Part 16 (2/2)

”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, h.e.l.l, 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 peal 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 lock down. 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 never would 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 drier, 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 p.o.o.ping 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 t.i.tles of I Love Lucy, La.s.sie 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 d.a.m.n 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 shows 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 everyday 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, 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 its 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 d.a.m.n 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 matches.

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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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.

<script>