Jason wanted a new outfit of his own to wear to his party and thought we should have some fun and go shopping together. Many guys I knew dreaded going clothes shopping and sitting in the man-chair in the center of the store while pretending to care and doling out phrases like, “You look hot, babe” and, “Whichever one you like better” and, of course, “Stop it, you don’t look fat.” But Jason actually loved shopping. Again, total alien. Going into stores with him was like a movie montage of trying on fun hats and silly pants and laughing and telling each other the truth about outfits.
There was one place in particular I knew Jason and I had to go—Hannah Vale’s thriving boutique on South Beach. And after the awkwardness of Ameena coming to visit me in Miami and learning about a big event I had kept to myself, I made sure to fill Jason in on the major details of Richard’s tragic death. But, of course, omitting a few minor details that in my mind were unnecessary to ever share with anyone. Including the man with whom I might be falling in love.
Hannah gave me a huge hug when I walked into the store. We actually hadn’t seen each other in a long time; work, stuff, life got in the way. I introduced her to Jason, told her we needed birthday party outfits, and let her start whipping things off racks. After finally getting her bachelor’s degree in marketing, she got a small-business loan and opened up her store. She still had her own princess-of-darkness vibe going, but she had the insight to curate her boutique with the best of all styles for men and women. She also had a small section where she sold her own designs, a line called Vampire in the Sun, which consisted of long-sleeve black shirts and long, tight black maxi skirts in breathable material that looked like sexy Elvira-goes-to-brunch outfits but had a sunscreen woven into the fabrics. It was a clever idea, cool clothes for goth, punk, and emo sun-sensitive people. It hadn’t taken off yet, but I was proud of her for pursuing her dream.
She handed Jason a pair of white linen pants. He looked at her, then at me.
“You sure I can pull these off?”
Hannah said, “No. That’s why you’re going to try them on.”
He took them into the dressing room and she gave me a knowing smile, as if to say, Hey, you got yourself a keeper. He’s smart, yet easygoing, yet keeps you on your toes. He’s handsome, but not in a trashy South Beach way. He’s a great match for you, Ruby. Don’t fuck it up!
Jason walked out of the dressing room, and yes, he pulled off those pants perfectly. Hannah had me try on a Greek-goddess-esque white-and-gold sundress that looked amazing over the gold bikini she was also about to sell me. And Jason bought a thin cotton light blue button-down to go with his new white linen pants. Hannah was happy and deemed us complementary without being too matchy. She sent us on our way, bags full of new clothes and hearts full of love.
Jason planned his party mostly by himself, and I knew he wouldn’t have a cake since it was way too sugary and carb-heavy. As I watched Jason make his morning protein shakes and measure out his berries, I wanted so much for him to be able to blow out twenty-nine candles and eat a piece of cake like a person with a normal pancreas gets to do on his birthday. So I thought it would be a nice surprise if I hired a baker to make some sort of special low-glycemic-index sugar-free dessert. But since he stayed away from all desserts all the time, I didn’t even know what type of cake he would most enjoy. And I didn’t want to casually ask him, fearing it would ruin the surprise. I was good at keeping things close to the vest, but he was good at seeing right through me. Which made being with him make me feel more alive than stinging salt water on my eyeballs or pounding dance club music or cocaine or even oxygen ever could.
The person who would know what kind of cake he liked when he could eat that sort of thing, before he was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, which he told me happened when he collapsed on the playground when he was seven years old, feeling parched, begging someone, anyone, for a sip of water, was the person who he spoke with three times a day. The person who meant the most to him in the whole wide world, the person who knew him best. His mother. So one day, when he was in the shower, I grabbed her phone number off his cell. I called Gertrude the next day.
That was my first mistake.
CHAPTER 24
COBRA
Gertrude answered her phone with a neutral “Hello.” I used my chipper voice and introduced myself: “Hi! It’s Ruby, Jason’s girlfriend. I’m so excited to meet you at his birthday party.” And then I asked her about what kind of cake her son liked. I expected an energetic answer about chocolate or carrot or red velvet, but instead my question was met with cold silence.
What I didn’t know then, when I made that phone call, was that Jason was abandoned by his mother when he was two years old. She left Georgia and moved to Florida. She told family and friends that she had to escape since his father was so terrible and abusive. But if he was so terrible and abusive, how could she leave her small child alone with him?
Some mothers have been known to summon the strength to lift cars off their babies. Others have fled from war-torn countries with nothing but rags on their backs to offer a safer life to their young. Some mothers perjure themselves and give false alibis in court, preventing their criminal children from being locked up, endangering the lives of others to keep their own offspring free. This innate determination to protect one’s own and the irrational, unconditional love of a mother for her child are what fuels the continuation of the human race. Plenty of mothers endure abusive relationships and traumatic divorces and ugly custody battles to ensure they get to raise their own children. So what kind of mother leaves without taking her son with her? A bad mother. Maybe a mentally ill mother. Maybe a narcissist. Perhaps even a sociopath.
So Jason was raised by a stern single dad who could sometimes be cruel. There were rules and expectations and chores, and there was yelling, and the occasional spanking, and a few times the belt was taken out, and in a small percentage of those times the metal buckle end was used. His father was certainly not perfect. And like so many teenage boys, Jason grew to hate him. Not because he was evil, but because he was there.
Since Gertrude wasn’t there, to get frustrated, or yell, or have a meltdown, or say an unkind word, or embarrass him in front of his friends, or make a mistake, or spank him, or hit him with a leather belt, in Jason’s mind she became a saint. The perfect mother. The enormous affront of her abandoning him was too much for his young emotions to dissect, so instead he focused on the positive little things. Like the sound of her voice on the phone that became so familiar as they chatted over the years. Or the little gifts she would sometimes mail, like a baseball cap or a toy car. Or the birthday cards he would get that always started out with “Dear Son” and ended with “Love, Mom.” He cherished those cards and as a boy would run his hand over the words Son and Mom again and again to make sure they were real.
Gertrude was able to be maternal to a point, from seven hundred miles away, on her own terms. And Jason clung to these maternal gestures like an undernourished flower planted in the shade of a much bigger tree desperately clinging to the smallest sliver of sunlight. Gertrude was the villain. It was so clear. But since she wasn’t the one in the trenches raising him, for a long time in Jason’s mind she was the hero.