For the next couple of weeks I was in a complete daze. I woke up each morning because that’s what people who are alive do. My parents came over every day to check on me, and try to make me eat something. Ellie flew down immediately, even though she was in the middle of her own marital issues. There was a funeral, exactly the way Jason laid out in his will. Once his body was returned to me, which took a week because, as I was told by the authorities, an autopsy is always preformed when a relatively young person dies at home, I had him cremated. And invited all his close friends to join me on a boat and celebrate his life and watch his ashes gracefully drop into the Atlantic, where they would become one with the ocean. He would spend eternity in his favorite place. This brought me zero comfort.
I already knew how and why Jason died. But an official-looking letter arrived in the mail. The coroner concluded that there was no foul play. No poison or alcohol or drugs found in Jason’s body. Jason tragically died in his sleep because of dangerously low blood sugar, substantiated by his glucose monitor stats. Jason became a statistic. Another type 1 diabetic dead in bed.
A few days later ABC local news did a moving human-interest story on type 1 diabetes and honored Jason, their beloved employee, by showing his picture and adding information about where people can donate to fund research to find a cure for the deadly disease. No one warned me this would be on television. Or maybe someone did call and leave a message, during those first few days of widowed fog. But I definitely wasn’t ready to interact with people outside my inner circle.
After the news story aired, flowers started arriving from acquaintances and colleagues I hadn’t spoken to in years. I knew they all meant well, but every time the doorbell rang Mr. Cat would run into the closet to hide and I would be forced out of bed, to handle the delivery with a modicum of composure. One day after the bell rang, I looked out the peephole and saw a bouquet of lilies floating in midair. Lilies are highly toxic to cats. Jason knew this, of course, I thought sadly, but the sender clearly did not. So I yelled, “Just leave them outside the door. Thank you!” It was a relief to not have to see another person face-to-face. I don’t know how I didn’t think of this solution sooner. The lilies, and all the other flowers that came after, could stay outside, get burned by the sun, and decay even faster.
The doorbell rang again, and I called out, “Just leave them outside the door. Thank you!” I heard a deep voice respond. “I’m looking for a Ruby Simon. This is Detective Keith Jackson.”
I dragged myself over and looked out the peephole. Sure enough, I did not see flowers. I saw a badge. I opened the door to a very tall man in slacks and a button-down short-sleeve shirt. I smiled, a little.
The man asked, “Are you Ruby Simon?”
“I am.”
He said, “Sorry to barge in on you. Is now an okay time to talk for a moment?”
Now was not an okay time to talk, but I felt like I might never have an okay time to talk for the rest of my life. So I shrugged, sure. And let him in. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to talk about, but it occurred to me that maybe one of my patients was in some sort of trouble. That happened from time to time. Especially when I was working at juvie. I would, of course, need to respectfully tell this towering detective that I could not divulge any information because of doctor-patient confidentiality, and remind him that even with a warrant it can be tricky.
I asked, “Can I get you anything? I have fresh orange juice.”
“That’s very kind. No, thank you.”
He was extremely polite, almost sheepish. As he glanced around the living room, I wondered when he would get to the point. I was too depleted to wait while standing, so I walked into the kitchen and sat on a stool at the island. He followed me in and had three other stools to choose from. He choose the one closest to me. His knees hit the top of the counter, but he didn’t shift.
He said, “I’m here to tie up some loose ends regarding Mr. Hollander’s death.”
I was confused. I had no idea there were loose ends. I searched back in my brain to make sense of what the detective was saying.
“You mean Jason’s father? In Georgia? He died a little over a year ago. I might have his death certificate in a file if you need it?”
“No. I mean Jason Hollander. Your late husband.”
I stared at him. Still at a loss.
He said, “Let me start by offering my condolences. My grandpa had type 2 diabetes. He had his foot amputated toward the end.” I had heard a variation of this dozens of times. People often tried to connect in the most misguided ways. I said, “It’s a terrible disease.”
“Know what?” he said. “I will take a small glass of that fresh orange juice. If you don’t mind.”
At this point I was happy to have a chore, so I got up and poured the juice into a good glass. One from our wedding registry. As I handed it to him, I saw his eyes dart over the nearly empty kitchen counter. And land on a half-filled bookshelf in the vestibule.
“Did Jason live here with you?”
“Of course. Yes.”
My brain was still searching, trying to be helpful. I asked, “Are the loose ends about his address? Because he also owned a condo that we use as an investment property.”
Detective Jackson chugged his juice in what seemed one large sip, and gingerly placed the glass on the island. He gave me a nod of thanks, pressed himself up off his stool, and walked back into the living room, toward the front door, as if this strange, vague visit was perfectly normal. I followed him. Still baffled.
Before he reached the knob, he turned to me and asked, “Where’s all Jason’s stuff? This house seems half empty.”
It was a reasonable question. I would learn soon enough that many of Detective Keith Jackson’s questions were reasonable. And I could have given him a whole lecture about how we all grieve differently. About how the day Jason died, I removed every item of his, from cookbooks to flip-flops to surf wax, in a frenzy because the sight of it all made me sick with sadness. I could tell him I did the same exact thing when our cherished dog died. And how me wanting every physical shred of Jason gone didn’t make me an unloving person. And how even my housekeeper, Jesula, understood this. She helped me pack up all of Jason’s things. But I felt this intimate answer was none of Detective Keith Jackson’s damn business. So I merely said, “I’m kind of a neat freak.”
Detective Jackson stayed standing still. So still that Mr. Cat actually ventured out from the closet, wandered toward us, unafraid, and wove his body in figure eights around the long legs of the stranger in our house. It was remarkable. Mr. Cat usually hated everyone.
I was so thrown by the whole visit, so off my game, I asked, “Is there more you want to talk about?”
Detective Jackson bent over and gave Mr. Cat a nice pat on the side. He said, “No rush on my end. Will you be in town for a while?”
“Absolutely. I’m not going anywhere.”