'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
