Ruby l-1

by V. C. Andrews

  "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 l
ittle 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, stoo
d 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."