Ten Years After We Buried My Twin Sister, a Dental Clinic Called and Said, “Your Sister Refuses to Leave Until You Come Get Her”

The call came at 11:43 on a Wednesday morning while I was standing barefoot in my kitchen, arguing with a contractor about a leaking skylight.

I almost ignored it.

Unknown number.

Out-of-county area code.

Probably another insurance company trying to sell me something.

Then it rang again.

I sighed, pressed the phone against my shoulder, and answered.

“This is Natalie.”

A woman spoke carefully.

“Hi, Natalie. My name is Brooke. I’m calling from Westfield Dental and Oral Surgery.”

I frowned.

“I think you have the wrong number.”

“Possibly. I’m sorry. We have a patient here who had a procedure this morning, and she isn’t allowed to drive because of the medication. Her emergency contact isn’t answering.”

“Okay…”

“She gave us your number.”

I glanced at the contractor’s estimate lying on my counter.

“What’s the patient’s name?”

There was a pause.

Then the woman said:

“Rebecca Hale.”

Everything inside me stopped.

I didn’t breathe.

I didn’t blink.

I simply stood there staring at sunlight on the hardwood floor.

“Say that again.”

“Rebecca Hale.”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Whoever gave you this number is playing some kind of sick joke.”

“Natalie, I assure you—”

“My sister Rebecca d.i.e.d ten years ago.”