"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.


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 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 Grandmère Catherine kept me when my Grandpère 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,"UncleJean 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."