Ruby l-1

by V. C. Andrews

  "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 l
augh.

  "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.