Chapter 5 - The Sister Who Never Came Back
I remembered Rachel as the loudest person in any room.
She was twenty-nine now, five years younger than Emily, with bright red hair, a sharp laugh, and the ability to turn a two-minute story into a twenty-minute performance.
At our wedding, she'd given a toast that made half the guests cry and the other half laugh so hard they spilled their drinks.
Afterward, she'd hugged me and said, “Take care of my sister, Michael.”
I had promised I would.
For the first three years of our marriage, Rachel visited constantly.
She brought groceries.
Borrowed our car.
Showed up without calling.
Emily complained about it, but secretly loved having her around.
Then everything changed after our second miscarriage.
Rachel stopped coming.
At first, I thought it was because she had moved to Columbus for a new job.
Emily told me they were busy.
She said families drifted sometimes.
I believed her.
Or perhaps I found the explanation convenient enough not to ask more questions.
Now, sitting beside Emily's hospital bed, I finally did.
“What happened between you and Rachel?”
Emily looked away.
“It doesn't matter.”
“It matters if she's someone you could talk to about donor testing.”
“She won't do it.”
“You don't know that.”
Emily gave me a tired look.
“Please don't turn this into a project.”
I leaned back.
“Okay.”
She seemed surprised.
I waited.
After a long silence, she spoke.
“Rachel was pregnant when we lost the second baby.”
I stared at her.
“She was?”
Emily nodded.
“She found out right before my appointment.”
I tried to remember that spring.
There had been a birthday dinner.
A hospital visit.
Three weeks during which Emily barely came out of the bedroom.
And then Rachel disappeared from our lives.
“Did she lose the baby too?”
“No.”
Emily's voice grew quiet.
“She had an abortion.”
I said nothing.
“It was her decision,” Emily continued.
“And I told her that.”
“But she felt guilty.”
“About what?”
“Being able to get pregnant when I couldn't stay pregnant.”
I looked at her.
“She didn't need to feel guilty about that.”
“I know.”
Emily twisted the edge of her blanket.
“But grief makes people say terrible things.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did you say?”
Emily shook her head.
“Something I wish I could take back.”
She swallowed.
“She called me because she was scared.”
“She said she couldn't raise a baby.”
“And I told her she didn't understand what she was throwing away.”
I closed my eyes.
“Emily.”
“I know.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I knew it was cruel the moment I said it.”
“She hung up.”
“And when I called her the next morning, she told me I didn't get to use my loss to judge her life.”
I listened.
“After that, every conversation became another argument.”
“We both apologized in pieces.”
“But neither of us knew how to find our way back.”
She stared at her hands.
“The last time we spoke, she said she loved me but couldn't keep being punished for surviving something differently.”
“And I told her to leave me alone.”
Silence settled around us.
I remembered all the evenings Emily had cried in the shower.
All the times I had assumed the miscarriages were the only reason.
I had known her grief.
Or thought I had.
But I hadn't known the shape of it.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Emily looked at me.
“Would you have listened?”
The question hurt.
I wanted to insist that I would have.
Instead, I thought about my laptop.
My overtime.
My endless complaints that our marriage had become too complicated.
“I don't know,” I admitted.
She nodded.
“At least that's true.”
A nurse came to check her temperature.
Afterward, Emily fell asleep.
I walked downstairs and found Linda standing outside the hospital cafeteria.
She was holding a paper cup of coffee with both hands.
“Does Rachel know?” I asked.
Linda looked up.
“About the leukemia?”
I nodded.
“She knows.”
My chest tightened.
“Has she called?”
“Not Emily.”
“Why?”
Linda sighed.
“Because your wife told her not to.”
“She's not my wife anymore.”
Linda studied me.
For a moment, I thought she might say something cruel.
Instead, she said, “Funny how quickly that stops mattering when someone is hurting.”
We sat at a small table.
Linda told me Rachel had called her three days earlier.
She wanted updates.
She had asked about treatment.
And when Linda mentioned the transplant evaluation, Rachel asked whether she should contact the hospital.
“Did you tell Emily?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Linda looked exhausted.
“She said she didn't want her sister doing something out of guilt.”
I stared at the table.
“Maybe Rachel isn't doing it out of guilt.”
“Maybe.”
Linda watched people move through the cafeteria.
“But Emily has always had trouble believing anyone would stay unless they felt obligated.”
I felt those words like a physical blow.
That evening, I called Rachel.
I hadn't spoken to her in almost two years.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Rachel, it's Michael.”
Silence.
Then, “What do you want?”
“I'm at the hospital with Emily.”
Her breathing changed.
“How is she?”
“She's sick.”
“I know that.”
“Really sick.”
“I know that too.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“They're talking about a transplant.”
Rachel said nothing.
Finally, I added, “She doesn't want to ask you.”
Her reply came immediately.
“Then don't ask me for her.”
I closed my eyes.
“Rachel—”
“If Emily needs me, I need to hear it from Emily.”
I swallowed.
“She's scared.”
Rachel's voice broke.
“So am I.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered, “Tell her I still have the picture.”
I frowned.
“What picture?”
“The one from the hospital.”
“Rachel, I don't—”
“She'll know.”
The call ended.
I returned to Emily's room.
She was awake, staring at the ceiling.
“I spoke to Rachel,” I admitted.
Her face hardened.
“Michael.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn't have.”
“I'm sorry.”
She turned away.
I was about to leave when I remembered the message.
“She said she still has the picture.”
Emily went completely still.
Then her shoulders began to shake.
I stepped forward.
“What picture?”
She covered her mouth.
It took almost a minute before she could answer.
May you like
And when she finally did, her voice was almost unrecognizable.
“The only picture anyone ever took of our daughter.”
