by Katie French
Betsy leans in my face and waves a hand to get my attention. One of her yellow curls bobs inches from my nose. I blow it away and roll over.
“Can’t I just go to sleep?” I moan.
Betsy shakes her head and the bed jiggles. “Part of your restriction is that you have to listen to me. If I say you’re doing better, Dr. Rayburn will believe me. So listen, or you’ll be peeing in a tube for the rest of your life.”
“Fine.” I stare exaggeratedly at Betsy.
She scowls, but talks anyway. “Lucy and Ricky. Their love is amazing. I wonder what it would be like to be in love.”
She hangs on love like it’s a cliff’s edge. I look down at my hands, tied to a bed frame and think of Clay. Someone I could have loved did this to me. I bet behind the cameras, Ricky shakes Lucy until her teeth rattle. I glare out my barred window. The sun is a hazy cataract in the sky. “Forget it, Betsy. You’re stuck here forever. You won’t find love, and neither will I.”
Betsy’s mouth drops like I just slapped her face. She pulls away, her arms crossing her swollen breasts. She stares angrily at the TV for a while. “My babies love me,” she mumbles. “That’s something.”
I’ve been mean. Even though Betsy’s so irritating, I can’t be mean to her. It’s like kicking a puppy. I clench my fists and try being nice. “How many babies have you had?”
“This is my third,” she says, patting her stomach.
My mouth drops. She looks no older than me, just a kid. Three babies?
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Fifteen,” she mumbles. She pulls a hospital pillow up to her chest and rests her chin on it. “I hope they let me stay with Esmeralda longer than Susanna. They pulled me at nine months with her. Said I was getting too attached.”
“Esmeralda?”
“It’s what I’m going to name her,” she says, rubbing her belly. “Isn’t it pretty?”
“Yeah,” I sit up as much as my wrist restraints will allow. “But, why can’t you keep your kids with you? Are they sick?”
She shakes her head, her curls bouncing around her head like springs. “No, they just want the mothers to focus on staying healthy for the next child. We can’t be running around after toddlers all day and be ready for the next baby.”
Her words are something they’ve fed her. Her eyes tell me she doesn’t believe it.
“Who raises them?”
She looks down and picks at a string on the pillowcase. “The nannies. When I’m too old to breed anymore, I’ll be a nanny and then I’ll raise other girls’ babies for them. It’ll be my time to see them grow up.” She throws on a fake smile.
I frown. “But they won’t be yours.”
Her smile falls. “In a way, they will.”
I shake my head. “In what way? They take your kids away and they make you take other people’s kids later? That’s not right.”
Betsy jumps up from the bed, fresh tears wetting her eyes. “You don’t know anything! You’re cruel and cranky and your boyfriend left you, so you can’t talk about what I do!” She huffs to the door and pushes the call button. Then she turns to me. Her eyes are darker and harder than I’ve ever seen them. “No wonder they’re going to Plan B with you.”
A chill falls over me. “What’s Plan B?”
She says nothing and clomps out the door.
When the door slides shut, I curl into a ball on my bed as best I can. I’ve hurt Betsy and that’s not okay. But my mind traces back to what she said. Plan B? Whatever it is, it can’t be good.
When the door to my room slides open the next morning, I have my apology ready for Betsy, but it isn’t her. It’s the short, pudgy doctor in the long white coat, the one who stabbed me with a needle my first day—Dr. Rayburn. He slips in the door, his eyes tracing my every move like I’m a rabid raccoon.
“Ahem. Good, uh, morning, Miss …” He looks down at my chart, realizes there’s no name there and then blinks up at me. “Good morning. How are you, uh, feeling?”
I stare at him, this strange little man. His oversized lab coat trails down to the knees of his faded black pants. His hair is sticking up like he just woke. There’s a yellow stain on his sleeve. I remember the images I had in my head of what Breeders looked like—cloaked monsters with yellow eyes and sharp teeth. He doesn’t even look like an adult, let alone a monster.
He scratches at the pimply skin on his cheeks and then takes a wary step toward my bed. He squints up at the camera and then fumbles keys from his pocket. When he unlocks one cuff, his fingers tremble. Then he hands me the glass of juice from my bed tray.
I take the juice and grip it in my fist. “You’re not a doctor.”
He blinks at me bug-eyed. One of the burst pimples under his chin has dotted blood onto the collar of his lab coat. “Yes, uh, I am. I’m Dr. Rayburn.”
I shake my head. “Where’s Betsy?”
Rayburn glances at his clipboard and then to the black dome of a camera in the corner. “Betsy chose, uh, not to see you this morning. It seems you’ve, uh, had a disagreement.”
I narrow my eyes. “I want to see her.”
He cringes at my tone but continues. “You see, Miss … We never got your name.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He clears his throat and starts again. “Betsy is a …” He clears his throat again like there’s some phlegm lodged there. “A delicate girl. She’s never left this, uh, hospital.” He looks up at the camera. “Her choice, of course.”
“Of course, my ass,” I mumble.
Rayburn clears his throat and looks up at the camera. I wonder who’s watching this. “What you don’t understand, uh, is how safe it is here. Once you’ve proven you aren’t …” he pauses and looks at me, “a danger to yourself and others, you can begin to enjoy all the, uh, the benefits this hospital has to offer.”
I meet his squinty brown eyes. “This isn’t a hospital,” I say deliberately. “It’s a prison.”
He rubs his hand nervously under his pimpled chin. His fingers graze over the popped pimple and knock away the clot that had formed there. A slow dribble of blood slides down his neck. He doesn’t seem to notice. “For you, uh, yes, it is. For now. To Betsy, it’s her, uh, her home. Every time you, uh, you insult it, you stomp on everything Betsy loves.” His speech hiccups. His eyes keep flicking up to that black lens in the corner. “I’m sure you, uh, you never saw it that way until I just, uh, clarified it for you.” The doctor straightens his shoulders, but his face is the color of tile grout. He gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork, and speeds through the rest of his speech. “Now that you know, it is your job to, uh, do better for her.”
I wonder who prepped him on what to say. I wonder what they think of his performance.
“And then they’ll impregnate me?” I can’t keep the disdain out of my voice.
“It’s our duty,” the doctor spreads his clammy hands, “to, uh, do all we can to build up the population.”
I clench my jaw. “So, that includes imprisoning women and experimenting on them without their permission?” I can feel my hands trembling as my anger builds.
The doctor clears his throat again, a sound I’m beginning to loathe. “Have you heard, uh, the story of what caused our current, um, predicament?”
My curiosity gets the best of me. I want to know. “I heard the government poisoned the water and then no more girl babies were born.”
The doctor shakes his head, his jowls jiggling back and forth. The next words come out in a flat tone of rote rehearsal.
“Several decades ago our predecessors made a, um, a mistake. The petroleum we were using as fuel was perilously low. The public panicked. Then Dr. Borgen and the Hansen Center for Developmental Research created a, uh, a synthetic fuel. It was cheap, clean, and efficient. Everyone in the, uh, modern world made the switch. The air was cleaner. There was less, uh, fighting in oil-rich countries. It was a wonderful time for the world.” He stops and looks up at the camera. Is he making them proud?
“What we didn’t, uh, know then was that this fuel was poison. Over the years our bodies became exposed to more of the synthetic compounds. It built up in our systems while we were, um, unaware. Only when the government census began did we, uh, find the birth irregularities. At first, only a few more males than females were born, uh, each year. That doubled and quadrupled. Even hormone treatments for, uh, for fetuses stopped working. While the experts researched and tested, the countries warred. Human trafficking abounded. Civilized life as we, uh, knew it ground to a halt. By the time we had the answer, uh, well …” He gestures out the window. “Well, you see what’s left.”
He pauses and takes a few loud breaths. “With the advancements, we’ve made here, we can, uh, fix it. Our bodies and our environment are still full of these dangerous compounds. With, uh, new hormone therapies to the fetus produced in an environment free of, uh, the compounds that mutate the fetus, we can produce as many girls as we have, uh, women to bear them. That’s why we need Betsy.” He pauses and meets my eyes for the first time in several minutes. “That’s why we need you. What you, uh, will do this generation may save the next.”
“How noble,” I murmur.
But his eyes say it is. Even with the scripted answer, I can tell Dr. Rayburn believes in what he’s saying. He thinks he’s part of mankind’s salvation. But the look in his brown eyes somehow doesn’t put a fire in my belly. Instead, it leaves me cold. Who do these people think they are?
I try to cross my arms over my chest, but forget one’s still strapped to the bed. I settle for clasping my hands around the bed rails. “I don’t care how much humanity needs us; it isn’t right to use people like cattle.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” The doctor takes a step backward. It’s clear he’s done his duty and wants to get the heck out of here. “We must think of the, uh, greater good. If you can’t learn to comply, we move to … Well, we move to Plan B.”
“What’s Plan B?” I ask as he trundles to the door. He doesn’t look at me. “What’s Plan B?!” I tug at my one restrained arm.
He turns and glances at me once, and then slides out the door without a word.
This time when the door slides open, it’s Betsy. Her face is puffy and sunken. She doesn’t smile at me. She shuffles in and slumps in the chair next to my bed. She nearly folds in on herself, as if her bones could no longer support her frame.
“Are you ready to stop being such a witch?” Her face glows feverishly and her breath is ragged.
I study her face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Shut up. I’m nine months pregnant and very uncomfortable. I’ve come to take you down to dinner. Dr. Rayburn okayed it.”
“What’s Plan B?” I ask, trying to hide the panic in my voice.
Betsy looks over at me for a moment and then shrugs. “Nobody tells me nothing.”
“Betsy, I know that’s not true. If you’d just …”
“Let’s go.” It’s a three-step process for her to get up out of the chair. “Guard, uncuff her please.”
The guard releases my restraints. I hold my hands up for the handcuffs, but none are offered.
“Doc says you don’t need cuffs as long as you behave.” Betsy shrugs and lumbers to the door.
I follow after the waddling Betsy. She holds her belly with both arms as if she has to support it to keep it attached. I rub my hands together, watching her waddle and gasp for breath. I can’t help but worry. She’s sucking back raspy breaths when we find our cafeteria table with the two girls from before, Latisha and Sammy and another girl I’ve never met. They look up at me from their fish filets, some cooked plant material, and brown bread. I can see Betsy eying everyone’s bread roll as she pants.
“Getting ready to pop, huh, Betsy Wetsy,” Latisha says, grinning. Her black eyes flash wickedly.
“She’ll be Betsy Wetsy when her water breaks,” Sammy laughs.
Betsy only moans and accepts her tray from the nanny who brings it over. Mine has two rolls. Betsy has none. Forget calorie restriction. If I can get the rolls into my gown, they’re going to Betsy.
Latisha leans in toward me, a sick smile spreading on her brown face. “What about you, newb? They plant it in you yet?”
“Tish, don’t be gross,” Betsy says between bites.
Tish laughs again and twirls a finger in her kinky splay of hair. “Well, did they? You one of us sorry suckers now?”
I shake my head. Is that Plan B? God, I have to get out of here. I glance around. The guards are posted at the doors, and the nannies shuffle about in their shapeless slippers, making sure each girl is eating their allotted portion. The black cameras track around the room, watching our every move, but I don’t think they can hear us—not at this distance. My heart says I can’t trust these girls enough to ask about escape, but I’m running out of options.
I lean toward Tish and Sammy. “Betsy told me some story about a woman busting out of here a few weeks ago.”
The girls look at me warily and then at Betsy. She doesn’t seem to notice. She stares at her weird vegetable and circles her belly with her hands.
Tish taps her fork on her straight, white teeth. “Why you asking, newb? You got an itch?” She pushes even closer. “Wanna bust out?” That wicked smile is back.
I drop back, quickly shaking my head. “Nope. Just saying it would be exciting to see someone try. Pretty tough to get out of here, I figure. Must’ve been one hell of an escape plan.”
Tish is watching me carefully. She sets down her fork, glances around and leans in. “I know what you thinking, newb.” Her voice pulses hot against my ear. “Don’t know why you’d want to get out of here. Out there you’ll be dead or somebody’s love slave in the outside of a week. But, you ain’t the first to itch. There are ways, but you gotta pay.”
Betsy moans and rocks back on the bench. I find myself rubbing her back lightly. She swats my hand away.
I turn back to Tish. “I don’t have anything to trade, but I could get something.”
Tish smirks and skewers her fish fillet. “You ain’t paying me and you ain’t trading goods. You trading services.” She hisses the services like a dirty word. Her plump upper lip curls nastily.
I furrow my brow. “What’re you hinting at?”
She glances sideways. “See that guard over there?”
I turn. She grabs my hand and yanks. “Don’t look. Just glance.”
I reach around and pat Betsy on the back. A tall guard with curly orange hair and a thick red mustache like a fuzzy carrot stands with his back to the cafeteria door. I’m trying to be stealthy, but he catches me looking and winks at me. I whip back around, my cheeks burning.
“Rusty’s such a perv,” Tish mutters. Then she leans in and lowers her voice to a pale whisper. “Here’s how it works. You give Rusty what he wants and if he can, he gets your ass out. Simple as that.”
I blink for a moment. Then the full force of her words rolls over me like a boulder. The thought of Rusty coming anywhere near me makes me want to throw up. And if that’s the only way out, what does this mean about my mama? I squint my eyes and try to push that thought out of my head. I try to forget the look on Rusty’s face, his little disgusting mustache.
Betsy moans beside me and then rocks hard, making the table quake and forks rattle to the floor. I look up to see her trying to rise. She’s clutching her belly. Her face has gone white with two large pink circles on her cheeks. Her mouth is a shocked O. The bottom of her gown darkens, liquid tinkles to the floor beneath her and splashes on my ankles.
Sam shakes her head. “Betsy Wetsy.”
I stand up and take Betsy’s arm. “Doctor!” I call. “Help!”
“Calm down, newb,” Tish says. “Happens all the time around here. Her water just broke.”
Chapter Eighteen
By the time the nannies usher us down the hall and into an exam room, I’m nearly hysterical, but Betsy’s already there. Her eyes roll into the back of her head. Her forehead glisten
s with sweat. She reaches out and grabs my hand, crushing my fingers.
“You come,” she mutters into my face. “Come with me.”
I follow, too shocked to do anything else. The nannies get Betsy on the bed, and Betsy pulls me along, the tips of my fingers turning white.
I am not good at these kinds of situations. Give me a burn, a cut, a coyote bite and I can handle it. But a little iodine and a bandage won’t help Betsy. She’s got her legs in some weird metal stirrups and she’s making sounds like the piglets did before Arn cut their heads off. I’ve never seen a baby being born. When my mama was having Ethan, Auntie shooed me and Arn into the barn. We stayed there for the twenty hours it took for my pink, squirming baby brother to be born. But my mama never screamed like Betsy.
Before the ache of missing my family can grip me, a doctor blows in, a white sail with black-rimmed glasses. He notes me and gives me a questioning look, but Betsy grips his arm. Her fingers make indents in his flesh. “Doctor, the drugs! Please, the drugs! I need them.”
There is too much white showing around the irises in Betsy’s eyes. She grits her teeth and squeals again. I wish to God he’ll give her the drugs. The doc checks her, putting his hand where no strange man should. Then he shakes his head, removes his glove with a snap and drops it in the trash. “Sorry, Elizabeth. You’re too far along. I told you this one was going to go fast.”
Betsy moans and clutches my fingers, as more pain rocks her.
I shoot the straight-faced doc a frustrated look. “Why can’t you give her the drugs? She needs them!”
The doc stares at me over the rims of his glasses. “The drugs will only slow things down. She’s already at eight centimeters.” He pats Betsy’s trembling knee. “Almost there.” He slides off his white coat and nurses bring him a blue gown and a mask.
Betsy screams and writhes on the bed like someone’s gutting her. “Help me, Agatha,” she says, drawing me close.
