They Chose Her Over Me—Then Begged Me to Remember Them Chapter 02
The next morning, I stood at the nurses’ station counter.
“I want to redeem my points for phone time.”
The nurse flipped through my points card and raised an eyebrow.
“You sure? This is everything you’ve got. Most patients save these up for one last decent meal…”
She lowered her voice.
“You know, after the surgery, food doesn’t taste like anything anymore.”
“Last time your family called, none of them said they were coming to get you. And now you want to use this on—”
“I’m sure.”
She looked at me for a beat, then took the card.
“Ten minutes, starting from connection. It cuts off automatically.”
I gripped the receiver and dialed my best friend Josie.
“Josie, it’s me. Rosalind.”
Silence on the other end for a few seconds.
“I know what happened to you.”
Her voice dropped low. “Your brother reached out to everyone from our class last week.”
“He said you’d become aggressive, that we shouldn’t contact you—it might set you off.”
“I’m sorry.”
Click. The line went dead.
I dialed another number.
The moment the person heard my voice, she cuts me off.
“Your brother already talked to us. I can’t get involved.”
Click.
I glanced at the timer on the wall.
Four minutes gone. Six left.
I took a breath and dialed Mom’s number anyway.
It rang three times before she picked up.
“Mom, next Wednesday I’m going to be—”
“What now?”
Her voice was sharp with irritation, cutting me off.
“I told you already. We’ll talk about discharge once you’ve reflected properly.”
I was crying now, desperate.
“No! Mom, listen to me! If nobody comes for me by Wednesday, they’re going to operate on me, and after that I won’t remember anything—”
“Even better.”
There wasn’t a trace of feeling in her voice.
“Better you forget. Save you the trouble of scheming against Della all day.”
The line went dead again.
The timer hit six minutes. Four left.
My fingers were shaking as I dialed Desmond.
Before I even spoke, his voice came through, impatient.
“Rosalind, I support Mom’s decision one hundred percent, stop calling—”
I screamed into the receiver.
“They’re going to operate on me!”
“After that I won’t even know who you people are!”
Silence on his end for a second.
“Rosalind, what you just said only proves Mom’s right.”
“Since when does a real hospital perform surgery like that? Are you making up stories again for sympathy?”
“If the surgery really does fix you, then let them do it. Once you’ve learned your lesson, we’ll come get you.”
Click.
Eight minutes. Two left.
I dialed the last number.
Miles Ashford. My childhood sweetheart.
Someone else picked up.
“Hello, Meridian & Cole Law Partners, who are you trying to reach?”
“I’m looking for Miles Ashford. I’m his girlfriend, Rosalind Calloway.”
A pause on the other end.
“Ms. Calloway, Mr. Ashford is currently handling a matter for Ms. Della Sutter. He’s not available to speak with you directly.”
“He also asked me to pass along a message—please stop calling and causing a scene, and cooperate with your treatment.”
“Once you behave, he’ll come get you together with your family.”
Behave. This word again.
What they meant by “behave” was admitting to something I never did.
Admitting I was sick. Admitting I hit Della. Admitting I was a violent psychiatric patient.
Then bowing my head, obediently apologizing to everyone.
But I wasn’t sick. I never hit her.
Why should I admit to it?
The timer hit zero. The call cut off automatically.
Ninety-nine days. Ten minutes. All gone.
That night, a nurse opened my door.
“Day after tomorrow is your final pre-op physical. Cooperate, all right?”
I sat on the edge of the bed, knowing full well this was my last chance.
If I could prove to the doctor I wasn’t sick, the surgery wouldn’t happen.
For the next two days, I barely slept.
No crying. No outbursts. No pleading my case.
One slip, and it was over.
The day of the physical, the attending physician sat across from me, flipping through my file.
“Any conflicts with other patients since admission?”
“None.”
“Any hallucinations—auditory, visual?”
“None.”
“Any episodes where you couldn’t control your emotions?”
I looked him in the eye.
“Doctor, I’ve been here ninety-nine days. No aggressive incidents. It’s all on record. You can check.”
He turned a page. Then another.
Finally he closed the file, took off his glasses, and looked at me.
“Every one of your evaluation metrics has been consistently normal. No abnormal incidents on record since admission.”
“In other words—you’re not sick. You’re healthy.”
