Free Ten Ways to Make My Sister Disappear by Norma Fox Mazer Page A

up, Cora is gazing at her again. Sprig kisses the dog. “You’re really worried too, aren’t you? Do you want me to call the doctor, Cora? I don’t know her name! I could call 911, but that’s for emergencies.” She looks into Cora’s eyes. “What if it’s just a cold or something ordinary like that, wouldn’t it be stupid of me to call, Cora?”
    Sprig sits down on the floor and puts her arms around the dog’s neck. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking what if it’s something really bad, like the Ebola virus, the one that kills you. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it, Cora?”
    Cora keeps her blurred gaze on Sprig. Yes, she’s saying, that’s exactly what I’m thinking. Sprig stands, goes to the phone, and punches in the three numbers.

“A ND last, on the six o’clock news report, we have a story of a young girl saving the life of one of our senior citizens with her quick thinking,” Bob Engelhard, the evening news anchor, says.
    â€œOh my god,” Dakota cries. “They’re talking about you, Sprig. Mom! Come in here,” she calls. “Sprig is on the news.”
    Mom sits down on the arm of the couch, just as Bob Engelhard turns to Mary Roman, his coanchor, and says, “Mary, fill us in.”
    â€œIt’s a pleasure, Bob. We have so many downbeat stories, but not this one!” Mary looks into the Ewings’ living room. “This afternoon, ten-year-old Grace Ewing had the presence of mind to call in the emergency folks, when her seventy-eight-year-old neighbor, Ruth Levin, became ill.”
    â€œOh, no,” Sprig says, covering her face. “This is so embarrassing.”
    â€œYou’re famous,” Dakota says. “My sister’s famous! Maybe they’re going to show your picture.”
    Sure enough, Sprig’s class picture from last year —“I look so young,” she cries — flashes on the screen, followed by a picture of their house, then the garage, and Miss Ruthie’s windows, and the little porch.
    â€œGrace was alone with the elderly woman and had no idea that Ms. Levin was the victim of a stroke,” Mary is saying. Now the camera shows the exterior of Memorial Hospital and then the red EMERGENCY ROOM sign. “Doctor Raymond, a heart specialist, told this reporter that time is of the essence in strokes.” Mary turns to Bob, and he picks up the narrative.
    â€œMary, had the Ewing girl — she’s only ten years old, isn’t that amazing? — had she not acted so rapidly, Ms. Levin might have been seriously incapacitated for the rest of her life.”
    â€œI know, Bob. There’s got to be some grateful people out there tonight. As it is, her chances for recovery are very good. I was reading something the other day about this being the Me Generation. I don’t think so!”
    â€œI should say not,” Bob says. “And now, let’s look at the weather, Mary….”
    â€œWow,” Dakota says. “My little sister is a hero.”
    Sprig sags against the back of the couch. Everybody says they’re so proud of her: Mom and the doctors at the hospital, and now the six o’clock news. But what Sprig keeps thinking is that she let too much time pass before she called 911. She waited to see if Miss Ruthie felt better, she waited for Mom to call her back, she fiddled around looking for Mr. Julius’s phone number. She waited too long. The moment she saw Miss Ruthie swaying in the door, uncombed, still in her bathrobe, she should have known something was wrong.
    They’re all telling her she saved Miss Ruthie from having a lot more damage. Damage . It sounds like a caved-in car, like a house smashed by a hurricane, like Miss Ruthie covered with tubes and wires and so sick they won’t let anyone in to see her for more than a minute.
    Later that evening when Dad calls, Mom