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I looked at Beau. "She didn't waste a minute, did she?" I said. "Can we see my uncle, please?" I asked the nurse.
"Yes. Just a moment." She pushed a button, and a few moments later a male attendant appeared. "Take these people to Ward C to visit Jean Dumas."
"Lord Dumas," he said, smiling. "Sure. Right this way," he said, and we followed him through a door and down a corridor.
"Why do you call him Lord Dumas?" Beau asked.
"Oh, it's just a little joke among the staff. Despite his problems, Jean loves his clothes and looks after his appearance. At least he used to."
"What do you mean, 'used to'?" I asked.
"Since he's been moved and even a little before, he stopped caring. The doctors are concerned. Usually we take him to the game room after lunch, but he's been a bit more depressed lately, so he goes back to the ward."
I glanced at Beau. "What is this ward like?" I wondered aloud.
The attendant paused. "It ain't the Ritz," he said.
That was an understatement. The men's ward simply consisted of a dozen beds in a row, each with its own metal locker. There were three windows spaced out on one side and two on the other, all the windows lined with bars. The floor was cement and the walls were a dull brown color. The lighting was dull, but we could see Uncle Jean at the far end, sitting at the edge of his bed. A nurse had just given him something and was coming toward us.
"I have a couple of visitors for Jean," the attendant told her.
"He's a bit more down today. He wouldn't even eat much lunch. I had to give him some medicine. Are you relatives?" she asked us.
"I am his niece, Ruby."
"Oh," she said, smiling. "The Ruby who sends him letters from time to time?"
"Yes," I replied, happy he was getting them.
"He cherishes those letters, although I sometimes wonder if he actually reads the words. Sometimes he sits with one for hours and hours, just staring at it. When he was in his own room, I would read him one occasionally. They've been very nice letters."
"Thank you. Is he getting worse?"
"I'm afraid so. The move and all hasn't helped, either. He used to be so proud of the way he kept his room."
"I know," I said. "I remember."
"Oh, you've seen him there?"
"Not exactly," I said. This nurse hadn't been working here when I had been forced to stay, so she didn't remember me. But I saw no point in bringing all that back.
With Beau still right beside me, I walked down to Uncle Jean, who sat staring at his hands. His golden hair was disheveled, and he wore a pair of creased pants and a creased white shirt with some food stains on the front of it.
"Hello, Uncle Jean," I said, sitting down beside him. I took his hands into mine and he turned, first to look up at Beau and then to look at me. I saw a note of recognition in his blue-green eyes and a small smile start at the corners of his mouth.
"Do you remember me? . . . Ruby? I'm Pierre's other daughter. I'm the one who's been sending you all the letters." His smile widened. "I've come home from school because . . . because there's been a tragedy, Uncle Jean, and now I've come to tell you because I think you have a right to know. I think you should know." I looked up at Beau, to see if he thought I should continue or not. He nodded. Uncle Jean was still gazing at me, his eyes moving slightly from side to side as he studied my face.
"It's Daddy, Uncle Jean . . . he's . . . his heart gave out on him and he's . . . he's dead," I said. "That's why he hasn't been here to see you; that's why you've been moved to this ward. But I'm going to complain about it to Daphne and I'm going to see to it that they get you back in your room. At least I'll try," I said.
Gradually, the small smile that had been on his lips wilted, and his lips began ever so slightly to tremble. I put my hand on his shoulder and rubbed it gently.
"Daddy would have wanted me to come here, Uncle Jean. I'm sure. He was very unhappy about what had happened between the two of you and he was very sad about your sickness. He wanted so much to see you get better. He loved you very much. He really did," I said.
Uncle Jean's lips quivered more. His eyes began to blink, and then I felt a trembling in his hands. Suddenly, he shook his head, softly at first, and then more vigorously.
"Uncle Jean . . ."
He opened his mouth and then closed it, shaking his head harder. The nurse and the attendant drew closer. I looked up at them when Uncle Jean began to make an unintelligible sound.
