Ruby

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?"

"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?"

"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, looking 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.

I breathed relief when the bus arrived on time. I got on quickly, but following Lyle's advice, I acted as calmly and innocently as I could. I took my seat and sat back with my magazine. Moments later, the bus continued on its journey to New Orleans. We went right past the main entrance of the institution. When it was well behind us, I let out a breath. I was so happy to be free, I couldn't help but cry. Afraid someone would notice, I wiped away my tears quickly and closed my eyes and suddenly thought about Uncle Jean stuttering, "Jib . . . jib . . ."

The rhythm of the tires on the macadam highway beat out the same chant: "Jib . . . jib . . . jib."

What was he trying to tell me? I wondered.

When the New Orleans' skyline came into view, I actually considered not returning to my home and instead returning to the bayou. I wasn't looking forward to the greeting I would receive from Daphne, but then some of Grandmère Catherine's Cajun pride found its way into my backbone and I sat up straight and determined. After all, my father did love me. I was a Dumas and I did belong with him, too. Daphne had no right to do the things she had done to me.

By the time I got on the right city bus and then changed for the streetcar and arrived at the house, I was sure Dr. Cheryl had called Daphne and informed her I was missing. That was confirmed for me the moment Edgar greeted me at the door and I took one look at his face.

"Madame Dumas is waiting for you," he said, shifting his eyes to indicate all was not well. "She's in the parlor." "Where's my father, Edgar?" I demanded.

He shook his head first and then he replied in a softer voice, "Upstairs, mademoiselle."

"Inform Madame Dumas that I've gone up to see him first," I ordered. Edgar widened his eyes, surprised at my insubordination.

"No, you're not!" Daphne shouted from the parlor doorway the moment I stepped into the entryway. "You're marching yourself right in here first." She stood there, her arm extended, pointing to the room. Her voice was cold, commanding. Edgar quickly moved away and retreated through the door that would take him through the dining room and into the kitchen, where I was sure he would make a report to Nina.

I took a few steps toward Daphne. She kept her arm out, her finger toward the parlor.

"How dare you try to tell me what to do and what not to do after what you've done," I charged, walking toward her slowly, my head high.

"I did what I thought was necessary to protect this family," she replied coldly, lowering her arm slowly.

"No, you didn't. You did what you thought was necessary to get rid of me, to keep me away from my father," I accused, meeting her furious gaze with a furious gaze of my own. She faltered a bit at my aggressive stance, her eyes shifting. "You're jealous of his love for me. You've been jealous ever since I arrived and you hate me because I remind you that he was once more in love with someone else."

"That's ridiculous. That's just another ridiculous Cajun—"

"Stop it!" I shouted. "Stop talking about the Cajun people like that. You know the truth; you know I wasn't kidnapped and sold to any Cajun family. You have no right to act superior. Few Cajun people I've known would stoop to do the sort of deceitful, horrible thing you tried to do to me."

"How dare you shout at me like that?" she said, trying to recover her superior demeanor, but her lips quivered and her body began to tremble. "How dare you!"

"How dare you do what you did at the institution!" I retorted. "My father is going to hear all about it. He's going to know the truth and . . ."

She smiled.

"You little fool. Go on upstairs to him. Go on and gaze upon your savior, your father, who sits in his brother's shrine of a room and moans and groans. I'm thinking about having him committed soon, if you must know. I can't go on like this."

She stepped toward me with renewed confidence.

"Who do you think has been running things around here? Who do you think makes this all possible? Your weak father? Ha! What do you think happens when he falls into one of his melancholic states? Do you think Dumas Enterprises just sits around and waits for him to snap out of it?

"No," she cried, stabbing herself with her thumb so hard it made me wince, "it always falls to me to save the day. I've been conducting business for years. Why, Pierre doesn't even know how much money we have or where it's located."

"I don't believe you," I said, but not with as much confidence as I had at first. She laughed.

"Believe what you like. Go on." She stepped back. "Go up to him and tell him about the horrible thing I tried to do to you," she said, and then stepped toward me again, lowering her voice sharply and narrowing her eyes into hateful slits. "And I'll explain to him and to everyone who wants or has to know how you've been so disruptive since you arrived, you nearly caused a fatal family crisis. I'll force the Andreas boy to confess to your sexual games in the art studio and have Gisselle testify to your friendship with that whore from Storyville." Her eyes widened and then hardened to rivet on me as she continued.

"I'll have people believing you were a teenage prostitute in the bayou. For all I know, you were."

"That's a lie, a dirty, horrible lie," I cried, but she didn't soften. Her face, the face with the alabaster complexion and those beautiful eyes, turned into the cold visage of a statue as she gazed down at me.

"Is it?" She smiled again, a small, tight smile that drew her lips into thin lines. "I already have Dr. Cheryl's preliminary findings. He thinks you're obsessed with sex and will so testify if I like. And now you've gone and run away from the institution, embarrassing us even further."

I shook my head, but there was no denying her vicious determination to overcome my defiance.

"I'm going to see Daddy," I said in almost a whisper. "I'm going to tell him everything."

"Go on." She lunged forward and grabbed my shoulders to turn me to the stairway. "Go on, you little Cajun fool. Go tell your Daddy." She pushed me toward the steps. I threw her an angry look and then charged up the stairs, my tears flying off my cheeks.

When I got to the upstairs landing, I saw the door to Uncle Jean's room was shut tight, but I had to get Daddy to see me; I had to get him to let me in. I approached slowly and knocked and then pressed my cheek to the door and sobbed.

"Daddy, please . . . please, open up and let me in. Please, let me talk to you and tell you what Daphne did to me. I saw Uncle Jean, Daddy. I was with him. Please," I begged. I continued to sob softly. Finally, when he didn't open the door, I sank to the floor and embraced myself, my shoulders heaving with my deeper sobs. After all that had been done to me and after my great effort to return, I was still shut out; Daphne was still victorious. I sucked in some air and let my head fall back against the door. Then I let it fall back again and again until finally the door was pulled open and I looked up at Daddy:

His eyes were bloodshot, his hair disheveled. His shirt was out of his pants and his tie was loose. He looked like he had slept in his clothes. He had an unshaven face.

I struggled to my feet and ground the tears out of my eyes quickly.

"Daddy, I must talk to you," I said. He threw me a quick glance of deepest despair. Then his shoulders slumped and he backed into the room to let me enter.

The candles were nearly burned out around Uncle Jean's pictures so the room was very dimly lit. Daddy retreated to a chair by the pictures and sat down. His face was shadowed and hidden in the deepening gloom.

"What is it, Ruby?" he said, speaking as though it took all of his strength to pronounce the four words. I rushed to him and seized his hand, falling to my knees at his feet.

"Daddy, she took me to the institution this morning, supposedly to see Uncle Jean for his birthday, but when we get there, she had them lock me up. She tried to have them keep me there. It was horrible, but a nice young man helped me escape."

He raised his head and gazed at me with his sad eyes showing just a hint of surprise. He shook his head in a bewildered fashion, the tears still eking from beneath his lids.

"Who did this?"

"Daphne," I said. "Daphne."

"Daphne?"

"But I got to see Uncle Jean, Daddy. I sat with him and spoke to him."

"You did?" he asked, his interest growing. "How is he?"

"He looks very good," I said, wiping the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand. "But he's afraid of people and doesn't talk to anyone."

Daddy nodded and lowered his head again.

"Except, I got him to say something, Daddy."

"You did?" he replied, his interest quickly returning. "Yes. I told him to tell me something I could bring back to you and he said 'jib.' What did he mean, Daddy?"

"Jib? He said that?"

I nodded. Then I had to tell him the rest.

"Afterward, he started to scream and held his head in his hands. They had to take him back to his room."

"Poor Jean," Daddy said. "My poor brother. What have I done?" he asked in a heavy, flat voice. One of the candles went out and a shadow came to darken his eyes even more.

"What do you mean, Daddy? Why did he, say 'jib'? Is it what this young man sitting beside me thought . . . something to do with sailing?"

"Yes," Daddy said. He sat back, his gaze far-off now. He looked like he could see into the past. And then he began to speak like one in a trance. "It was a nice day when we started out. I wasn't anxious to go at first. Jean kept taunting me, making fun of me for being so unathletic. 'You're as pale as a bank teller,' he said. 'No wonder Daphne would rather spend her time with me. Come on, get yourself into the fresh air. Let's test those muscles and limbs.'

"Finally, I gave in and accompanied him to the lake. The sky had already begun to change. There were storm clouds hovering along the horizon. I warned him about it, but he laughed and said I was just trying to find another excuse. We started sailing. I wasn't as ignorant about it as I pretended and I didn't like my younger brother telling me to do this or that like some galley slave.

"He seemed particularly arrogant to me that day. How I hated his self-confidence. Why didn't he have any doubts about himself like I had? Why was he so secure in the presence of women, especially Daphne?

"The clouds mounted, expanding, mushrooming, darkening, and the wind grew fiercer. Our sailboat rose and fell as the water became rougher and rougher. Every time I urged Jean to turn us back to shore, he laughed at me for not being adventurous enough.

"This is where we test our manhood,' he declared. 'We look Nature in the eye and we don't blink.'

"I pleaded with him to be more sensible and he continued to mock me for being too sensible. 'Women don't like men to be reasonable and sensible and logical all the time, Pierre,' he said They want a little danger, a little insecurity. If you want to win Daphne, take her out here on a day like this and let her scream as the spray hits her face and the sailboat tips and totters like it's doing now,' he cried.

"But the storm grew worse than even he expected. I was angry at him for putting us in this unnecessary danger. I was angry and jealous and during our battle against the storm, when he was struggling with the sail . . ." He sighed, closed his eyes, and then concluded, "I sent the jib flying around and it struck him in the head. It wasn't an accident," he confessed, and lowered his head to his hands.

"Oh, Daddy." I reached up and took his hand as he sobbed. "I'm sure you didn't mean to hurt him so badly. I'm sure you regretted it the moment you did it."

"Yes," he said, lifting his face from his palms. "I did. But that didn't change things and look where he is and what he is now. Look at what he was," he said, lifting one of the silver framed photographs. "My beautiful brother." Tears of remembrance clouded his eyes as he gazed at him. Then he sighed so deeply, I thought his heart had given out, and lowered his chin to his chest.

"He's still your beautiful brother, Daddy. And I think that he could make enough progress to leave that place. I really do. When I spoke to him and told him things, I felt he really understood."

"Did you?" Daddy's eyes lit up as he raised his head again. "Oh, how I wish that were true. I'd give anything now . . . all my wealth, if that were true."

"It is, Daddy. You must go to him more often. Maybe you should get him better treatment, find another doctor, another place," I suggested. "They don't seem to be doing anything more than making him comfortable and taking your money," I said bitterly.

"Yes. Maybe." He paused and looked at me and smiled. "You are a very lovely young lady, Ruby. If I was to believe in any forgiveness, it would be that you were sent here to me as an indication of that. I don't deserve you."

"I was almost shut away, too, Daddy," I said, returning to my original theme.

"Yes," he said. "Tell me more about that."

I described how Daphne had tricked me into accompanying her to the institution and all that had followed after-ward. He listened intently, growing more and more upset.

"You've got to get hold of yourself, Daddy," I said. "She just told me she might have you committed, too. Don't let her do these things to you and to me and even to Gisselle."

"Yes," he said. "You're right. I've wallowed in self-pity too long and let things get out of hand."

"We've got to end all the lying, Daddy. We've got to cast the lies off like too much weight on a boat or a canoe. The lies are sinking us," I told him. He nodded. I stood up.

"Gisselle has to know the truth, Daddy, the truth about our birth. Daphne shouldn't be afraid of the truth either. Let her be our mother because of her actions and not because of a mountain of lies."

Daddy sighed.

"You're right." He rose, brushed back his hair, and straightened his tie, tightening the knot. Then he stuffed his shirt into his pants neatly. "I'm going down to speak with Daphne. She won't do anything like this to you again, Ruby. I promise."

"And I'll go in to see Gisselle and tell her the truth, but she won't believe me, Daddy. You'll have to come up and speak with her, too," I told him. He nodded.

"I will." He kissed me and held me for a moment. "Gabrielle would be so proud of you, so proud."

He straightened up, pulled back his shoulders, and left. I gazed at Uncle Jean's photographs for a moment and then I went to tell my sister who her mother really was.

"Where have you been?" Gisselle demanded. "Mother's been home for hours and hours. I kept asking for you and they kept telling me you weren't here. Then Mother came by and told me you ran away. I knew you wouldn't stay away long," she added confidently. "Where would you go, back to the bayou and live with those dirty swamp people?"

Because I didn't say anything immediately, her smile of self-satisfaction evaporated.

"Why are you standing there like that? Where were you?" she wailed. "I needed you. I can't stand that nurse anymore."

"Mother lied to you, Gisselle," I said calmly.

"Lied?"

I walked over to her bed and sat on it to face her in her wheelchair.

"I didn't run away," I said. "Don't you remember? We were going to the institution to see Uncle Jean, only—"

"Only what?"

"She had other intentions. She brought me there to leave me there as a patient," I said. "I was tricked and locked up like some mentally disturbed person."

"You were?" Her eyes widened.

"A nice young man helped me escape. I've already told Daddy what she did."

Gisselle shook her head in disbelief.

"I can't believe she would do such a thing."

"I can," I replied quickly. "Because she's not really our mother."

"What?" Gisselle started to smile, but I stopped her and seized her full attention when I reached out to take her hand into mine.

"You and I were born in the bayou, Gisselle. Years ago, Daddy would go there with our grandfather Dumas to hunt. He saw and fell in love with our real mother, Gabrielle Landry, and he made her pregnant. Grandpère Dumas wanted a grandchild, and Daphne couldn't have any, so he made a bargain with our other grandfather, Grandpère Jack, to buy the child. Only, there were two of us. Grandmère Catherine kept me a secret and Grandpère Jack gave you to the Dumas family."

Gisselle said nothing for a moment and then pulled her hand from mine.

"You are crazy," she said, "if you think I’ll ever believe such a story."

"It's true," I said calmly. "The story of the kidnapping was invented after I turned up here to keep people believing Daphne was our real mother."

Gisselle wheeled herself back, shaking her head. "I'm not a Cajun, too. I'm not," she declared.

"Cajun, Creole, rich, poor, that's not important, Gisselle. The truth is important. It's time to face it and go on," I said dryly. I was very tired now, the heavy weight of one of the most emotional and difficult days of my life finally settling over my shoulders. "I never met our mother because she died right after we were born, but from everything Grandmère Catherine told me about her and from what Daddy told me, I know we would have loved her dearly. She was very beautiful."

Gisselle shook her head, but my quiet revelation had begun to sink in and her lips trembled, too. I saw her eyes begin to cloud.

"Wait," I said, and opened our adjoining door. I went to the nightstand and found Mother's picture and brought it to her. "Her name was Gabrielle," I said, showing the picture to Gisselle. She glanced at it quickly and then turned away.

"I don't want to look at some Cajun woman you say is our mother."

"She is. And what's more . . . she had another child . . . we have a half brother . . . Paul."

"You're crazy. You ARE crazy. You do belong in the institution. I want Daddy. I want Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" she screamed.

Mrs. Warren came running from her room.

"What's going on now?" she demanded.

"I want my father. Get my father."

"I'm not a maid around here.

"GET HIM!" Gisselle cried. Her face turned as red as a beet as she struggled to shout with all her might. Mrs. Warren looked at me.

"I'll get him," I said, and left Gisselle with her nurse cajoling her to calm down.

Daddy and Daphne were down in the parlor. Daphne was sitting on the sofa, looking surprisingly subdued. Daddy stood in front of her, his hands on his hips, looking much stronger. I gazed from him to Daphne, who shifted her eyes from me guiltily.

"I told Gisselle the truth," I said.

"Are you satisfied now?" Daphne fired at Daddy. "I warned you she would eventually destroy the tender fabric that held this family together. I warned you."

"I wanted her to tell Gisselle," he said.

"What?"

"It's time we all faced the truth, no matter how painful, Daphne. Ruby is right. We can't go on living in a world of lies. What you did to her was bad. But what I did to her was even worse. I should never have made her lie, too."

"That's easy for you to say, Pierre," Daphne retorted, her lips trembling and her eyes unexpectedly tearing. "In this society, you will be forgiven for your indiscretion. It's almost expected for you to have an affair, but what about me? How am I to face society now?" she moaned. She was crying. I never thought I'd see tears emerge from those stone cold eyes, but she was feeling so sorry for herself, she couldn't prevent it.

In a way, despite all she had done to me, I felt sorry for her, too. Her world, a world built on falsehoods, on deceits, and propped up with blocks and blocks of fabrications was crumbling right before her eyes and she couldn't stop it.

"We all have a lot of mending to do, Daphne. I, especially, have to find the strength to repair the damage I've done to people I love."

"Yes, you do," she wailed.

He nodded. "But so do you. You know, you're not totally innocent in all this?'

She looked up at him sharply.

"We have to find ways to forgive each other if we're to go on," he said.

He pulled back his shoulders.

"I'd better go up to Gisselle," he said. "And then afterward, I'd better go see my brother. I'll go to him as many times as I have to until I've gotten him to forgive me and to start his real recovery."

Daphne looked away. Daddy smiled at me and then left to go up to my sister to confirm and confess the truth.

For a long moment I just stood there looking at my stepmother. Finally, she turned toward me slowly, her eyes no longer clouded with tears, her lips no longer trembling.

"You haven't destroyed me," she said firmly. "Don't think you have."

"I don't want to destroy you, Daphne. I just want you to stop trying to destroy me. I can't say I forgive you for the dreadful thing you tried to do to me, but I'm willing to start anew and try to get along with you. If for no other reason than to make my father happy," I said.

"And maybe someday," I added, although it seemed impossible to me at the moment, "I'll call you Mother and be able to mean it."

She turned back to me, her eyes narrow, her face taut. "You've charmed everyone you've met. Would you try to charm me, even after today?"

"That's really up to you, isn't it . . . Mother?" I said, and turned away to leave her pondering the future of the Dumas.