"She didn't eat well, no matter how I nagged and cajoled. I whipped up whatever herbal drinks I could to substitute for what she was missing and provide the nourishment her body needed, but she either avoided them or her depression overcame whatever value they had. Instead of blossoming in the last weeks of her pregnancy, she grew more sickly. Dark shadows formed around her eyes. She had little energy, became listless and slept most of the day away.
"I saw how big she had gotten, of course, and I knew why, but I never spoke a word of it to Grandpere or to Gabrielle. I was afraid the moment Grandpere knew, he would run out and make a second deal."
"Knew why?" I asked. "What?"
"That Gabrielle was about to give birth to twins."
For a moment my thumping heart stopped. The realization of what she had said thundered through my mind.
"Twins? I have a twin sister?" The possibility had never even occurred to me, even after I had seen how much I resembled the little girl in the picture with Pierre Dumas.
"Yes. She was the baby, the first to be born and the one I surrendered to Grandpere that night. I shall never forget that night," she said. "Grandpere had informed the Dumas family that Gabrielle was in labor. They drove here in their limousine and waited out there in the night. They had brought along a nurse, but I wouldn't permit her to enter my house. I could see the old man's expensive cigar burning in the limousine window as they all waited impatiently.
"As soon as your sister was born, I cleaned and brought her out to Grandpere, who thought I was being very cooperative. He rushed out with the child and collected his blood money. When he returned to the house, I had you cleaned and wrapped and in your weakened mother's arms.
"As soon as he set eyes on you, Grandpere Jack ranted and raved. Why hadn't I told him what to expect? Didn't I realize that I had thrown away another fifteen thousand dollars!
"He decided there was still time and actually went to take you from Gabrielle and run after the limousine. I struck him squarely on the forehead with a frying pan I had kept at my side just for that purpose and I knocked him unconscious. By the time he awoke, I had packed all of his things in two sacks. Then I chased him from the house, threatening to tell the world what he had done if he didn't leave us be. I threw out all his things and he took them and went to live in his trapper's shack. He's been there ever since," she said, "and good riddance to him."
"What happened to my mother?" I asked softly, so softly, I wasn't sure I had spoken.
Finally, Grandmere's tears escaped. They streamed down her cheeks freely, zigzagging to her chin.
"The double birthing, in her weakened state, was too much for her, but before she closed her eyes for the last time, she looked down at you and smiled. I made my promises quickly to her. I would keep you here in the bayou with me. You would grow up much like she had. You would know our world and our lives and some day, when the time was right, you would be told all that I have told you now.
"Gabrielle's last words to me were 'Thank you, ma mere, ma belle mere.'"
Grandmere's head dropped as her shoulders shuddered. I got up quickly and went to embrace her, crying with her for a mother I had never seen, never touched, never heard speak my name. What did I know of her? A snip of a ribbon she had worn in her dark red hair, some of her clothes, the few old faded pictures? To never know the sound of her voice, or the feel of her bosom when she embraced me and comforted me, to never bury my face in her hair and feel her lips on my baby cheeks, to never hear that wonderful, innocent laughter Grandmere had described, to never dream, like so many other girls I knew, that I would be as beautiful as my mother--this was the agony left to me.
How was I now to love, even like the man who was my real father but who had betrayed my mother's trust and love and broke her heart so badly she could only pine away?
Grandmere Catherine wiped away her tears and sat back, smiling at me.
"Can you forgive me for keeping all this a secret until now, Ruby?" she asked.
"Yes, Grandmere. I know you did it out of love for me, to protect me. Did my real father ever learn what had happened to my mother and did he ever learn about me?"
"No," Grandmere said, shaking her head. "That is one reason why I have encouraged you in your artwork, and why I wanted you to have your work shown in galleries in New Orleans. I have been hoping that someday, Pierre Dumas might learn of a
Ruby Landry and wonder.
"It has brought me great pain and troubled my conscience that you have never met your father and your sister. Now, I feel in my heart that you should and will soon do so. If anything should happen to me, Ruby, you must promise, you must swear here and now, that you will go to Pierre Dumas and tell him who you are."
"Nothing will happen to you, Grandmere," I insisted.
"Nevertheless, promise me, Ruby. I don't want you to stay here and live with that . . that scoundrel. Promise," she demanded.
"I promise, Grandmere. Now stop this talk. You're tired; you need to rest. Tomorrow, you will be as good as new," I told her.
She smiled up at me and stroked my hair.
"My beautiful Ruby, my little Gabrielle. You're all your mother dreamed you would be," she said. I kissed her cheek and helped her to her feet.
Never did Grandmere Catherine look older going up to her bedroom. I followed to be sure she was all right and I helped her get into bed. Then, as she had done for me so many, many times before, I brought the blanket to her chin and knelt down to kiss her good night.
"Ruby," she said, seizing my hand as I turned to leave. "Despite what he did, there must be something very good in your father's heart for your mother to have loved him so. Seek only that goodness in him. Leave room in your own heart to love that good part of him and you will find some peace and joy someday," she predicted.
"All right, Grandmere," I said, although I couldn't imagine feeling anything toward him but hatred. I turned out her light and left her in darkness groping with the ghosts of her past.