Ruby l-1

by V. C. Andrews

  "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."

  "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 Grandmère 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 Grandmère 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?"

  "St
eal 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?"

  "I 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 fêtes for the families of patients. Every inch is spick-and-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 you to do this."

  "No it wasn't," he confessed. "I wanted to help you. Go on."

  I started to crawl through the window, loo
king around as I did so to be sure no one was nearby. Across the lawn was a small patch of trees and beyond that, the main highway. Once I was out, I turned and looked back in at him.

  "Do you know where to go from here?" he asked me.

  "No, but I just want to get away."

  "Go south. There's a bus stop there and the bus will take you back to New Orleans. Here," he said, digging into his pants pocket and coming up with a fistful of money. "I don't need this in here."

  He handed me the bills.

  "Thank you, Lyle."

  "Be careful. Don't look suspicious. Smile at people. Act like you're just on an afternoon outing," he advised, telling me things I was sure he had recited to himself a hundred times in vain.

  "I'll be back to visit you someday, Lyle. I promise. Unless you're out before then. If you are, call me."

  "I haven't used a telephone since I was six years old," he admitted. Looking down at him in the laundry room, I felt so sorry for him. He seemed small and alone now, trapped by his own insecurities. "But," he added, smiling, "if I do get out, I'll call you."

  "Good."

  "Get going . . . quickly," he said. "Remember, look natural."

  He turned and walked away. I stood up, took a deep breath, and started away from the building. When I was no more than a dozen or so feet from it, I looked back and caught sight of someone on the third floor standing in the window. A cloud moved over the sun and the subsequent shade made it possible for me to see beyond the glint of the glass.

  It was Uncle Jean!

  He looked down at me and then raised his hand slowly. I could just make out the smile on his face. I waved back and then I turned and ran as hard and as fast as I could for the trees, not looking back until I had arrived. The building and the grounds behind me remained calm. I heard no shouting, saw no one running after me. I had slipped away, thanks to Lyle. I focused one more time on the window of Uncle Jean's room, but I couldn't see him anymore. Then I turned and marched through the woods to the highway.

  I went south as Lyle had directed and reached the bus station which was just a small quick stop with gas pumps, candies and cakes, homemade pralines and soda. Fortunately, I had to wait only twenty minutes for the next bus to New Orleans. I bought my ticket from the young lady behind the counter and waited inside the store, thumbing through magazines and finally buying one just so I wouldn't be visible outside in case the institute had discovered I was missing and had sent someone looking for me.