My Mom called at 12:48 a.m. this morning. She never calls that late. My sister Tina didn’t come home from her job at Pier 1 that night. She always gets off work at 8:00 p.m. and comes straight home.

My Mom was frantic. We’re both neurotic people. Mom was convinced that Tina was kidnapped while walking in the parking lot to her car. I thought that was ridiculous. It was obvious that she was in a horrible car wreck and either dead or in the emergency room.

Here’s a little Pancake City tip when you’re calling the hospital to see if your sister was checked in: don’t call the main number. The voice recognition system doesn’t understand, “Department of Missing Sisters, please”.

My theory fell apart when one of the police officers my Mom called drove to the Pier 1 parking lot. Her car was still there. It was definite: she was kidnapped.

Well, the officer didn’t think she was kidnapped. “She’s probably just with her friends, Ms. Walther. You know how kids stay up late.” “You don’t understand,” my Mom said. “She doesn’t have any friends.”

I held the phone in my lap, waiting for the phone to ring. Now it was 1:30 a.m. Almost everything closes at 12:00 a.m. I wanted to believe that she was out late, but she always calls and I couldn’t think of a plausible scenario. I could feel the sadness well up and my mind trying to push away the feelings. I packed an overnight bag. I mentally wrote the email I would send to the dog walking company I work for. Title: Family emergency. My sister passed away tonight. Screw it. My sister was killed. I’ll put the keys inside the mail slot. Kerrigan doesn’t want a sub. I’ll call when I can.

Memories of Tina play-punching me. Tina making fun of my bad memory. Tina taking care of her turtles.

I started crying. I didn’t want to, or couldn’t, push away the pain anymore, as I’ve done so often in my life. I thought about praying, something I haven’t done since I was 12, when under my bed covers, I heard the phone ring and then my Mom sobbing through my thin door. “Please make everything all right, God. Please. Just this once.”

It was then that I realized how frail hope is. That crying sounds just like laughing when passed through wood. That maybe, just maybe, when my Uncle drove my sisters and I to the hospital at night, there would be Dad, his bloated face glowing, no gauze patches over his eyes, and his warm arms around us, giving us a hug.

A few minutes later, my Mom called. Tina was safe. She went to dinner with her friends (yes, Mom, she has them). I broke down and cried harder than I have in years.

I’m just so happy that she’s okay. Tina, I love you. I hope we are still making fun of Mom while we are gray. And call, next time, okay? Mom gets worried when she doesn’t see the cat for 30 minutes. And you’re slightly more important than the cat, even if you don’t get as much tuna.