I’m worried. Really, really worried. I haven’t been able to read for the past twenty-four hours. I can’t concentrate. I keep seeing Dod with his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He was breathing funny. And his tongue was hanging out of his mouth. I kept calling his name, louder and louder each time. Right into his face, right into his ear. It was working. A bit. He would respond by making funny noises, but I wasn’t sure what he was trying to say to me. So I rooted through his pockets, took out his phone and fumbled with it until I could find some numbers. Then I dialled 999 and waited.
‘I need an ambulance,’ I said. ‘Dod needs to go to hospital.’
The girl on the other line asked me for the address. I ran to the door.
‘Number one-six-six,’ I said.
‘One-six-six where?’ she asked.
My eyes went wide.
‘Dod… Dod,’ I screamed. I slapped him across the face. Did whatever I could to wake him up. To make him talk. ‘One-six-six. One-six-six.’ I repeated the number into his face over and over again. Then I watched him swallow hard and his eyes turned more normal.
‘South Circular Road.’ he squeaked out of his mouth. Then his eyes rolled back again.
I keep playing it over and over in my head. Him looking like he was about to die; me making the phone call; me letting the ambulance man and woman come into the hallway; me watching as Dod was put on a stretcher and wheeled out of the house.
I feel so alone. And very, very sad. I cried most of last night. And this morning. I’ve had to creep outside the back door; just to breathe in some fresh air. I know Dod would be angry that I did that during the daytime, when a neighbour could see me. But I needed the fresh air. Desperately needed it.
I’m back in the basement now, under my covers with Bozy on my chest just waiting to hear Dod come back through the front door. I wipe my hand over my face and let out a big sigh. I think all of my tears have dried up. The crying has stopped.
I sit up in the bed and look at my Kindle. I’m really not in the humour of reading. My brain won’t let me concentrate on the story. All I can think about is Dod. About how he collapsed when he reached the top of the stairs yesterday. The noise of his body slapping on the wooden floor.
Then I look to my right, to my bedside cabinet, whip the duvet off me and pull it open. I reach inside and take out my copybook. Betsy’s Basement. If I can’t read because I keep thinking of Dod, then maybe I can write, because I’ll be writing about Dod. I click at my pen and then begin to scribble a new chapter. Chapter 115. I chew on the top of the pen, wonder what to call this chapter.
Dod goes to hospital.
And then I begin to write it. I write about him painting my room, then needing a glass of water, then falling onto the floor at the top of the stairs. Sometimes when I write the name Dod, my ‘o’ looks like a small ‘a’. He told me once, not that long ago, that he asked me to call him Dod because it sounded like the word Dad. But then he said he was only messing. I’m actually not sure if he was or not though. Then I write about me calling the ambulance and about the ambulance man and woman coming into the house. I write about how odd that was for me. I hadn’t spoken to anybody but Dod for seventeen years. The woman asked if I’d like to go in the ambulance with them. I looked out the door, stared at the big bright yellow ambulance with blue lights flashing on its roof, and then shook my head.
‘I shouldn’t go out,’ I said. Then I asked her to look after him as best she could. I write about that too. And about me crying all night.
This is the fastest I’ve ever written. And the longest. I’ve probably been writing for the past two hours. Maybe three. Then I stop suddenly. I think I hear a key in the hall door.
I slap Betsy’s Basement shut and look up the steps. The hall door creeps open and my heart thumps really fast with relief. Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk. A big smile stretches right across my face. Dod. Dod is okay. He’s safe. He’s home.
I place Betsy’s Basement and my pen on top of my cabinet, grab Bozy, and we both make our way to my steps. But I stop suddenly because I get confused. I think Dod’s brought somebody home with him. I’m sure I can hear people talking up there. I stand at the bottom of the steps and try to listen. Then the basement door opens and I see a shadow of a man. It’s not Dod. Then a woman appears. Then another man. He’s not Dod either.
All three of them walk slowly down the steps, one of them shining a torch towards me. I squeeze Bozy tight. Really, really tight.
THE END