkers.
Not my ex-husband.
Not even my mother before she died.
Rebecca had been the last person who used it naturally, stretching the first syllable whenever she wanted something.
Ellie, cover for me.
Ellie, give me your sweater.
Ellie, Mom’s going to kill me.
I pressed one hand against the brick wall.
“Who is this?”
The woman breathed shakily.
“It’s Becky.”
I hung up.
I was thirty-eight years old when my dead sister called me.
Rebecca had supposedly died at twenty-four.
I was twenty-six then, newly married, seven months pregnant, and furious with her.
That last part mattered.
People prefer grief stories where the dead leave behind beautiful final memories.
Rebecca didn’t.
