Ruby

20

Bird in a Gilded Cage

Ever since the dreadful car accident, Daddy had been moping about like a man who had lost his desire to live. His shoulders drooped, his face was shadowed, his eyes dull. He ate poorly, grew paler and paler, and even took less care with his appearance. And he spent more and more time alone in Uncle Jean's room.

Daphne's tone was always critical and harsh. Instead of showing him compassion and understanding, she complained about her own new problems and insisted that he was only making things more difficult for her. Never did she first consider him and how he was suffering.

So it came as no surprise to me that she wouldn't waste a moment telling him about what she had found in my art studio and what it meant. I felt sorrier for him than I did for myself, for I knew how devastating this would be on top of what had already occurred. Whipped about by what he considered divine retribution for some past sins, he absorbed Daphne's revelations like a condemned man hearing that his final appeal for mercy had been denied. He offered no resistance to her decision to shut up my art studio and end my private art lessons, nor did he utter a single word of protest when she sentenced me to what amounted to practically house arrest.

Naturally, I was not to see or speak to Beau. In fact, I was forbidden to use the telephone. I was to return home directly from school each and every day and either assist Mrs. Warren with Gisselle's needs or do my homework. To reinforce her ironclad hold over me and Daddy, Daphne called me into the study and cross-examined me in his presence, just to prove to him that beyond a doubt, I was as bad as she had predicted I would be.

"You have conducted yourself like a little tramp," she declared, "even using your art talents as a way to be sexually promiscuous. And in my house!

"Most embarrassing of all, you have corrupted the son of one of the most highly respected Creole families in New Orleans. They are beside themselves with grief over this.

"Have you anything to say in your own defense?" she asked like some high court judge.

I raised my eyes and gazed at Daddy who sat with his hands in his lap, his eyes glassy. The way he was, it made no sense for me to speak. I didn't think he would hear or understand a word and Daphne was sure to belittle and destroy anything I would offer as an excuse or justification. I shook my head and looked down again.

"Then go to your room and be sure you do exactly what I have told you to do," she ordered, and I left.

Beau was punished as well. His parents took away his car and restricted his social activities for a month. When I saw him in school, he looked broken and subdued. His friends had heard he had gotten in trouble, but they didn't know the details.

"I'm sorry," he told me. "This is all my fault. I got you and myself into a pot of boiling water."

"I didn't do anything I didn't want to do, Beau, and you and I do care for each other, don't we?"

"Yes," he said. "But there's not much I can do about it now. At least until everyone calms down, if they ever do. I never saw my father this angry. Daphne really got to him. She put most of the blame on you," he said, quickly adding,

But my father thinks you're some kind of seductress. He called you a femme fatale, whatever that means." He gazed about us nervously. "If he even hears I'm talking to you . . ."

"I know," I said sadly, and described my punishments, too. He apologized again and hurried off.

Gisselle was ecstatic. When I saw her after Daphne had told her the details, she was positively buoyant with glee. Even Mrs. Warren said Gisselle was more exuberant and energetic than ever, performing her rituals of therapy without complaint.

"I begged Mother to let me see the drawing," she said. "But she told me she had already destroyed it. You sit right down here and tell me every detail," she ordered. "How did you get him to take off all his clothes? What position was he in when he posed? What did you draw . . . everything?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Gisselle," I said.

"Oh yes you do," she snapped. "I'm stuck in here doing stupid exercises with that grouchy nurse all day or doing the homework the tutor prescribes while you're out there having loads of fun. You have to tell me everything. When did this happen? Recently? After you drew him, what did you do? Did you take off your clothes, too? Answer me!" she screamed.

How I wished I could sit down and talk to her. How I wished I had a sister in whom I could confide, a sister who would give me loving advice and be compassionate and caring. But Gisselle just wanted to be titillated and relish my discomfort and pain.

"I can't talk about it," I insisted, and turned away.

"You'd better!" she screamed after me. "You'd better or I'll tell them about the voodoo queen. Ruby! Ruby, get back in here this instant!"

I knew she would go through with her threat, and that on top of everything else at this point would surely drive poor Daddy into a depression from which he would never emerge. Trapped, chained by my own honest confessions to Gisselle, I returned and let her pump me for the details.

"I knew it," she said, smiling with satisfaction. "I knew he would seduce you some day."

"He didn't seduce me. We care about each other," I insisted, but she just laughed.

"Beau Andreas cares about Beau Andreas. You're a fool, a stupid little Cajun fool," she said. Then she smiled again. "Go get me my bedpan. I have to pee."

"Get it yourself," I retorted, and jumped up.

"Ruby!"

I didn't stop. I ran out of her room this time and into my own where I sprawled on my bed and buried my face in my pillow. Would I have been any more abused by Buster and Grandpère Jack? I wondered.

A few hours later, I was surprised by a knock on my door. I turned, ground away any lingering tears, and called out, "Come in." I was expecting Daddy, but it was Daphne. She stood there with her arms folded, but she didn't look angry this time.

"I've been thinking about you," she said in a calmer tone of voice. "I haven't changed my opinion of you and the things you have done, nor do I intend to lessen your punishments, but I have decided to give you an opportunity to repent for your evil ways and especially make things up to your father. Are you interested?"

"Yes," I said, and held my breath. "What do I have to do?"

"This Saturday is your uncle Jean's birthday. Normally, Pierre would go visit him, but Pierre is not in a state of mind to visit anyone, especially not his mentally handicapped younger brother," she said. "So, as usual, the difficult tasks fall to me. I will be going and I thought it might be decent of you to accompany me and represent your father.

"Of course, Jean won't understand who you really are, but—"

"Oh, yes," I said, hardly containing my excitement. "I've always wanted to do that anyway."

"Have you?" She held me in her critical gaze for a moment, pressing her lips together. "Fine then. We'll leave early in the morning Saturday. Wear something appropriate. expect you understand what I mean when I say that now," she added.

"Yes, Mother. Thank you."

"Oh, one more thing," she said before turning. "Don't mention this to Pierre. It will only make him feel worse. We'll tell him when we return. Do you understand?'

"Yes," I said.

"I hope I'm doing the right thing," she concluded, and left.

Right thing? Of course she was doing the right thing. Finally, I would be able to make a significant contribution toward my father's happiness. As soon as I returned from the institution, I would run right to him and describe every moment I had spent with Jean in detail. I went right to my closet to decide what would be appropriate to Daphne.

When I told Gisselle about my accompanying Daphne to visit Uncle Jean, she looked very surprised. "Uncle Jean's birthday? Only Mother would remember something like that."

"I think it's nice she asked me," I said.

"I'm glad she didn't ask me to go. I hate that place. It's so depressing. All those disturbed people and young people our age, too."

Nothing she could say would diminish my excitement. When Saturday morning finally arrived, I was dressed hours earlier than I had to be and took extra care with my hair, returning to the mirror a half-dozen times to be sure every strand was in place. I knew how critical Daphne could be.

I was disappointed to discover that Daddy hadn't come down to breakfast. Even though we weren't supposed to tell him where we were going, I wanted him to see how nice I looked.

"Where's Daddy?" I asked Daphne.

"He knows what day it is," she explained after looking me over from head to toe. "It's left him in one of his deeper melancholic states. Wendy will bring a tray up to him later."

We ate and then a short time afterward left for the institute. Daphne was quiet for most of the trip, except when I asked her questions.

"How old is Uncle Jean today?" I queried.

"He's thirty-six," she replied.

"Did you know him before?"

"Of course I knew him," she said. I thought I detected a slight smile on her lips. "I daresay there wasn't an eligible young woman in New Orleans who didn't."

"How long has he been in the institution?"

"Almost fifteen years."

"What's he like? I mean, what's his condition like now?" I pursued. She looked like she wasn't going to reply.

Finally, she said, "Why don't you just wait and see. Save your questions for the doctors and nurses," she added, which I thought was a strange thing to say.

The institute was a good twenty miles out of the city. It was off the highway, up a long, winding driveway, but it had beautiful grounds with sprawling weeping willows, rock gardens, and fountains, as well as little walkways that had quaint little wooden benches all along the way. As we approached, I saw some older people being escorted by attendants.

After she pulled our car into a parking space and shut off the engine, Daphne turned to me.

"When we go in there, I don't want you to speak to anyone or ask anyone any questions. This is a mental institution, not a public school. Just follow alongside me and wait. Then do whatever you are told to do. Is that clear?" she demanded.

"Yes," I said. Something in her tone of voice and in her look made my heart race. The four-story, gray stucco structure now loomed above us ominously and cast a long dark shadow over us and our car. As we approached the front entrance, I saw that the windows had bars over them and many had their shades drawn down.

From the highway and even approaching it on the driveway, the institution was very attractive and pleasant, but now, close up, it announced its true purpose and reminded visitors that the people housed within were here because they couldn't function properly in the outside world. The bars on the windows suggested some might even be dangerous to others. I swallowed hard and tracked after Daphne through the front entrance. She walked with her head high as usual, her posture regal stiff. Her heels clicked on the polished marble floor, echoing through the immaculate entryway. At a glass enclosure directly before us, a woman in a white uniform sat writing in charts. She looked up as we approached.

"I'm Daphne Dumas," Daphne declared with an authoritative air. "I'm here to see Dr. Cheryl."

"I'll inform him you've arrived, Madame Dumas," the receptionist said and lifted the receiver at her side immediately. "Take a seat if you like," she added, nodding toward the cushioned benches. Daphne turned and gestured for me to sit down. I hurriedly did so and waited with my hands in my lap, gazing around me. The walls were bare, not a picture, not a clock, nothing.

"Dr. Cheryl will see you now, madame," the receptionist said.

"Ruby," Daphne said, and I stood up and walked with her to the side door. The receptionist buzzed us in. We entered another corridor.

"Right this way," the receptionist said, and led us down the hall to a bank of offices. The first on the right was labeled, Dr. Edward Cheryl, Chief of Administration. The receptionist opened the door for us and we entered the office.

It was a large room with windows that had no bars over them. Right now, the drapes were half-drawn. To the right was a long, light brown leather sofa and to the left was a matching settee. The walls were covered with bookcases and here and there were Impressionistic paintings, mostly of rural scenes. One of a field in the bayou caught my interest.

Behind his desk, Dr. Cheryl had hung all of his diplomas and certificates. Dressed in a lab robe, he rose immediately to greet Daphne. He was a man no more than fifty, fifty-five, with bushy dark brown hair, small chestnut eyes, a small nose, and slight mouth. His chin was so round, it was as if his face had failed to form one. Standing a little under six feet tall, he had a slim build with long arms. His smile was tight and tentative like the smile of an insecure child. It seemed odd to think it, but he looked nervous in Daphne's presence.

"Madame Dumas," he said, extending his hand. When he lifted his arm, the sleeve of his robe slid more than halfway up to his elbow. Daphne took his fingers quickly as if she detested touching him or was afraid he could somehow contaminate her. She nodded and sat down in the bullet leather chair before his desk. I remained standing just behind her.

His attention immediately shifted to me. The intensity of his gaze made me feel self-conscious. Finally, after what seemed an interminable pause, he offered me a smile, too, but one just as tentative.

"And this is the young lady?" he asked, coming around his desk.

"Yes. Ruby," Daphne said, smirking as if my name was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. He nodded, but kept his eyes on me. Remembering Daphne's orders, I didn't speak until he spoke to me directly.

"And how are you today, Mademoiselle Ruby?" he asked. "Fine."

He nodded and turned to Daphne.

"Physically, she is in good health?" he asked. What a strange thing to ask, I thought, knitting my eyebrows together with curiosity.

"Look at her. Does she look like anything's physically wrong with her?" she snapped. She spoke to him as sharply as she would speak to one of our servants, but he didn't seem to mind. He gazed at me again.

"Good. Well, let me begin by showing you around a bit," he said, stepping closer to me and farther away from Daphne. I looked at her, but she kept her gaze fixed ahead. "I'd like you to feel comfortable here," he added. "As comfortable as possible."

His smile widened, but there was still something false about it.

"Thank you," I replied. I didn't know what to say. I knew my father and Daphne made sizeable contributions to the institute, besides paying for Uncle Jean, but it still felt funny being treated like such VIPs.

"I understand you're almost sixteen?" he said.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Please . . . call me Dr. Cheryl. We should be friends, good friends. If that's all right with you," he added.

"Of course, Dr. Cheryl." He nodded.

"Madame?" he said, turning back to Daphne.

"I'll wait right here," she said, without turning around. Why was she behaving so strangely? I wondered.

"Very good, madame. Mademoiselle," he said, indicating a side door to his office. I couldn't help my confusion. "Where are we going?"

"As I said, I would like to show you around first, if that is all right with you, of course."

"Fine," I said, shrugging. I went to the door and he opened it and led me out through another corridor and then up a short stairway. This place was a maze, I thought as we made another turn and took another corridor in a different direction. We continued until we reached a large window and looked in on what was clearly a recreation room. Patients of all ages, from what looked like teenagers to elderly people played cards, board games, and dominoes. Some watched television, and some did some handicrafts like lanyards, needlework, and crocheting. Others were reading magazines. One boy with sweet potato red hair, who looked about seventeen or eighteen, sat staring at everyone and doing nothing. A half-dozen attendants wandered about the room overlooking all the activities, pausing occasionally to say a few words to one of the patients.

"As you see, this is our recreation area. Patients who are able to can come in here during their free time and do almost anything they like. They can even, as young Lyle Black there, sit and do nothing."

"Does my uncle come in here?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, but right now he's waiting in his room for Madame Dumas. He has a very nice room," Dr. Cheryl added. "Right this way," he indicated. We stopped at another door. It was obviously the library.

"We have over two thousand volumes and we get dozens and dozens of magazines," he explained.

"Very nice," I said.

We continued until we came to what looked like a small gymnasium.

"We don't neglect the patient's physical well being. This is our exercise room. Every morning, we conduct calisthenics. Some of our patients are even able to swim in our pool, which is located in the rear of the building. Here," he said, taking a few steps and pointing down the corridor to the right, "are our treatment rooms. We have a dentist on a regular basis, as well as general medicine doctors on call. Why, we even have a beauty parlor here," he said, smiling.

"This way," he indicated, pointing down the opposite corridor.

I wondered about Daphne. It surprised me that she would sit back in his office and remain so patient. She had made it perfectly clear to me how much she hated coming here. I was sure she wanted to get in and get out as fast as she could. Now troubled as well as confused, I followed Dr. Cheryl. I didn't want to appear impolite or unappreciative, but I was eager to see my uncle.

We turned a corner and approached what looked like an entirely new administrative area. A nurse sat behind a desk. Two attendants, both big men in their late twenties at least, stood talking to her. They looked up as we approached.

"Morning, Mrs. McDonald," Dr. Cheryl said. The nurse at the desk looked up. She had a softer face than Mrs. Warren, but looked to be the same age with bluish gray hair cut at the nape of her neck.

"Good morning, Doctor."

"Boys," he said to the attendants. "Everything going all right this morning?" They nodded, their eyes fixed on me.

"Very well, Mrs. McDonald. As you know, Madame Dumas has brought her daughter here. This is Ruby," he said, turning to me.

I stared at him a moment. What did he mean, brought her daughter here? Why didn't he finish that and say, brought her daughter to see her uncle Jean?

"Ruby, Mrs. McDonald runs things down here and sees to everyone's needs. She's the finest head nurse on any psychiatric floor in the country. We're mighty proud to have her on our staff."

"I don't understand," I said. "Where's my uncle?"

"Oh, he's on another floor," Dr. Cheryl said, flashing that tight, small smile. "This floor is more or less for our temporaries. We don't expect you to remain here long."

"What?" I stepped back. "Remain here? What do you mean, remain here?"

Mrs. McDonald and Dr. Cheryl exchanged quick looks. "I thought your mother had explained all of this to you, Ruby," he said.

"Explained? Explained what?"

"You're here for an evaluation, an observation. You didn't agree to it?"

"Are you crazy?" I cried. That brought a smile to the attendants, but Dr. Cheryl straightened up quickly.

"Oh, dear," he said. "I thought this was going to be one of our easier ones."

"I want to go back to my mother," I insisted. I looked back down the corridor, so confused and upset now, I wasn't sure which direction to take.

"Just relax," Dr. Cheryl said, stepping forward.

"Relax? You thought I was coming here to be a patient and you want me to relax?"

"You're not a patient as such," he said, closing and opening his eyes. "You're being evaluated."

"For what?"

"Why don't we just settle you in your room first and then we'll have a talk. If there is nothing to do, why you'll go right home," he said with that small smile again.

"There is nothing to do." I backed away. "I want to go to my mother. Right now. I came here to see my uncle. That's why I came."

Dr. Cheryl looked at Mrs. McDonald and she rose.

"You'll only make things harder for yourself if you become uncooperative, Ruby," she said, coming around her desk. The two attendants moved to follow. I continued to back away, shaking my head.

"This is a mistake. Take me back."

"Just relax," Dr. Cheryl said.

"No. I don't want to relax."

The attendant on my right moved quickly to block my retreat. He didn't touch me, but he stood behind me, intimidating me with his presence. I started to cry.

"Please," I said. "I want to go to my mother. This is a mistake. Just take me back."

"In due time, I promise to do just that," Dr. Cheryl said. "Can we show you your room? Once you see how comfortable it is . . ."

"No. I don't want to see any room."

I spun around and tried to get past the attendant, but he seized my arm and held me so tightly at the wrist, it hurt. I screamed and Mrs. McDonald moved in, too.

"Arnold," she called to the other attendant. He came forward to take my other arm.

"Don't hurt her," Dr. Cheryl said. "Careful now. Ruby, just let them show you your room. Go on, my dear."

I struggled in vain for a moment and then began to sob as they led me forward to another door. Mrs. McDonald pressed a buzzer and the door was opened. My legs didn't want to move, but they were practically carrying me along now. Dr. Cheryl followed right behind. They took me down the dormitory corridor and stopped at an opened door.

"See," Dr. Cheryl said, entering first. "This is one of our best rooms. You have windows facing the west, so you get all the afternoon sunlight and not the sunlight in the morning to wake you too early. And just look at this nice bed," he said, indicating the imitation wood frame bed. "Here's a dresser, a closet, and a private bathroom. This bathroom even has a shower. And you have this small desk and chair. Here is some stationery if you care to write a letter to someone," he added, smiling.

I gazed at the stark floors and walls. How could anyone think this was a nice room? It looked more like a glorified prison cell. The windows had bars, didn't they?

"You can't do this to me," I said. I embraced myself tightly. "Take me back immediately or I swear I'll go to the police the first chance I get."

"Your mother has asked us to evaluate you," he said firmly. "Parents have the right to do this if their children are still legally minors. Now if you cooperate, this will be short and sweet and not painful, but if you persist in fighting everything we do and everything we ask you to do, it will be most unpleasant for all of us, but mostly for you," he threatened. "Now, sit down," he ordered, pointing to the chair. I didn't move. He straightened up as if I had spit in his face.

"We've been told something of your background and know what sort of things you've done and how poorly you've been disciplined, young lady, but I assure you, none of that will be tolerated here. Now you will either listen and do what I tell you or I'll move you to the floor above where the patients are kept restrained in straightjackets a good deal of the time."

With a sinking heart, I moved obediently to the chair and sat down.

"That's better," he said. "I have to see to your mother and her visit and then I will send for you and begin our first interview. In the meantime, I want you to read this little booklet," he said, pulling a yellow, stapled booklet out of the desk drawer. "It explains our institution, our rules, and what we try to do here. We give this only to patients who understand, mostly patients who have committed themselves in fact. It even has a place in the back for you to write in your suggestions. See," he said, opening the booklet to show me. "We consider them, too. Some of our former patients have made excellent suggestions."

"I don't want to make any suggestions. I just want to go home."

"Then cooperate and you will," he said. He started out.

"Why would I be put here? Please, just answer that question before you leave me," I begged. He looked at the two attendants who retreated and then he closed the door and turned to me.

"You have a history of promiscuity, don't you, my dear?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"In psychology, we call it nymphomania. Have you ever heard that term?"

I gasped. "What are you saying about me?" I asked.

"You're having a problem controlling yourself when it comes to relationships with the opposite sex?"

"That's not true, Dr. Cheryl."

"Admitting to your problems is the first step, my dear. After that, it's all downhill. You'll see," he said, smiling.

"But I have no problem to admit to."

He stared at me a moment.

"Okay, we'll see," he said. "That's why you're here. To be evaluated. If you have no problem, I'll send you home directly. Does that sound fair?"

"No. None of this is fair. I'm being held prisoner."

"We are all prisoners of our ailments, Ruby dear. Especially, our mental infirmities. The purpose of this place and my purpose is to free you from the mental aberration that has chained you to this misbehavior and caused you even to hate yourself." He smiled. "We have a good cure rate here. Just give it a chance," he concluded.

"Please, my mother's lying. Daphne's lying! Please," I cried. He closed the door behind him. I knew there was no point in trying, but I did so anyway and discovered that it was locked. Frustrated and defeated, still in a state of utter shock, I sat down and waited. I felt sure Daddy knew nothing about this and wondered what sort of lies Daphne would concoct to explain my disappearance. I imagined, she would tell him I couldn't stand her discipline and decided to run away. Poor Daddy, he would believe it.

Nina Jackson shouldn't have gotten Gisselle's ribbon to throw into the box with the snake, I thought; she should have gotten one of Daphne's instead.

Finally, after what seemed like ages and ages to me, the door was unlocked and Mrs. McDonald appeared.

"Dr. Cheryl can see you now," she said. "If you will just follow me quietly, we can go to him without incident."

I got up quickly, thinking that the first chance I got, I would dart right out. But they anticipated that and one of the attendants was waiting outside to accompany us.

"You people are kidnapping me here," I moaned. "It's nothing less than that."

"Now, now, Ruby, you must not permit yourself to grow paranoid about this. People who care about you, love you, want to see what can be done to make you better, that's all," she said in such a sweet voice it was as if I were walking along with someone's nice old grandmother. "No one's going to do anything to hurt you."

"I'm already hurt beyond repair," I said, but that brought only a smile to her face.

"You young people today are so much more dramatic than we were," she commented. Then she inserted a key in the corridor door and unlocked it. "Right this way."

She led me back to the corridor Dr. Cheryl had described as the treatment area. I gazed down another hallway and considered running, but I remembered all the other doors that had to be buzzed to be opened and I was sure there were no windows without bars. The attendant moved up closer behind me anyway. Finally, we stopped at a door and Mrs. McDonald opened it to lead me into a room that contained only a sofa, two chairs, a table, and what looked like some kind of movie projector on a smaller table. There was a screen on the wall directly across from it. The room had no windows, but there was another door and a wall-size mirror on the right side.

"Just sit here,"Mrs. McDonald instructed. I sat in one of the chairs. She went to the other door and knocked gently. Then she opened it and poked her head in to mumble, "She's here, Doctor."

"Very good," I heard Dr. Cheryl say. Mrs. McDonald turned back to me and smiled.

"Remember," she said. "If you're cooperative, everything moves faster." She nodded at the attendant and they started out. "Jack will be right outside should you need him," she said as a veiled threat. I looked at the attendant who returned my gaze with steely dark eyes. Thoroughly intimidated, I sat quietly and waited after they left. A few moments later, Dr. Cheryl appeared.

"Well," he said, beaming a wider smile, "how are we doing now? A little better, I hope?"

"No. Where's Daphne?"

"Your mother is visiting your uncle," he said. He went directly to the projector and put a file down beside it.

"She's not my mother," I declared firmly. If I ever wanted to deny her, I wanted to deny her now.

"I understand how you feel."

"No, you do not understand. She's not my real mother. My real mother is dead."

"However," he said, nodding, "she's trying to be a real mother to you isn't she?"

"No. She's trying to be what she is . . . a witch," I retorted.

"This anger and aggression you now feel is understandable," he said. "I just want you to recognize it for what it is. You feel this way because you feel threatened. Whenever we try to get a patient to admit to errors or recognize weaknesses and illnesses, it's natural for him or her to first resent it. I believe it or not, many of the people here feel comfort-able with their mental and behavioral problems because they've been a part of them so long."

"I don't belong here. I don't have any mental or behavioral problems," I insisted.

"Perhaps not. Let me try something with you to see how you view the world around you, okay? Maybe that's all we'll do today and give you a chance to acclimate yourself to your surroundings more. No rush."

"Yes, there is a rush. I've got to go home."

"All right. We'll begin. I'm going to flash some shapes on the screen in front of you. I want you to tell me what comes to mind instantly when you see each one, okay? Don't think about them, just react as quickly as you can. That's easy, right?"

"I don't need to do this," I moaned.

"Just humor me then," he said, and snapped off the room light. He turned on the projector and put the first shape on the screen. "Please," he said. "The faster we do this, the faster you can relax."

Reluctantly, I responded.

"It looks like the head of an eel."

"An eel, good. And this?"

"Some kind of hose."

"Go on."

"A twisted sycamore limb . . . Spanish Moss . . . An alligator tail . . . A dead fish."

"Why dead?"

"It's not moving," I said.

He laughed. "Of course. And this?"

"A mother and a child."

"What's the child doing?"

"Breast-feeding."

"Yes."

He flashed a half-dozen more pictures and then put on the lights.

"Okay," he said, sitting across from me with his notebook. "I'm going to say a word and you respond immediately again, no thought. Just what comes first to mind, understand?" I just looked down. "Understand?" I nodded.

"Can't we just see Daphne and end this?"

"In due time," he said. "Lips."

"What?"

"What comes to mind first when I say, 'lips'?"

"A kiss."

"Hands."

"Work."

He recited a few dozen words at me, jotting down my reactions and then he sat back, nodding.

"Can I go home now?" I asked.

He smiled and stood up. "We have a few more tests to go through, some talking to do. It won't be too long, I promise. Since you have been cooperative, I'm going to permit you to go to the recreation area before lunch. Find something to read, something to do, and I'll see you again real soon, okay?"

"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 rust-colored 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.