Ruby

  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.

  "There he is," Lyle said, nodding in Uncle 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 m
y 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