Chapter 2
I called 911 myself.
I climbed into the ambulance on my own.
I lay alone in the hospital all night.
Rodney never showed up or called me once.
The next day, my fever broke, and I went home.
Rodney was sitting in the living room. He didn't even look up when I walked in.
"You're back?" he asked.
He said only three words.
I nodded.
He didn't say anything else.
I went upstairs, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
I couldn't help but wonder how Rodney would have reacted if Phoebe were the one sick.
I guessed he'd probably sit by her side all night, holding her hand, never leaving for a second.
I guessed he'd probably cook for her, give her medicine, and soothe her to sleep.
I guessed he'd say, "Don't worry. I'm right here with you."
And me? I was all alone.
That autumn, I got into a car accident.
It wasn't super serious, but it wasn't exactly nothing, either.
I broke my leg, cracked two ribs, had a cut on my face, and ended up with eight stitches.
When I woke up in the hospital, the first thing I did was call Rodney.
"Honey, I was in a car accident," I said.
"Have the driver take you to the hospital," Rodney replied indifferently.
"I'm already at the hospital," I said.
"Get the driver to bring you home," Rodney said, barely caring.
"I... my leg's broken. I can't move," I whispered.
"So why are you calling me? I'm not a doctor," Rodney said flatly.
He hung up.
I stared at my phone, my face soaked with tears.
I called him again.
He didn't pick up.
I called him dozens of times.
Finally, he picked up, sounding super annoyed. "What do you want from me?"
"I... I want you to come see me," I whispered.
"I'm busy. Don't bother me," Rodney said coldly.
"But I..." I started, but he cut me off.
"Alright, I'll send the driver for you tomorrow," Rodney interrupted.
He hung up again.
I lay in the hospital bed, zoned out, staring at the ceiling.
The next day, the driver showed up.
He took me home.
When I got home, I saw Phoebe lounging in the living room, smiling.
When she saw me hobbling in on crutches, looking like a mess, her grin grew even bigger.
"Oh wow, Nevaeh, how did you end up like this? Poor girl," Phoebe said, pretending to be concerned, her tone almost sing-song.
I didn't say a word.
She stood up, walked right over to me, and leaned in, lowering her voice. "You know what? Rodney spent the whole day shopping with me yesterday.
"I was feeling down, and he was all over me, making sure I felt better.
"And you? So, how did it feel, being all alone in the hospital?"
I looked at her.
Her smile was as bright as a blooming flower.
My hand gripping the crutch was trembling.
It wasn't anger. It was pain.
My leg hurt. My ribs hurt. My face hurt.
But more than anything, my heart ached.
That day was my birthday.
I woke up extra early to make myself a plate of pasta.
I thought, if nobody else remembered, at least I did.
As I finished cooking the pasta, Rodney came downstairs.
"Phoebe's coming over for dinner tonight," Rodney said.
I was caught off guard for a second.
"Today... It's my birthday," I murmured.
"Yeah, so?" Rodney shot back, totally indifferent.
I wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come.
He gave me a look. "She's in a bad mood. Sing a song for her."
"What?" I stared at him, dumbfounded.
"Didn't you study music? Go on, sing for her, make her happy," Rodney said, as if it was no big deal.
I stood there, clutching my plate of pasta, not knowing what to do.
It was my birthday.
And he wanted me to sing for Phoebe, to cheer her up.
That evening, Phoebe came.
She was wearing a red dress, her makeup perfect, and her smile bloomed like a flower.
"Rodney, what's so special about today? Why did you invite me over for dinner?" Phoebe asked, her voice sweet and playful.
"You're in a bad mood, so I want to cheer you up," Rodney replied, his tone casual.
She smiled.
Then she spotted me.
"Oh, Nevaeh's here too? Perfect! Let her sing a song for us. I love listening to Nevaeh sing," Phoebe said, her tone syrupy and fake.
I stood in the corner, watching them.
Rodney pointed to the floor in front of Phoebe.
"Kneel here and sing," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I looked at him.
For three years, I swallowed everything. I endured him not loving me. I endured being a replacement. I endured having to call the ambulance for myself.
But today was my birthday.
I wanted to say no.
Phoebe smiled and gently pulled Rodney's hand.
"It's fine, Rodney. If Nevaeh doesn't want to sing, it's okay. I don't mind," Phoebe said.
Rodney gave me a cold look.
I forced myself to kneel before Phoebe.
I opened my mouth and began to sing. "Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you."
I was singing the birthday song.
But today was my birthday.
And yet, there I was, singing happy birthday to another woman.
Phoebe lounged on the sofa, watching me with a smug, satisfied smile.
Rodney stood off to the side, wine glass in hand, grinning like it was all some big joke.
I finished the last line, feeling emptier than ever.
Phoebe clapped her hands. "That was really good. Your voice is a bit hoarse."
Rodney scoffed, "That's her. She can't even sing a song properly."
I couldn't even remember how I managed to stand up.
After Rodney and Phoebe left, I stared at the plate of pasta, cold and clumped together, and then walked into the kitchen.
As I washed the dishes, my tears fell into the sink.
They mixed with the dish water.
It was impossible to tell them apart anymore.
From then on, Rodney kept making me sing for Phoebe, to please her, like I was nothing more than her personal entertainer.
Every single time, I had to sing until my throat was raw.
And Phoebe would sit there, grinning ear to ear, soaking it all in.
That day, Phoebe had a cold.
She complained to Rodney, "Rodney, Nevaeh's voice is so terrible. Hearing it makes my head hurt like crazy."
So Rodney came looking for me.
He walked in, carrying a cup of dark liquid.
"Drink it," he said.
I stared at the cup. "What is it?"
"It's for your throat. Drink it so that you won't sound so bad anymore," Rodney said, his voice cold and impatient.
Pathetic as it was, I felt happy. This was the first time he'd ever bothered to care about me.