Gossip traveled and gained speed like it was rolling downhill. “Four dead people and those are only the ones we know about!” “Maybe she’s killed hundreds!” “I heard she only uses one pen at a time. Total psycho.”
I hoped the Purple Widow sobriquet would go away, but it stuck, and soon every news source in the county adopted it. And Hannah, who never thought for a second that I killed her father until Detective Jackson visited her and all this blew up, was now totally convinced of it. And she gave interviews about me whenever she could, showed photos of us from high school, and used my infamy to propel her own business. She created a Vampire in the Sun T-shirt that read, “Killed by the Purple Widow.” The batch sold out in less than an hour, and she was then courted to sell her entire line in department stores nationally. I wasn’t even angry. Good for her, I thought. Let her make millions off my misfortune. Because the truth was, I did kill her disgusting rapist of a father.
Hannah wasn’t the only one to profit off my ruinous life. Jason’s former place of employment had a leg up because unlike the other news stations, they had insider information. They ran in-depth interviews with the on-camera anchors who had had the pleasure of working with him. And who had also met me at various holiday parties and birthday parties and some who even attended our wedding in Key West.
“Were you shocked to hear this development that Ruby Simon was a suspect in Jason’s death?”
“Did you feel like she was a cold-blooded killer? Excuse me, an ‘alleged’ cold-blooded killer?”
“Could you sense something was off about her?”
“Did Jason express he felt unsafe in his own home?”
“What signs were there, if any, that Jason was in danger?”
“And what signs can you, the viewer at home, look out for in preventing your own possible murder? Stay tuned until after the weather to find out!”
Gertrude was also interviewed a lot. She came across as reasonable and trustworthy and heartbroken that her only child was dead. When she was pretending to be nervous about saying too much, she would fidget with her necklace, a gold chain with a small gold frog charm. Her face and voice and existence filled me with so much rage that I thought about driving to her house and stabbing her to death. With a blade so small it would take hundreds of thrusts and cause her maximum pain before she expired. And then sitting in the bloodbath and waiting for Detective Jackson to arrive and haul me off to jail again. I thought witnessing her last gasp might be worth a life in prison, behind steel bars and inside concrete walls. Just put me away for killing her, and forget you ever accused me of killing her son.
But I would not drive over to murder her. Because I thought of Ellie and my adorable niece. I thought of my parents, who believed in my innocence and goodness. And I knew that I couldn’t shatter all that. So instead of stabbing Gertrude to death, I turned off her sanctimonious interviews.
Photos of my wedding surfaced, although I never gave anyone permission to release them, and it seemed nothing about my marriage was private anymore. I was losing Jason all over again because I was losing what remained of our intimacy to a city devouring my story. The news station Jason had worked for was now running trashy segments about my drug-fueled youth, when just months before they were running conscientious type-1-diabetes-awareness campaigns.
And slowly a city divided seemed not so divided anymore. The wall got chipped away and broken down and became a pile of rubble. The city finally united in what they deemed my clear guilt. Because in the end it was more fun for the public to hate me than to believe me. And the good citizens of Miami wanted to see me pay for my many sins. “The electric chair for the Purple Widow!” I was not allowed to travel, as part of my bail agreement, so I was stuck staying in the city I dearly loved as it turned against me. I couldn’t go to my favorite corner coffee shop without encountering angry stares. I couldn’t go to the beach without being surrounded by untrusting lifeguards. I couldn’t step outside my house without hearing spiteful whispers from my purple door. I was stuck inside my own walls.
Most of my clients stopped seeing me. And the few who kept coming didn’t want to talk about their own issues. Instead they just wanted to ask me questions about all the allegations. “Did you do it?” “Any of it?” “What was it like being in jail?” “Come on. You sort of enjoy all the attention, right?”
I kept calling Gabrielle, but she was still avoiding me. Even though I made it clear in my messages that I understood why she no longer wanted to see me as a therapist and I was not trying to convince her otherwise. I pleaded with her. “I need to tell you something. I’d rather not leave it on your voicemail. Please, just give me five minutes to talk.” But she still didn’t call me back.
Within one week of my arrest, I had to give up on trying to maintain any normalcy in my life, and I closed down my therapy practice. The other tenants in my office building complained about the constant news crews camped outside hoping to catch a glimpse or a sound bite from the Purple Widow. They also complained about working alongside a serial killer. I saw the building manager skulking about in her wedge heels, near the elevators, trying to gather up her courage. She finally lightly tapped on my office door and apologetically asked me to give up my lease.
“I will issue you a refund, of course. And pay for any inconvenience this might cause. Reimburse you for your business cards that have this address on them. Anything like that. Anything you want.”
She seemed so frightened of me, like I might murder her too, right then and there. It was heartbreaking. I told her I completely understood her position and I gave up my office without a fight. I didn’t want my drama and deeds to bring down any more of the innocent bystanders in my life.
I took my diplomas off the walls. I left the merlot-colored trash can I had bought. It matched the love seat so nicely I felt it would be a pity to break up the pair. The next tenant would be in need of a trash can anyway. I debated about the orchid. I had been putting a fresh one in the office every few months. I found they were a perfect focal point if a patient was starting to have a panic attack. I would ask them to stare at the flower. “Describe the color.” “Describe the shape of the petals.” “What does the stem look like?” And after a few minutes of being in the moment with the flower, the person’s amorphous generalized panic would always fade away.
I sat in the love seat and looked at the orchid. The color was grape purple. The kind of shade that is striking on a flower but not quite right for clothes or upholstery. The five petals fanned out, like two elephant ears on top of a plane propeller. The stem was bright green and thin and elegant.
I burst into tears. My body curdled with violent sobs. And the snot came out. Finally. It felt like all the tar from all the grief from my entire life, and maybe even past lives if they existed, was shaken free. And it flowed. I allowed it to flow. I curled up in the fetal position and wailed. I felt the tears drip down my face and saw them darken the merlot-colored fabric of the love seat. I then sank down to the floor, like the closer I could get to the earth, the more comforted I would feel. I pictured falling through all the other office floors until I landed in a heap of wet rubble. With bay water lapping at my broken body and spirit.
Was I being punished? Did Jason die because I was evil and did not deserve to be happy? I asked the orchid these questions. It stared back at me, open and purple and silent. And in the silence I found my answer. Jason died because he had a terrible disease. He died because his pancreas didn’t work. There was nothing more to it and nothing less. Just like Gabrielle was not responsible for Derrick’s death, I was not responsible for Jason’s. I couldn’t let the public’s perception of me erode my belief in myself. I stood up. And walked out for the final time. I left the orchid where it sat.
CHAPTER 46
OMISSION