gazing at the patients, some of whom gazed at me with curiosity, some with what looked like anger, and some who didn't seem to see me. The redheaded boy who had been sitting doing nothing was still sitting that way. I noticed that his eyes followed me, however. I went to the window near him and gazed out, longing for my freedom.
'Hate being here?' I heard, and turned. It sounded like he had asked it, but he was still sitting stiffly, staring ahead.
'Did you ask me something?' I inquired. He didn't move, nor did he speak. I shrugged and looked out again, and again, I heard, 'Hate being here?' I spun around.
'Pardon me?'
Still, without turning, he spoke again.
'I can tell you don't want to be here.'
'I don't. I was kidnapped, locked up before I knew what was happening,' I said. That animated his face to the point where he at least raised his eyebrows. He turned to me slowly, only his head moving, and he gazed at me with eyes that seemed as cold and as indifferent as eyes on a mannequin.
'What about your parents?' he asked.
'My father doesn't know what my stepmother has done. I'm sure,' I said.
'What's the charge?'
'Pardon?'
'What's the reason you're supposedly here for? You know, your problem?'
'I'd rather not say. It's too embarrassing and ridiculous.'
'Paranoia? Schizophrenia? Manic-depression? Am I getting warm?'
'No. Why are you here?' I demanded.
'Immobility,' he declared. 'I'm unable to make decisions, deal with responsibilities. When confronted with a problem, I simply become immobile. I can't even decide what I want to do in here,' he added nonchalantly. 'So I sit and wait for the recreation period to end.'
'Why are you like this?' I asked. 'I mean, you know what's wrong with you, apparently.'
'Insecure.' He smiled. 'My mother, apparently like your stepmother, didn't want me. In her eighth month, she tried to abort me, but I only got born too soon instead. From then on, it was straight downhill: paranoia, autism, learning disabilities,' he recited dryly.
'You don't seem like someone with learning disabilities,' I said.
'I can't function in a normal school setting. I can't answer questions. I don't raise my hand, and when I'm given a test, I just stare at it. But I read,' he added. 'That's all I do. It's safe.' He raised his eyes to me. 'So why did they commit you? You don't have to be afraid of telling me. I won't tell anyone else. But I don't blame you if you don't trust me,' he added quickly.
I sighed.
'I've been accused of being too loose with my sexual activities,' I said.
'Nymphomania. Great. We don't have any of those.' I couldn't help but laugh.
'You still don't,' I said. 'It's a lie.'
'That's all right. This place flourishes on lies. Patients lie to each other, to themselves, and to the doctors and the doctors lie because they claim they can help you, but they can't. All they can do is keep you comfortable,' he said bitterly. He lifted his rust-colored eyes toward me again. 'You can tell me your real name or you can lie, if you want.'
'My name's Ruby, Ruby Dumas. I know your first name is Lyle, but I forgot your last name.'
'Black. Like the bottom of an empty well. Dumas,' he said. 'Dumas. There's someone else here with that name.'
'My uncle,' I said. 'Jean. I was brought here supposedly to visit him.'
'Oh. You're Jean's niece?'
'But I never got to see him.'
'I like Jean.'
'Does he talk to you? What's he like? How is he?' I hurriedly asked.
'He doesn't talk to anyone, but that doesn't mean he can't. I know he can. He's . . . just very quiet, but as gentle as a little boy and as frightened sometimes. Sometimes, he cries for what seems to be no reason, but I know something's going on in his head to make him cry. Occasionally, I catch him laughing to himself. He won't tell anyone anything, especially the doctors and nurses.'
'If I can only see him. At least that would be something good,' I said.
'You can. I'm sure he’ll be at lunch in the little cafeteria.' 'I've never met him before,' I said. 'Will you point him out to me?'
'Not hard to do. He's the best-dressed and the best-looking guy here. Ruby, huh? Nice,' he said, and then tightened his face as if he had said something terrible.
'Thank you.' I paused and looked around. 'I don't know what I'm going to do now. I've got to get out of here, but this place is worse than a prison—doors that have to be buzzed open, bars on the windows, attendants everywhere . . .'
'Oh, I can get you out,' he said casually. 'If that's what you really want.'
