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.