Ruby (43 page)

"No, it's not okay," I said. "I want to call my daddy. Can I at least do that?"
"We don't permit patients to use the
telephones."
"Will you call him, then? If you just call him, you'll see he doesn't want me to be here," I said.
"I'm sorry, Ruby, but he does," Doctor Cheryl said, and pulled a form out of the file. "See? Here is his signature," he said, and I looked at the line to which he pointed. Pierre Dumas was written there.
"She forged it, I'm sure," I said quickly. "She's going to tell him I ran away. Please, just call him. Will you do that?" He stood up without replying.
"You've got a little time before lunch. Get acquainted with the facilities. Try to relax. It will help us when we meet again," he said, td opened the door. The attendant was waiting. "Take her to the recreation room," Doctor Cheryl told him. The attendant nodded and looked in at me. Slowly, I rose.
"When my father finds out what she did and what you're doing, you're going to be in a lot of trouble," I threatened. He didn't reply and I had no choice but to follow the attendant back down the corridor to the recreation room.
"Hello, I'm Mrs. Whidden," a woman attendant no more than forty said, greeting me at the door. "Welcome. I'm here to help you. Is there something in particular you would like to do . handicrafts, perhaps."
"No," I said.
"Well, why don't you just go about and look over every-thing until something strikes your fancy. Then I'll help you, okay?" she said. Seeing no point to my constantly protesting, I nodded and entered the room. I walked about, gazing at the patients, some of whom gazed at me with curiosity, some with what looked like anger, and some who didn't seem to see me. The redheaded boy who had been sitting doing nothing was still sitting that way. I noticed that his eyes followed me, however. I went to the window near him and gazed out, longing for my freedom.
"Hate being here?" I heard, and turned. It sounded like he had asked it, but he was still sitting stiffly, staring ahead.
"Did you ask me something?" I inquired. He didn't move, nor did he speak. I shrugged and looked out again, and again, I heard, "Hate being here?" I spun around.
"Pardon me?"
Still, without turning, he spoke again.
"I can tell you don't want to be here."
"I don't. I was kidnapped, locked up before I knew what was happening," I said. That animated his face to the point where he at least raised his eyebrows. He turned to me slowly, only his head moving, and he gazed at me with eyes that seemed as cold and as indifferent as eyes on a mannequin.
"What about your parents?" he asked.
"My father doesn't know what my stepmother has done. I'm sure," I said.
"What's the charge?"
"Pardon?"
"What's the reason you're supposedly here for? You know, your problem?"
"I'd rather not say. It's too embarrassing and ridiculous."
"Paranoia? Schizophrenia? Manic-depression? Am I getting warm?"
"No. Why are you here?" I demanded.
"Immobility," he declared. "I'm unable to make decisions, deal with responsibilities. When confronted with a problem, I simply become immobile. I can't even decide what I want to do in here," he added nonchalantly. "So I sit and wait for the recreation period to end."
"Why are you like this?" I asked. "I mean, you know what's wrong with you, apparently."
"Insecure." He smiled. "My mother, apparently like your stepmother, didn't want me. In her eighth month, she tried to abort me, but I only got born too soon instead. From then on, it was straight downhill: paranoia, autism, learning disabilities," he recited dryly.
"You don't seem like someone with learning disabilities," I said.
"I can't function in a normal school setting. I can't answer questions. I don't raise my hand, and when I'm given a test, I just stare at it. But I read," he added. "That's all I do. It's safe." He raised his eyes to me. "So why did they commit you? You don't have to be afraid of telling me. I won't tell anyone else. But I don't blame you if you don't trust me," he added quickly.
I sighed.
"I've been accused of being too loose with my sexual activities," I said.
"Nymphomania. Great. We don't have any of those." I couldn't help but laugh.
"You still don't," I said. "It's a lie."
"That's all right. This place flourishes on lies. Patients lie to each other, to themselves, and to the doctors and the doctors lie because they claim they can help you, but they can't. All they can do is keep you comfortable," he said bitterly. He lifted his rustcolored eyes toward me again. "You can tell me your real name or you can lie, if you want."
"My name's Ruby, Ruby Dumas. I know your first name is Lyle, but I forgot your last name."
"Black. Like the bottom of an empty well. Dumas," he said. "Dumas. There's someone else here with that name."
"My uncle," I said. "Jean. I was brought here supposedly to visit him."
"Oh. You're Jean's niece?"
"But I never got to see him."
"I like Jean."
"Does he talk to you? What's he like? How is he?" I hurriedly asked.
"He doesn't talk to anyone, but that doesn't mean he can't. I know he can. He's. . . just very quiet, but as gentle as a little boy and as frightened sometimes. Sometimes, he cries for what seems to be no reason, but I know something's going on in his head to make him cry. Occasionally, I catch him laughing to himself. He won't tell anyone anything, especially the doctors and nurses."
"If I can only see him. At least that would be something good," I said.
"You can. I'm sure he'll be at lunch in the little cafeteria." "I've never met him before," I said. "Will you point him out to me?"
"Not hard to do. He's the best-dressed and the best-looking guy here. Ruby, huh? Nice," he said, and then tightened his face as if he had said something terrible.
"Thank you." I paused and looked around. "I don't know what I'm going to do now. I've got to get out of here, but this place is worse than a prison-- doors that have to be buzzed open, bars on the windows, attendants everywhere . ."
"Oh, I can get you out," he said casually. "If that's what you really want."
"You can? How?"
"There's a room that has a window without bars on it, the laundry room."
"Really? But how can I get to it?"
"I'll show you . . . later. They let us go outside if we want after lunch and there's a way into the laundry room from the yard."
My heart lifted with hope.
"How do you know all this?"
"I know everything about this place," he replied. "You do? How long have you been here?" I asked.
"Since I was seven, he said. "Ten years."
"Ten years! Don't you ever want to leave?" I asked. He stared ahead for a moment. A tear escaped his right eye and slid down his cheek.
"No," he said. He turned to me with the saddest eyes. "I belong here. I told you," he continued, "I can't make a decision. I told you I'd help you, but later, when it comes time to do it, I don't know if I can." He stared ahead. "I don't know if I can."
My brightened spirits darkened again when I realized
he
might just be doing what he said everyone did here--lying.
A bell was rung and Mrs. Whidden announced it was time to go to lunch. I brightened again. At least now, I would see Uncle Jean. Unless of course, that was a lie, too.

21
Betrayed Again
.
It wasn't a lie and I didn't need to have Uncle

Jean pointed out to me. He hadn't changed very much from the young man in the photos, and he was, as Lyle had described, the best-dressed patient in the cafeteria, coming to lunch in a light blue seersucker sports jacket and matching slacks, a white shirt with a blue cravat, and spotless white deck shoes. His golden brown hair was neatly trimmed and brushed back on the sides. I could see that he still had his trim figure. He looked like someone on vacation who had stopped by to visit a sick relative. He ate mechanically and gazed around the cafeteria with little or no interest.

Jean's direction.
"I know." My heart began to tap a rapid beat on
the inside of my chest.
"As you see, despite his problem, whatever that
may be," Lyle said dryly, "he remains very concerned
about his appearance. You should see his room, how
neatly he keeps everything, too. In the beginning, I
thought he had a cleanliness fetish or something. If
you touch anything in his room, he'll go to it and make sure you didn't smudge it or move it an iota of
an inch out of place.
"I'm practically the only one he permits in his
room," Lyle added proudly. "He doesn't talk to me as
such. He doesn't speak to anyone, but he tolerates me
at least. If someone else sits at that table, he'll create a
stir."
"What will he do?" I asked.
"He might start beating a spoon on his plate or
he might just scream this horrid, beastlike sound until
one of the attendants comes over and moves him or
the other person away," Lyle explained.
"Maybe I shouldn't go near him," I said
fearfully.
"Maybe you shouldn't. Maybe you should.
Don't ask me to decide for you, but if you want me to,
I'll tell him who you are at least."
"He might recognize me," I said.
"I thought he never saw you."
"He saw my twin sister and will just think that's
who I am."
"Really? You have a twin sister? Now that's
interesting," Lyle replied.
"If you two want to eat, you had better get in
line," an attendant advised us.
"I don't know if I want to eat," Lyle muttered. "Now, Lyle," the attendant said, "you know you
don't have all day to make this decision."
"I'm hungry," I said to help move him along. I
went to the stack of trays and got one. Then I started
down the line, gazing back once to see Lyle still
considering. My action moved him finally and he
joined me.
"Please, get two of whatever you choose," he
said. "What if you don't like it?"
"I don't know what I like anymore. It all tastes
the same to me," he said.
I chose the stew and got us both some Jell-O for
dessert. After we had our food, we turned to decide
where to sit and I stared at Uncle Jean, wondering if I
should approach him.
"Go on," Lyle said. "I'll sit wherever you want." With my eyes glued to him, I walked directly
toward Uncle Jean. He continued to eat mechanically
and move his eyes from side to side, almost in
synchronization with each forkful of food. He didn't
appear to notice me until I was nearly upon him. Then
his eyes stopped scanning the room and he paused, his
hand holding the fork about midway between the plate
and his mouth. Slowly, he scanned my face. He didn't smile, but it was apparent he recognized me as
Gisselle.
"Hello, Uncle Jean," I said, my body trembling.
"May I sit with you?"
He didn't respond.
"Tell him who you really are," Lyle coached. "My name is Ruby. I am not Gisselle. I'm
Gisselle's twin sister, someone you've never met." His eyes blinked rapidly and then he brought
the forkful of food to his mouth.
"He's interested or at least amused," Lyle
whispered.
"How do you know?"
"If he wasn't, he would be smacking the plate
with his fork or starting to scream," Lyle explained.
Feeling like the blind led by the blind, I inched my
way forward to the table and gently put my tray down.
I paused a moment, but Uncle Jean just kept eating,
his blue-green eyes fixed on me. Then I sat down. "Hi, Jean," Lyle said. "The natives appear a bit
restless today, huh?" he said, sitting down beside me.
Uncle Jean gazed at him, but didn't respond. Then he
turned his attention back to me.
"I really am Gisselle's twin sister, Uncle Jean.
My parents have told everyone how I was stolen at
birth and how I managed to return just recently." "Is that true?" Lyle asked astonished.
"No. But that's what my parents are telling
everyone," said. Lyle started to eat.
"Why?"
"To cover up the truth," I said, and turned back
to Uncle Jean who was blinking rapidly again. "My
father, your brother, met my mother in the bayou.
They fell in love and she became pregnant. Later, she
was talked into giving up the baby, only no one knew
there were twins. On the day Gisselle and I were born,
my grandmere Catherine kept me when my grandpere
Jack took the first baby, Gisselle, out to the limousine
where your family was waiting."
"Great story," Lyle said with a wry smile on his
face.
"It's true!" I snapped at him, and then turned
back to Uncle Jean. "Daphne, Daddy's wife, resents
me, Uncle Jean. She's been very cruel to me ever
since I arrived. She told me she was bringing me here
to see you but secretly she made arrangements with
Dr. Cheryl and his staff to keep me here for
observation and evaluation. She's doing everything
she can to get rid of me. She's--"
"Aaaaa,"Uncle
Jean cried. I stopped, my heart pounding. Was he about to scream and pound his
dish?
"Easy," Lyle warned. "You're going too fast for
him."
"I'm sorry, Uncle Jean," I said. "But I wanted to
see you and tell you how much Daddy suffers because
you're in here. He's so sick with grief, he cries in your
room often and in fact, he's been so upset recently, he
couldn't come to see you on your birthday."
"His birthday? This isn't his birthday," Lyle
said. "They make a big deal over everyone's birthday
here. His isn't for another month."
"It doesn't surprise me. Daphne simply lied to
get me to come along with her. I would have anyway,
Uncle Jean," I said, turning back to him. "I wanted to
see you very much."
He stared at me, his mouth open, his eyes wide. "Start eating," Lyle said. "Pretend it's business
as usual."
I did as he advised and Uncle Jean did appear to
relax. He lifted his fork, but continued to stare at me
instead of continuing to eat. I smiled at him. "I lived with my grandmere Catherine all my
life," I told him. "My mother died shortly after I was
born. I never knew who my real father was until recently and I promised my grandmere Catherine I
would go to him after she died.
"You can't imagine how surprised everyone
was," I said. He started to smile.
"Terrific," Lyle whispered. "He likes you." "Does he?"
"I can tell. Keep talking," he commanded in a
whisper.
"I tried to adjust, to learn how to be a proper
young Creole lady, but Gisselle was very jealous of
me. She thought I stole her boyfriend and she plotted
against me."
"Did you?" Lyle asked.
"Did I what?"
"Steal her boyfriend?"
"No. At least I didn't set out to do anything like
that," I said.
"But he liked you more than he liked her?" Lyle
pursued.
"It was her own fault. I don't know how anyone
could like her. She lies; she likes to see people suffer,
and she'll deceive anyone, even herself."
"She sounds like she's the one who belongs in
here," he said.
I turned back to Uncle Jean.
"Gisselle wasn't happy unless I was in some
sort of trouble," I continued.
Uncle Jean grimaced.
"Daphne always took her side and Daddy . . .
Daddy's overwhelmed with problems."
Uncle Jean's grimace deepened. Suddenly, he
began to turn angry. He lifted his upper lip and
clenched his teeth.
"Uh-oh," Lyle said. "Maybe you'd better stop.
It's upsetting him."
"No. He should hear all of it." I turned back to
him. "I went to a voodoo queen and asked her to help
me. She fixed Gisselle and shortly afterward, Gisselle
and another one of her boyfriends got into a dreadful
car accident, Uncle Jean. The boy was killed and
Gisselle is crippled for life. I feel just terrible about it,
and Daddy Daddy's a shadow of himself."
Jean's anger seemed to subside.
"I wish you would say something to me, Uncle
Jean. I wish you would tell me something I could tell
Daddy when I do get out of here."
I waited, but he just stared at me.
"Don't feel bad. I told you, he doesn't talk to
anyone. He--"
"I know, but I want my father to realize I've
seen Uncle
Jean,"
I insisted. "I want him to--" "Ji-ji-ji--"
"What's he trying to say?"
"!don't know," Lyle said.
"Ji-b-b-jib-jib--"
"Jib? What's that mean? Jib?"
Lyle thought a moment.
"Jib? Jib!" His eyes brightened. "It's a sailing
term. Is that what you mean, Jean?"
"Jib," Uncle
Jean
said, nodding. "Jib." He
grimaced as if in great pain. Then he sat back, brought
his hands to his head, and screamed, "JIB!"
"Oh, no."
"Hey, Jean," the attendant closest to us cried,
running over.
"JIB! JIB!"
Another attendant arrived and then another.
They helped Uncle Jean to his feet. Around us, the
other patients began to become unnerved. Some
shouted, some laughed, a young girl, maybe five or
six years older than I, began to cry.
Uncle Jean struggled against the attendants for
a while and looked at me. Spittle moved down the
corners of his mouth as his head shook with the effort
to repeat, "Jib, jib." They led him away.
Nurses appeared and more attendants followed
to help calm down the patients.
"I feel terrible," I said. "I should have stopped
when you told me to."
"Don't blame yourself," Lyle said, "something
like that usually happens."
Lyle continued to eat a little more of his stew,
but I couldn't put anything in my mouth. I felt so sick
inside, so empty and defeated. I had to get out of here;
I just had to.
"What happens now?" I asked him. "What will
they do to him?"
"Just take him to his room. He usually calms
down after that."
"What happens with us after lunch?"
"They'll take us out for a while, but the area is
fenced in, so don't think you can just run off." "Will you show me how to escape then? Will
you, Lyle? Please," I begged.
"I don't know. Yes," he said. Then a moment
later he said, "I don't know. Don't keep asking me." "All right, Lyle. I won't," I said quickly. He
calmed down and started on his dessert.
Just as he had said, when the lunch hour ended,
the attendants directed the patients to their outside time. On my way out with Lyle, the head nurse, Mrs.
McDonald, approached me.
"Dr. Cheryl has you scheduled for another hour
of evaluation late this afternoon," she said. "I will
come for you when it's time. How are you getting
along? Make any friends?" she asked, eying Lyle who
walked a step or two behind me. I didn't respond.
"Hello, Lyle. How are you today?"
"I don't know," he said quickly.
Mrs. McDonald smiled at me and walked on to
speak to some other patients.
The yard didn't look much different from the
grounds in front of the institution. Like the front, the
back had walk-ways and benches, fountains and
flower beds with sprawling magnolia and oak trees
providing pools of shade. There was an actual pool for
fish and frogs, too. The grounds were obviously well
maintained. The rock gardens, blossoms, and polished
benches glittered in the warm, afternoon sunlight "It's very nice out here," I reluctantly admitted
to Lyle.
"They've got to keep it nice. Everyone here
comes from a wealthy family. They want to be sure
the money continues to flow into the institution. You
should see this place when they schedule one of their fetes for the families of patients. Every inch is spickand-span, not a weed, not a speck of dust, and not a
face without a smile," he said, smirking.
"You sound very critical of them, Lyle, yet you
want to stay. Why don't you think about trying life on
the outside again? You're much brighter than most
boys I've met," I said. He blanched but looked away. "I'm not ready yet," he replied. "But I can tell
just from the short time I've been with you that you
definitely don't belong here."
"I've got another session scheduled with Dr.
Cheryl. He's going to find a way to keep me. I just
know it," I moaned. "Daphne gives this place too
much money for him not to do what she wants." I
embraced myself and looked down as we walked
along. Around us and even behind us, the attendants
watched.
"You go ask to go to the bathroom," Lyle
suddenly said. "It's right off the rear entrance. They
won't bother you. To the left of the rest room is a
short stairway which goes down to the basement. The
second door on the right is the laundry room. They've
already done their laundry work for today. They do it
in the morning. So there won't be anyone there." "Are you sure?"
"I told you, I've been here ten years. I know
which clocks run slow and which run fast, what door
hinges squeak, and where there are windows without
bars on them," he added.
"Thank you Lyle."
He shrugged.
"I haven't done anything yet," he said, as if he
wanted to convince himself more than me that he
hadn't made a decision.
"You've given me hope, Lyle. That's doing a
great deal." I smiled at him. He stared at me a
moment, his rust-colored eyes blinking and then he
turned away.
"Go on," he said. "Do what I told you." I went to the female attendant and explained
that I had to go to the bathroom.
"I'll show you where it is," she said when we
returned to the door.
"1 know where it is. Thank you," I replied
quickly. She shrugged and left me. I did exactly what
Lyle said and scurried down the short flight of steps.
The laundry room was a large, long room with cement
floors and cement walls lined with washing machines,
dryers, and bins. Toward the rear were the windows
Lyle had described, but they were high up.
"Quick," I heard him say as he entered behind
me. We hurried to the back. "You just snap the hinge
in the middle and slide the window to your left," he
whispered. "It's not locked."
"How do you know that, Lyle?" I asked
suspiciously. He looked down and then up at me
quickly.
"I've been here a few times. I even went so far
as to stick my foot out, but I. . . I'm not ready," he
concluded.
"I hope you will be ready soon, Lyle." "I'll give you a boost up. Come on, before we're
missed," he said, cupping his hands together for my
foot.
"I wish you would come with me, Lyle," I said,
and put my foot into his hands. He lifted and I
clutched at the windowsill to pull myself up. Just as
he described, the latch opened easily and I slid the
window to the left. I looked down at him.
"Go on," he coached.
"Thank you, Lyle. I know how hard it was for