by Lynda Lampert

Created on: September 24, 2009   Last Updated: September 26, 2009

I remember the fear I had when I could not find my sister. My sister and I have always been the best of friends. She's fourteen years younger than me, and I have watched her grow into a young woman. I've always been the over-protective, quasi-mother figure for her. She's been my boon companion and partner in crime.

When my mom died, I could not imagine my sister living apart from me. For five years, we had worked together to take care of my mom. I had no job at the time, no prospects, and a tenuous hold on a housing situation, but I would do anything I had to do to keep my sister with me. I had lost my mother. I would not lose my sister. I managed to find a job, win custody, and move us into a permanent rental home. We did it together.

My sister and I got free Pirate tickets from our aunt and decided to treat ourselves to a day at PNC Park. Unfortunately, it was a very rainy, cold day in Pittsburgh, but we were determined to enjoy our day out. It didn't help matters that this was my mom's birthday. We remembered her, but quietly, afraid to shake the cobwebs off of our grief.

We had nice seats down in front. We got to look at the turf and marvel at how crisp and green it seemed. We were cold and our wet seats soaked through our jeans, but it was okay. We were having fun.

Naturally, I had to use the ladies' room at some point. I didn't want to haul Katie, the drinks, the nachos, and our assorted paraphernalia up to the bathroom, so I told Katie to watch the things. I would be back.

She was maybe fourteen or fifteen. She understood the unspoken rules that I had drilled into her head so many times: don't talk to anyone, don't go anywhere with anyone, and don't move from here.

I trudged up the long column of steps, looking over my shoulder at Katie, seeing her sitting beneath a mist of early spring rain. I would only be a second.

The bathroom did not take long. I was in and out because I worried about that kid sitting all by herself. I kept telling myself that she was old enough for something so simple. She knew the rules. I had drilled her. It would all be okay.

I walked out of the bathroom and reoriented myself to the seating box: number 235. I stood at the top of the stairs and looked out over the field. Rain came down now in fat drops. I looked towards the front rail where I'd left my sister.

She wasn't there.

Okay, so, it started to rain, and she probably came up to find me or to take shelter from the rain somewhere under the overhang. I looked around me. I

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