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"Have you?" She held me in her critical gaze for a moment, pressing her lips together. "Fine then. We'll leave early in the morning Saturday. Wear something appropriate. expect you understand what I mean when I say that now," she added.

"Yes, Mother. Thank you."

"Oh, one more thing," she said before turning. "Don't mention this to Pierre. It will only make him feel worse. We'll

tell him when we return. Do you understand?'

"Yes," I said.

"I hope I'm doing the right thing," she concluded, and left.

Right thing? Of course she was doing the right thing. Finally, I would be able to make a significant contribution toward my father's happiness. As soon as I returned from the institution, I would run right to him and describe every moment I had spent with Jean in detail. I went right to my closet to decide what would be appropriate to Daphne.

When I told Gisselle about my accompanying Daphne to visit Uncle Jean, she looked very surprised. "Uncle Jean's birthday? Only Mother would remember something like that."

"I think it's nice she asked me," I said.

"I'm glad she didn't ask me to go. I hate that place. It's so depressing. All those disturbed people and young people our age, too."

Nothing she could say would diminish my excitement. When Saturday morning finally arrived, I was dressed hours earlier than I had to be and took extra care with my hair, returning to the mirror a halfdozen times to be sure every strand was in place. I knew how critical Daphne could be.

I was disappointed to discover that Daddy hadn't come down to breakfast. Even though we weren't supposed to tell him where we were going, I wanted him to see how nice I looked.

"Where's Daddy?" I asked Daphne.

"He knows what day it is," she explained after looking me over from head to toe. "It's left him in one of his deeper melancholic states. Wendy will bring a tray up to him later."

We ate and then a short time afterward left for the institute. Daphne was quiet for most of the trip, except when I asked her questions.

"How old is Uncle Jean today?" I queried.

"He's thirty-six," she replied.

"Did you know him before?"

"Of course I knew him," she said. I thought I detected a slight smile on her lips. "I daresay there wasn't an eligible young woman in New Orleans who didn't."

"How long has he been in the institution?"

"Almost fifteen years."

"What's he like? I mean, what's his condition like now?" I pursued. She looked like she wasn't going to reply.

Finally, she said, "Why don't you just wait and see. Save your questions for the doctors and nurses," she added, which I thought was a strange thing to say.

The institute was a good twenty miles out of the city. It was off the highway, up a long, winding driveway, but it had beautiful grounds with sprawling weeping willows, rock gardens, and fountains, as well as little walkways that had quaint little wooden benches all along the way. As we approached, I saw some older people being escorted by attendants.

After she pulled our car into a parking space and shut off the engine, Daphne turned to me.

"When we go in there, I don't want you to speak to anyone or ask anyone any questions. This is a mental institution, not a public school. Just follow alongside me and wait. Then do whatever you are told to do. Is that clear?" she demanded.

"Yes," I said. Something in her tone of voice and in her look made my heart race. The four-story, gray stucco structure now loomed above us ominously and cast a long dark shadow over us and our car. As we approached the front entrance, I saw that the windows had bars over them and many had their shades drawn down.

From the highway and even approaching it on the driveway, the institution was very attractive and pleasant, but now, close up, it announced its true purpose and reminded visitors that the people housed within were here because they couldn't function properly in the outside world. The bars on the windows suggested some might even be dangerous to others. I swallowed hard and tracked after Daphne through the front entrance. She walked with her head high as usual, her posture regal stiff. Her heels clicked on the polished marble floor, echoing through the immaculate entryway. At a glass enclosure directly before us, a woman in a white uniform sat writing in charts. She looked up as we approached.

"I'm Daphne Dumas," Daphne declared with an authoritative air. "I'm here to see Dr. Cheryl."

"I'll inform him you've arrived, Madame Dumas," the receptionist said and lifted the receiver at her side immediately. "Take a seat if you like," she added, nodding toward the cushioned benches. Daphne turned and gestured for me to sit down. I hurriedly did so and waited with my hands in my lap, gazing around me. The walls were bare, not a picture, not a clock, nothing.