Jun 8, 2020 4 min read

A dozen years separated me and my sister, Pat. Despite the age gap, we developed an unspoken bond. I had two brothers and there were only three bedrooms in our small house, so I bunked with Pat – slept on a rollaway bed stuck in the corner. Some nights Pat would let me crawl into bed with her. We listened to “Party Line” on KDKA radio. It was a folksy show, like sitting around with the kinfolk and talking – something our family never did. We giggled at the conversation.

After my oldest brother married, I moved to a bedroom with my other brother, Harry. No more “Party Line.” But Pat and I had become buddies by then: She still dragged me out of bed at 7 a.m. on Christmases, more excited than I was to see what Santa had left under the tree. But when I was 10 and she 21, Pat got her own apartment. I saw less of her after that.

Nine years later I had a late-night confrontation with Dad. He gave his usual lecture: “If you don’t like it, you can leave.” This time I called his bluff and packed a suitcase. I wound up at Pat’s unannounced, knocking on her door well after midnight. I spent the night there, and then she drove me to school. “I know what you’re going through,” she offered. I had no idea how accurate that statement was.

Years later, after Dad passed, Mom told me that Pat had moved out to get away from him. Dad was tough, stoic, a disciplinarian who demanded instant obedience. I hated this, but understood that he was the product of his own upbringing. Then Mom added, gravely, “He didn’t like her because she’s a girl.” This, I will never understand.

My interaction with Pat after that late-night odyssey was sporadic. I moved from Beaver Valley to Pittsburgh, to her as far away as the dark side of the moon. But after my brother Harry died nine years ago, I made a concerted effort to visit Pat more often – we were a team again. Phone calls and visits, however, remained few and far between. Email was her preferred way to communicate. The past year was rough on Pat. The uterine cancer that had gone into remission four years ago returned. Chemotherapy was worse, she said, than the cancer itself. During small talk, I mentioned that Harry had detailed how mean Dad had been to her. I said I was sorry.

“Oh, I got over that a long time ago,” she said, mildly. “Things got better after you came along.”

Ten days ago, Pat’s roommate of 55 years called to say that Pat was back in the hospital but had asked her not to tell anyone. Typically, Pat didn’t want to be a burden. Because Beaver County is still in the yellow phase of quarantine, we couldn’t visit. Her roommate said we could see Pat after she was moved to hospice the next day.

Pat passed away before she could be moved. I hadn’t seen her for three months because of quarantine, hadn’t talked to her for three weeks.

It’s strange how the mind reacts to death. Memories flooded back, of course. But the one that appeared first is this:

I had a red autograph book when I was around 8 years old and insisted that everyone sign it. I no longer have the book, but Pat’s “autograph” remains in my memory as if carved in stone:

“Your head is flat, but who cares? Your eyes are crossed, but who cares? In fact, you’re just plain ugly, too! Love, Pat”

She was funny, my sister.

Reaction to Pat’s death from friends, nieces and long-lost cousins was remarkably the same.

“She was a sweet soul, just like your mom.” Indeed. Now she’s gone.

But at night, I can pretend we’re still listening to “Party Line.”