Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake?

by David B Lyons

  Every time I’m outside here I think about the first time I sneaked out. I often imagine what I would have done if I had have jumped over the fence. I could have screamed at the neighbours and started to bang on their back door or windows. But I’m so glad I didn’t. Life is good now. I am a really happy girl. Or woman, seeing as I’m going to be twenty soon. That’ll mean I’ve been here for sixteen years. Some of those years were really bad. Some of them really good. Like this year. The best year I’ve ever had.

  I squeeze Dod a little tighter.

  I read – once – in a book called Dear Octopus: ‘the family, that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor in our innermost hearts never quite wish to.’ That really made so much sense to me when I read it. It made me think of Dod. He is my family. My entire family. The most important person in the world to me. I’d be lost without him. I don’t want the neighbours. I don’t want Mrs Witchety across the street. I don’t want anything or anyone anymore. I just want Dod.

  ‘Come on, Betsy, let’s go inside,’ Dod says as he releases his arms. I smile up at him, then follow him in.

  Dod heads straight for the kitchen after he’s locked the back door. I can hear him get the pizza slicer from the drawer. I go into the TV room, pick up the remote control, switch the channels until I find BBC.

  ‘Come on, Dod, it’s almost starting.’

  He arrives with the pizza slicer just in time. The catchy title music begins to play and Dod shakes his shoulders at me. I laugh really loud at him trying to dance. I can actually hear myself laugh and it fills me with a real happiness. Then he holds his hand out to me.

  ‘No,’ I say, giggling.

  ‘Come on!’

  So I do. I grab his hand. And as the professional dancers begin their routine on the TV – as they do at the start of every Strictly Come Dancing show – me and Dod join them on the dance floor. He spins me around as we both laugh. Then he tries to pick me up to do a lift. But I seem to be a bit too heavy for him. We fall into a heap on the floor and can’t get up because we are laughing so much. In fact I’m laughing so much that I feel tears come out of my eyes.

  There’s no better feeling then tears of laughter. Laughing seems to be the only reason I produce tears these days. I’m so lucky.

  14:55

  Gordon

  I’m not sure Michelle has even noticed the presence of five other people in the ward as she continues to claw and slap at Keating. I sit on the edge of the bed and just watch as two male members of Douglas’s surgical team grab at my ex wife’s armpits, lifting her off the old prick. Keating staggers to a standing position, his face already swollen, scrape marks visible under his left eye.

  Elaine, still in the doorway, removes her hand from her face and stares at me, her lips ajar.

  ‘That woman is a psychopath,’ Keating calls out.

  ‘Me? You’re the fuckin psycho,’ Michelle shouts.

  They’re both hushed; one man in a white coat standing between both of them, his arms outstretched.

  ‘This patient,’ he says pointing at me, ‘is due to undergo major heart surgery now. The last thing he needs is his heart rate rising prior to these procedures. How dare the two of you act in such a manner.’

  ‘She just fucking hopped on me, started—’

  ‘Shut up!’ the man in the white coat screams. The whole ward falls silent, no more squabbling, no more murmuring from those standing in the doorway.

  ‘Mr Blake, what has been going on here?’

  As he asks that question, three security men arrive in the ward, shuffling their way past the surgical team.

  ‘He,’ I say, pointing at Keating, ‘just powered into this ward making up all sorts of false accusations about my missing daughter. My wife – ex wife – was only protecting herself, protecting us. Take him away.’

  Two of the security men step towards Keating and force his hands behind his back.

  Keating just snarls at me, shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘Worth a try, wasn’t it?’ he laughs as he’s led away.

  ‘And, miss,’ the other security man says, ‘you’ll have to come with me too.’ He places his hand on her shoulder, moves her around so she’s facing the door.’

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ Michelle says, turning back to face me.

  The security man looks at me. I nod. But as he lets go of Michelle’s shoulder to allow her to come to me, Elaine walks into the centre of the room, between me and my ex wife.

  ‘Wait!’ she says, then gulps. ‘It’s not clear if Gordon will be going for his surgeries now.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I can sense the rest of the surgical team cringe in the doorway.

  ‘Elaine,’ I call out. She doesn’t react. ‘Elaine!’

  She walks towards the rest of her team, and as she’s about to leave the room with them, she turns back. ‘Give us two minutes,’ she says.

  The security man remains with Michelle and me; my ex-wife looking like she’s about to throw up, her face paling more and more with every passing second.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Gordon,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She drapes herself over me. I breathe her in. It’s been so long since I’ve done that.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ I whisper into her ear. ‘I’ve been causing drama in this ward all morning.’

  She leans off me, sucks wet droplets of watery snot back up her nose, then wipes at her soaked face.

  ‘Hey, you really beat the shit out of him, huh?’ I say laughing. She tries to laugh too, but it just causes her snot to fall back out of her nose.

  I swallow hard, then I stare at the closed door, wondering what the fuck is going on outside. The team are literally discussing whether or not my life is worth saving. I guess it’s bizarre that that isn’t even at the forefront of my mind right now. I look at the phone in my hand, will it to ring. Come on, Lenny. What the fuck have you found?

  The door bursts open, Elaine leading the other five people in to my ward.

  ‘Okay, Gordon, we’re going to take you down now. Mr Douglas has the theatre set up; he’s awaiting your arrival.’

  Two of the team approach the rail behind my head, one of them kicking out at something under the bed. Then I feel myself floating, being wheeled towards the door.

  ‘Gordon, Gordon,’ Michelle calls out. She grabs my hand. ‘You’re going to make it through, I know you will.’ She leans in to me, kisses my forehead. My mind begins to spin, swirl, do backflips. I’m going for make-or-break surgery. My ex wife is fucking kissing me. Guus Meyer took Betsy. What the fuck has gone on this morning? It feels as if I’ve woken up in the middle of the most surreal nightmare fathomable.

  ‘You won’t be needing this,’ Elaine says, grabbing the phone from my hand.

  I shout out but she doesn’t care. She hands it back to Michelle who is now sobbing in the doorway of my ward as I am wheeled away from her. I turn over on to my belly, stare backwards and watch Michelle. It almost feels as if I’m being wheeled away in slow motion.

  Then Michelle begins to wave at me. She’s running. Getting closer.

  ‘It’s ringing,’ she says. ‘It’s ringing.’

  Elaine tries to stop her from giving me the phone, but I swipe at it.

  ‘Thank fuck, Lenny,’ I say as I hold Elaine at arm’s length. ‘They’re bringing me down to theatre now, what have you got for me?’

  The silence between me asking that question and Lenny answering is almost torturous. I can actually hear my failing heart beat loudly in my ears.

  ‘Gordon, Guus didn’t take Betsy,’ he says. The sound of my heart thumping suddenly stops. As if it no longer wants to beat. As if it no longer feels a necessity to keep me alive.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Gordon, she’s not there. Guus had nothing to do with her disappearance.’

  Elaine grabs at my wrist.

  ‘Gordon, you need to hang up that call now.’

  The surgical team push me into a la
rge elevator. I don’t even hang up on Lenny, I just hand the phone over to Elaine and lay my head back on the pillow, my mind splintering in a thousand different directions.

  Bollocks. Lenny didn’t get me any answers. Why the fuck did I get my hopes up? I think about the envelope I left back in my ward. Fuck it. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m going to survive these surgeries. I have to survive these surgeries. I need to know what happened to my Betsy.

  I grab at the sleeve of Elaine’s scrubs.

  ‘I need to get through this,’ I say. She sighs quietly, then purses her lips at me. ‘Please tell me Douglas is going to carry out the surgeries. Please!’ I’m almost crying through my begging when the lift door opens and I’m wheeled out. Elaine doesn’t answer me, she just stares straight ahead.

  I’m wheeled down a long corridor and then around a corner towards another long corridor. The colour has disappeared from the hospital. No greens or blues or yellows. Everything is just white here; either white or clear glass. As the team and I are buzzed through a double doorway, I see him. Douglas.

  ‘What took you all so long?’ he asks.

  The surgical team look at each other. Except Elaine. She’s too busy staring at me.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Douglas, but we had an issue with the bed, it wouldn’t wheel. We had to find another one.’

  Douglas tuts loudly, then motions, with curled fingers, for the team to wheel me into his theatre.

  ‘We’re all ready here,’ he says. ‘We need to do this asap.’

  When I’m wheeled through, a member of the team places his hand around my back, moves me up into a sitting position. Then the T-shirt I’m wearing is taken from me, my arms reaching up so it slips up over my head. I stare around the room, almost blinded by the brightness of it all.

  ‘Ready, move,’ somebody says beside me. Suddenly I find my whole body being lifted and then placed down on another bed. Possibly my deathbed. Douglas is dictating orders to his team, but I can’t really make out what he’s saying. My mind is racing too much. My whole life seems to be flashing before my eyes. My parents, my school friends, my horrible fucking teachers, my first job, meeting Michelle. Betsy. Betsy. Betsy.

  ‘Gordon, Gordon?’ Douglas says, removing me from my thoughts.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Do you understand everything I’ve just said to you?’

  I arch my head back a little, strain my eyeballs to look up at him. I’ve no idea what he’s just said to me, but I just nod anyway.

  ‘Okay, so take one deep inhale.’

  I do. And as my lungs are filling, he places a mask over my mouth and nose.

  ‘I’m going to ask you to count backwards from ten. By the time you do, you’ll be asleep, okay?’ I nod again. Then Douglas nods at me, prompting me to start. I look around, find Elaine, then hold a hand out towards her. She grabs on to it, squeezes my fingers.

  I take in another deep breath as I close my eyes. Then I begin to count.

  ‘Ten… nine… eight… seven… si—’

  Yesterday

  Betsy

  Another bloody software update. This seems to happen about every three months now. A box flashes up offering me the chance to:

  Chat with one of our representatives now.

  I just click the tiny ‘x’ on the corner of that box and then continue to download the new software update. I don’t need to ‘chat’ with anyone. Downloading the latest Kindle update is easy. Dod showed me how to do it.

  I couldn’t live without my Kindle. It’s one of the best inventions ever. I have nearly two hundred and twenty books inside this skinny little machine. There’s no way I’d be able to fit all of those books in this basement. Not unless I slept on top of them. Dod still buys me my non-fiction books in paperback form. I’m currently reading about a president of America called Barack Obama. He was the first ever president of America with black skin. I don’t know why I always seem to relate to people with black skin. I think it might have to do with the fact that they were held as slaves for so long until they fought their way to a better life. Maybe I can relate to that in some way. Obama seems to be a real modern-day hero. I’d like to say that it would be great to meet him but I really don’t have much interest in meeting people anymore. It used to be my dream to meet somebody… anybody, but I’ve learned to love my life. It might be restricted; I don’t ever leave this house, except to breathe in some air out the back garden, but I have everything I could ever want. I have all my books. I have Bozy. And I have Dod. What more do I need?

  I love Dod so much. He is so many different things to me; a best friend, a parent, a partner, a cook, a hairdresser, a TV critic, a book critic. Sometimes we read the same books and then discuss them afterwards. We both read Dreams From My Father at the same time, although he finished it way before me. Then afterwards, over dinner, we discussed what we both love the most about Barack Obama. We also both read The Hunger Games books at the same time and then discussed them. I think Dod liked them more than I did. We’ve also watched the movies. They’re crap in comparison to the books.

  The software update finishes and I click back into the book I was reading: The Fault in Our Stars. It’s very sad. Very, very sad. But it is so gripping. I only downloaded it yesterday morning. Am nearly finished it already.

  ‘You should read this one, Dod,’ I say.

  He looks at me, then squidges his nose.

  ‘Doesn’t seem like my cup of tea.’

  A small laugh comes out of my nose.

  ‘You’re just afraid you’ll cry.’

  He makes a face at me, then continues to paint the wall of my basement. He’s so good at looking after me and my little room. I asked him to paint it light blue, so that it looks like the sky. He bought some paint yesterday and began the job today. The smell is a bit strong, but I don’t mind. It will look great when it is all done.

  Dod’s going to buy me two plants as well that I can put in the corner of the basement, just so I can bring a bit of the outside into my inside. We still go out the back, with the lights turned off, every Saturday evening before our Pizza arrives. The smell of fresh air is still a joy for me. We whisper when we’re out there; about anything and everything. It’s normally the best twenty minutes of my week. But anytime spent talking with Dod is always great. He is so clever.

  I stare at him as he runs a paint brush up and down the far wall. I think he has lost some weight in the past months. I asked him if he was doing more exercise.

  ‘No. Apart from running around seeing to your demands!’ he said to me laughing. He says I have him under my thumb, that I totally control him. He might be right. I don’t know. I just know that we love each other. And that neither of us would change a thing. We don’t even hold any secrets from each other.

  Well, apart from Betsy’s Basement. I still haven’t told him about it. I’m not sure how he would react to reading it. I think it’s a great book. I really do. It’s a hundred per cent non-fiction now. I got rid of all of the fictional stuff about neighbours who I made up. The whole book now is about my time spent here. It’s like a memoir; a bit like the Obama book in a way, a bit like the brilliant book I read last year: Angela’s Ashes. That kinda thing. Somebody in the future will find it. Somebody will read it and know the full truth about my life in this house. And I will continue to add to it. My life is far from over. I’m only twenty-one. Have lots of years left. My spelling and my writing improves all the time, but it’s still not perfect. I’m sure there are still lots of mistakes in it, but I really like Betsy’s Basement and think whoever does find it in the future will really enjoy reading it. I might even become famous. Only I won’t know. Because I will be dead.

  I sniffle up a tear that almost falls out of my eye as I continue reading The Fault in Our Stars. I always know if a book is good or a bad depending on how it makes me feel. Once it makes me feel anything – happy, sad, angry, afraid – then I know it’s good. It’s the writer’s responsibility to make the reader feel… feel something. This boo
k is definitely making me feel something: sad. But that’s a good thing. The writer has done her job. I hope whoever reads Betsy’s Basement feels something. But I don’t want them to just feel sad even though there are sad bits in it. I want them to feel happy too. And angry. And afraid. Because they are all the feelings I have had while I’ve been writing it.

  ‘Ohhh,’ I need a glass of water,’ Dod says as he scrambles back to a standing position.

  ‘I can get one for you,’ I say.

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I wanna take a little break. I don’t feel too good. I’m a little light-headed from the fumes, I think. I’ll be back in ten minutes. You just keep on reading.’

  I smile back at him and watch as he makes his way up the steps. He doesn’t seem to be walking like he normally does. He’s holding on to the wall for balance as he makes his way towards the light in the hallway.

  Then he just drops; his whole body slapping against the floorboards in the hallway.

  Five hours later

  20:00

  Lenny

  Lenny crunches another plastic cup in his grip, tosses it into the bin and then interlocks the fingers from each of his hands around the back of his head. He lets out another sigh and then begins to pace the corridors. Again. Slowly. Really slowly. He’s not going anywhere, but he’s sick to death of sitting in the waiting room. He can’t fathom why the plastic seats in these waiting rooms are always so uncomfortable, as if they’re designed to itch people’s arse cheeks. He has studied each face he’s come across during his repeated walks, but none has matched the pretty girl’s in scrubs he’d seen in Gordon’s ward this morning.

  He grinds his teeth again, the day’s events constantly nagging away at him, then squirms. He’s furious with himself that he spent much of his day running around strangers’ homes shouting out Betsy Blake’s name – as if she was just gonna magically poke her head out from behind a curtain after seventeen years.