I gazed about the room and even in the dim light saw that nothing had been disturbed or changed since the accident years and years ago. The bed was still made and waiting for someone to sleep in it. It looked dusty and untouched, but everything that had been left on the dressers and nightstands, the desk and armoire was still there. Even a pair of slippers remained at the side of the bed, poised to accept bare feet in the morning.
"Daddy?" I whispered to the darkest corners of the room. "Are you in here?"
"What do you think you're doing?" I heard Daphne demand, and I spun around to see her standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips. "Why are you in there?"
"I . . . thought my father was in here," I said.
"Get out of here this instant," she ordered, and backed away from the door. The moment I stepped out, she reached in and grabbed the doorknob to pull the door shut. "What are you doing home? I thought you and Gisselle were attending a slumber party tonight?"
She scowled at me, then turned her head to look at Gisselle's door. She had a lovely profile, classic, the lines of her face perfect when she burned with anger. I guess I really was an artist at heart. In the midst of this, all I could think of was what it would be like to paint that Grecian visage.
"Is she home, too?" Daphne asked.
"No," I said. She spun on me.
"Then why are you home?" she stormed back.
"I . . . didn't feel well, so I came home," I said quickly. Daphne focused her penetrating gaze on me, making me feel as if she were searching my eyes, maybe even my soul. I was forced to shift my eyes guiltily away.
"Are you sure that's the truth? Are you sure you didn't leave the girls to do something else, maybe something with one of the boys?" she asked suspiciously. Really feeling sick now, I still managed to find a voice.
"Oh, no, I came right home. I just want to go to bed," I said.
She continued to stare at me, her eyes riveted to mine, pinning me to her like butterflies were pinned to a board. She folded her arms under her breasts. She was in her silk robe and slippers and had her hair down, but her face was still made up, her lipstick and rough fresh. I bit softly on my lower lip. Panic seized me in a tight grip. I imagined I did look quite sick at this point.
"What's wrong with you?" she demanded.
"My stomach," I said quickly. She smirked, but looked a bit more believing.
"They're not drinking liquor over there, are they?" she asked. I shook my head. "You wouldn't tell me if they were, would you?"
"I . . ."
"You don't have to answer. I know what it's like when a group of teenage girls get together. What surprises me is your letting a mere stomachache stop you from having fun," she said.
"I didn't want to spoil anyone else's," I said. She pulled her head back and nodded softly.
"Okay then, go to bed. If you get any sicker . . ."
"I'll be all right," I said quickly.
"Very good." She started to turn away.
"Why are all those candles lit in there?" I risked asking. Slowly, she turned back to me.
"Actually," she said, suddenly changing her tone of voice to a more reasonable and friendlier one, "I'm glad you saw all that, Ruby. Now you have some idea what I have to put up with from time to time. Your father has turned that room into a . . . into a. . . shrine. What's done is done," she said coldly. "Burning candles, mumbling apologies and prayers won't change things. But he's beyond reason. The whole thing is rather embarrassing, so don't discuss it with anyone and especially don't discuss it in front of the servants. I don't want Nina sprinkling voodoo powders and chanting all over the house.
"Is he in there now?"
She looked at the door.
"Yes," she said.
"I want to talk to him."
"He's not in the talking mood. The fact is, he's not himself. You don't want to talk to him or even see him like this. It would upset him afterward more than it would upset you now. Just go to sleep. You can talk to him in the morning," she said, and narrowed her eyes as a new thought crossed her suspicious mind. "Why is it so important for you to talk to him now anyway? What is it you want to tell him that you can't tell me? Have you done something else that's terrible?"
"No," I replied quickly.
"Then what did you want to say to him?" she pursued.
"I just wanted . . . to comfort him."
"He has his priests and his doctors for that," she said. I was surprised she didn't say he had her, too. "Besides, if your stomach's bothering you so much you had to come home, how can you sit around talking to someone?" she followed quickly like a trial lawyer.
"It feels a little better," I said. She looked skeptical again. "But you're right. I'd better go to sleep," I added. She nodded and I walked to my room. She remained in the hallway watching me until I went inside.
I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted to describe not only what had happened tonight, but the truth about the night with the rum and all the nasty things Gisselle had said and done at school, but I thought once I had drawn so sharp and clear a battle line between us, Gisselle and I would never be the sisters we were meant to be. She would hate me too much. Despite all that had already happened between us, I still clung to the hope that we would bridge the gap that all these years and different ways of living had created. I knew that right now I wanted that to happen more than Gisselle did, but I still thought she would eventually want it as much. In this hard and cruel world, having a sister or a brother, someone to care for you and love you was not something to throw away nonchalantly. I felt confident that someday, Gisselle would understand that.
I went to bed and lay there listening for my father's footsteps. Some time after midnight, I heard them: slow, ponderous steps outside my door. I heard him pause and then I heard him go on to his own room, exhausted, I was sure, from all the sorrow he had expressed in the room he had turned into a memorial to his brother. Why was his sorrow so long and so deep? I wondered. Did he blame himself?
The questions lingered in the darkness waiting for a chance to leap at the answers, like the old marsh hawk, patiently waiting for its prey.
I closed my eyes and rushed headlong into the darkness within me, the darkness that promised some relief.
The next morning it was my father who woke me, knocking on my bedroom door and poking his head in, his face so bright with smiles I wondered if I had dreamt the events of the night before. How could he move from such deep mental anguish to such a jolly mood? I wondered.
"Good morning;" he said when I sat up and ground the sleep out of my eyes with my small fists.
"Hi."
"Daphne told me you came home last night because you didn't feel well. How are you this morning?"
"Much better," I said.
"Good. have Nina prepare something soothing and easy to digest for you to have for breakfast. Just take it easy today. You've made quite a beginning with your art instructor, your schoolteachers . . . you deserve a day off, a day to do nothing but indulge yourself. Take a lesson from Gisselle," he added with a laugh.
"Daddy," I began. I wanted to tell him everything, to confide in him and develop the sort of relationship in which he wouldn't be afraid to confide in me.
"Yes, Ruby?" He took another step into my bedroom. "We never talked any more about Uncle Jean. I mean, I would like to go see him with you some day," I added. What I really meant to say was I wanted to share the burden of his sorrow and pain. He gave me a tight smile.
"Well, that's very kind of you, Ruby. It would be a blessed thing to do. Of course," he said, widening his smile, "he would think you were Gisselle. It will take some lengthy explanation to get him to even fathom that he has two different nieces."
"Then he can understand things?" I asked.
"I think so. I hope so," he said, his smile fading. "The doctors aren't as convinced of his improvements as I am, but they don't know him as I know him."