by Katie French
“I’m Agatha,” I lie. I take in Betsy’s face. Small, dark eyes blink in her round head. She keeps smiling widely, making her fat cheeks dimple. I’m not used to seeing anyone who isn’t starving, so she’s off-putting. The fact that she’s so chipper about being a prisoner in the Breeders’ hospital makes me think she’s gone over the high side.
I narrow my eyes. “Where are we?”
“Albuquerque General. I’m told it’s the best hospital in the country, if not the world.” She spreads her hands across her face with a flourish. When I don’t smile, hers droops, but she continues. “We’ve got all the latest and greatest here: TV, all the best food, a pool.” She leans in, smiling to take in my excitement at the mention of a pool. I shake my head.
“Are you a prisoner here, too?”
She blinks at me.
“Are they holding you against your will? Making you have that baby?” I ask, nodding towards her stomach.
Her brow wrinkles. “I live here.”
I narrow my eyes. “You mean you want to live here?”
She nods happily, patting her watermelon-sized belly. “It’s the best. Of course, when little dumplin’ comes, I’ll move into the nursery with her for a year. Then she’ll go live with the nannies and I’ll go back into the prenatal rooms.”
“So, you’re a prisoner here? You’ve never left this hospital.” My heart thumps in my chest. The monitors above beep in agitation.
She shakes her head. “Why would I want to leave? It’s awful out there. War. Disease. Look at you. You came from out there and you got shot. When that boy turned you in, you were basically dead.”
That boy. Clay. Clay who sold me to the hospital. He saved my life. It probably helped to justify making me a prisoner. How much money did he make off my enslavement? I lower my eyes and clench my hands open and closed. If I could move, I’d chuck something at that beeping monitor.
Betsy leans toward me. “They told me if I get a guard, I can give you a tour. Wanna see the place?”
She’s so innocent and sweet that I try a smile. My face won’t allow it. The only way I want to see this hospital is in my rearview. Then I remember that my mother was supposed to be here.
“Yeah, show me around. I’m dying to see it.”
She pulls out a small rectangular device that looks like a miniature computer. With a swipe of her finger the screen flares to life. She waggles it in front of me. The screen shows a map of the hospital. She points at a green dot on the screen. “This is you.”
When I look up puzzled, she tries again, slowly like I’m a baby. “They’re tracking you. Here, let me show you.” She heaves herself out of the chair, waddles over and presses a finger to the back of my neck. The skin there aches.
“They implant a tracking device in here,” she says, pressing just below my hairline. “It embeds itself into the skin and runs off the thermal and kinesthetic energy of your body.” She notes my confused look and tries again. “They know where you are. All the time. So don’t mess around. If you dig that one out, they’ll just put a new one in. So don’t.”
Satisfied, she waddles to the little box on the wall. She pushes a button and the speaker crackles to life.
“Yes?” that nasal male voice asks. The chubby doc is listening to our conversation.
Betsy leans toward the speaker, her cheeks flushing red. “Dr. Rayburn, she agreed to take the tour. Can you send in a guard?”
In a few minutes, one of the guards walks in. He releases my restraints and replaces them with metal handcuffs. When he’s done, Betsy heads for the door. It buzzes and slides open.
Betsy claps her hands. “This is so exciting. Your first tour. Let’s start at the lounge.” She waddles out of the room and down the hall. I follow, feeling as though I’m walking into someone’s sick dream.
The halls are white, bare and sterile. They smell powerfully clean. A doctor in a white lab coat brushes past us without a second glance. Then a guard in his white jumpsuit. Apparently, the three of us on our tour isn’t as much of a spectacle as I thought. I count the steps down the hall, memorize every metal door with the little window similar to mine. When I make my escape, I’ll need to know every detail.
Betsy takes a right and the floor plan opens into a large common room. Puffy couches, their tan fabric as plush and velvety as newborn kittens, line the walls. Groups of plastic tables and chairs are clustered here and there. The chair legs are so shiny and rust-free, glimmering in the electric light, that the glare hurts my eyes. A large shelving area with rows of books and brightly colored game boxes lines one wall. My mouth drops open. I’ve never seen more than a ratty box of checkers or a mildewed Connect Four in a closet of a house we moved into.
I want to run over and investigate the colored spines, flip the pages, smell the new ink, but the guard’s at my back and Betsy’s droning on and on about the huge TV screen mounted to one wall. The video, a black-and-white picture show with a man and woman riding in a car, is playing with the sound off.
Everything in this room is newer and cleaner than any item I’ve ever seen in my life. It takes my breath away. Two pregnant girls sit at a checkers board. Another is asleep on the couch in front of the flickering TV. All these forms of entertainment Ethan and I would have died for back at home, and yet the girls seem more bored than we’ve ever been.
Betsy shuffles over to the girls playing checkers. The girls glance up at me with sour expressions. Then they go back to staring at the black and red board.
Betsy stops and waves me over. “Latisha, Sammy, this is Agatha. Agatha, meet Latisha and Sammy.”
Both girls glance up. Latisha is a dark-skinned girl with a slim body and round belly, like a basketball stuffed under her white hospital gown. Her brown eyes scan me and then dismiss me in the span of a few seconds. Sammy is petite with dirty-blond hair thrown up into a messy ponytail. She looks up at me unhappily, but I can’t tell if she’s displeased or if her sour expression is her typical one. She rubs a hand over the small bump on her belly. They both wear the shapeless hospital gowns, matching pants and bright yellow socks with grippy soles just like mine. Apparently, patients have no need for shoes.
Latisha leans into Betsy and pokes a finger in her flabby chest. “You took my breakfast again, tubby. Do it again and I’ll break your fingers.”
The smile falls off Betsy’s face. “Tish, I didn’t. I swear.” She clutches her hands in front of her chest and her lower lip trembles.
Latisha shakes her head and her black springy curls follow. “Don’t lie, lard butt. I can see my sausage links on your hips.” Tish pinches her and Betsy winces. “Don’t mess with a pregnant lady’s food, girl. I know they got you on calorie restriction.”
Betsy gives a low moan, her shoulders slumping. “It’s awful. They have me down to two meals a day.”
“And whose fault is that?” Sammy adds. Her voice is high pitched and nasal. She picks up a checker and taps it on her thin lower lip. “You keep gaining and they’ll drop you down to a liquid diet. They did it to Vandra.”
I haven’t eaten more than some mouthfuls of corn and dry cracked toast in days and these girls are whining over two square meals a day? I look down at my skin-and-bones frame. I’m all angles compared to their rounding bodies. For a moment I wonder if Clay would prefer a rounder woman. Then I remember he sold me to this hospital and I chase thoughts of him out of my head.
Sammy notices my confused expression. “Don’t worry, beanpole. They’ll fatten you up soon enough. Can’t knock you up until you put on a little weight.”
It feels like someone’s punched me in the stomach. I can’t be pregnant. I’m only sixteen.
Betsy—smile faded, hands worrying the front of her gown—plods away and leads me out of the lounge. My mind’s still clogged with the horrors of pregnancy. Being a woman is terrible. If you aren’t being used for one purpose, someone will find another use for you. And what choice is there? The hard, painful fight for freedom. The fight I’ve lost. I look
down at the silver cuffs on my hands. I’m so tired. Tired of running, tired of worrying and fighting. It would be so easy to give up, become cow-eyed like Betsy and be a walking incubator. I’d get three meals a day, I’d watch picture shows on that plush couch and then fall asleep to the sound of Betsy’s snoring. Easy.
A vision of Ethan swims up before me. Is Clay taking care of him right now? Is he eating, staying out of the sun? And my mother. Is she here right now behind one of these sealed doors? No, life here would not be easy. I’d be haunted by all the people I’d let down. I go back to counting tile squares as Betsy leads me out of the lounge and down another sterile white hallway.
We stop at four gigantic glass windows that overlook a large room. In the center is a rectangular concrete pond, sparkling with clear blue water. My nose crinkles at the strong chemical smell. That must be how they keep that water so clear. In it, half a dozen slack-faced pregnant girls bob up and down in large shapeless bathing suits, while one elderly woman in a blue swim cap directs their movements. The women spin and move to the beat of the music that echoes from above.
Betsy peers down, her heavy breathing fogging up the glass. “Water aerobics. We’re required forty-five minutes of exercise every day.” Then she glances at me. “Not you. You’re still healing.” She taps a pudgy finger to the glass, pointing at an older woman who lifts blue floatation devices shaped like dumbbells over her head. The other pregnant girls follow. “That’s one of the nannies. They help run the place. Them and the doctors.” Then she leans toward me, her eyes big in the doughy flesh of her face. “Don’t mess with the nannies. They may look like sweet old ladies, but they can be real cranks.”
I scan the women bobbing like seals in the water. None are my mother.
We shuffle down the hall into a cafeteria. The brightly lit eatery has a tile floor that’s been freshly scrubbed. The rectangular benches and seats line up in neat rows. In the back, a few nannies scour pots over a large steel sink. The cooked meat smell makes my mouth water.
I look around the empty cafeteria and remember the one we found in that haunted school. A pang of loss washes over me. I think of Ethan, this dark hair falling over his eyes. Then my last image of Clay floods up before I can stop it. Him holding me to his chest, telling me to hold on. That everything’s going to be okay.
Betsy waves a hand in front of my face. “Did you hear what I said?”
I blink and shake my head. I scan the faces of the women in the kitchen. None are familiar.
“I said,” she huffs, “meals are served at eight, noon and five. Unless you’re on room restriction, which you are. See why you have to behave. You don’t get to use any of the facilities until Dr. Rayburn says so.”
“Whatever will I do?” I mumble.
Betsy’s face darkens. Behind her chipper exterior, she might have a nasty side.
As she walks us down the cafeteria aisles, I realize I’ve made no headway in finding my mother. I need another plan. As we pass a door marked with a stick figure of a woman on it, I get an idea.
“I have to pee,” I say. Both Betsy and the guard who’s been following us stop.
“I could go, too.” Betsy turns to the guard. “I’ll take her in.”
The guard leans casually against the wall. “Just hurry up. Rayburn said to be back in twenty minutes.”
I offer him my shackled wrists. “Can you help a girl out?” I ask. “Hard to wipe with the cuffs.”
The guard shrugs. “Figure it out.”
I scowl but drop my hands. I don’t need them for what I’m about to do.
Betsy pushes open the ladies’ room door and waddles into a stall. The pristine sinks and mirrors, hell, just the indoor plumbing and running water are enough to make me gawk, but my mind’s on my plan. I scan the room. No video cameras tucked in the corners. No intercom boxes on the wall to call for help. I walk into the stall next to hers and pretend to get to business. She settles her weight on the toilet.
“So, you see why you need to follow the rules. It’s so much nicer when we all get along. Don’t you think?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I flush the toilet for the water noise. I run out of my stall and slam into Betsy’s door. The simple lock gives way and the door flies open.
“What the—?” Betsy yells. She tries to heave her weight off the toilet. I jump in and straddle her. She lets out a little shriek before I get my hands on her mouth, but the flush drowns it out.
“Listen to me,” I whisper vehemently in her ear. “If you scream, I’ll strangle you with the handcuffs. I can crush your windpipe with my hands.” I lean into her until she winces. “I have nothing to lose. Do you understand?”
She nods, fat tears welling in her eyes.
I back off her a little, but keep my hand clamped over her mouth.
“You’re going to tell me about a patient that’s staying here. I’ll know if you’re telling the truth, too. There’s no easier book to read than your face.”
Betsy furrows her brow but gives a curt nod.
“Her name’s Janine Meemick.” Just talking about my mother brings a tremble to my voice, but I grit my teeth and keep going. “She has a huge burn over the left half of her face and head.”
Betsy’s eyes widen. She nods.
My mother is here. I can’t catch my breath. I look Betsy right in her wet cow eyes. “I need to know where she is.”
Betsy shakes her head. My hand’s still clamped over her mouth. Slowly, I peel my fingers back.
I worry she’ll scream, but instead she speaks. “She’s gone.”
I clench my fists. “Don’t lie. I’m not afraid to hurt you.”
Betsy scowls at me. “Shut up and listen. She was here a week ago. I even gave her the tour. I remember her from the burns.” She runs her hand over the left side of her head. “But, she’s gone. I don’t know what happened, but I think …” She pauses and scans the metal stall walls like she’s checking if the coast is clear. Then she leans in and whispers, “I think she escaped.”
“Escaped?”
Betsy nods. “The day she disappeared, I was in the lounge, watching my shows, and the alarm sounded for a lockdown. When we were escorted into our rooms, I saw the guards running to the emergency stairs like they were after someone. The next day she was gone. Normally, if someone escapes, they drag them back and put them …” She pauses and looks up at me. “Put them on restriction.” There’s something she’s not telling me, but she moves on without missing a beat. “But that woman, she never came back.” I try to process this, but Betsy keeps talking. “Either she ran away, or she’s dead.”
Betsy’s giving me a steely glare I would never have thought her capable of when she says the word dead. She’s trying to hurt me. And it works. The thought of those guards shooting my mother in the back cuts me deep. Betsy can see it on my face because she smiles and pushes up on me. I stagger back, bang through the bathroom door and stumble into the stainless steel sink. She heaves herself off the toilet, walks over and casually washes her hands. When she turns to run her hands under the electric dryer, she glares at me. “Next time, just ask. If you threaten me again, I’ll find a way to make restriction look like a dang tea party.” Then Betsy flops out of the bathroom, pushes open the door and hollers back to me. “Come on in there. Quit pooping around.”
I follow her out the door and back to my room. My eyes count each step back because now that I know my mother’s gone, I have one job. Escape.
Chapter Seventeen
The next week is one of the most frustrating of my life.
I spend all day strapped to my bed. The skin on my wrists burns and chafes from pulling on my restraints for hours on end. The only activity I’m allowed is the horrible TV in the corner. Betsy says it’s to give me something to do, but I know it’s their way of driving me crazy. They play constant loops of black-and-white shows with titles of I Love Lucy, Lassie and Leave it to Beaver. These shows are so sickeningly sweet. These folk’s biggest problems are getting a
bad mark in school, or two friends wear the same dress to a party. It’s maddening, slow torture watching people long dead live out their life while I can’t do a damn thing to live my own. If I could move my arms, I’d throw something at the TV.
Betsy eats these shows up like hot bread rolls. It helps me understand her a little better, knowing she’s been bred on this stuff. Each show has women in their place: cooking, cleaning and raising babies. The men make the tough decisions and every episode ends in a family hug. She sits in front of my TV every day with her mouth open, repeating every word Lucy says to Ricky.
“Isn’t it magical?” she says, turning to me. Her hands cup her plump chin.
“What?” I’ve been going over escape plans in my head. The guards never leave their posts, the bars are fastened tight, and the restraints are annoyingly effective. I have nothing.
“You know,” she says pointing to the TV. “The way that Lucy and Ricky love each other.”
She says love like it’s a verb, something you chose to do. In my experience you either love someone or you don’t. Love boils under your skin like fire. Even when you don’t want it to.
I shrug and turn my eyes back to the ceiling. The black camera watches from the corner. I want to smash it. Smash them all.
Betsy pushes up, comes over and sits on the edge of my bed, which creaks and slumps down under her weight. She keeps inserting herself into my life like this, trying to get me to follow the rules so I can get off restriction. And I tried at first. I ate the food they set before me, just not enough. I listened to Betsy drone on without strangling her. I even took their damn pills. Of course, I kept them under my tongue and pretended to swallow. When a guard found my stash of gloppy pills under my mattress, they put me back to square one. The look on Betsy’s face when that happened mirrored my mother’s when I set the kitchen drapes on fire while playing with matches.
