Blood Sugar(46)

I said, “Jason. You’re beeping.”

I waited a second, but Jason didn’t stir. So I nudged his shoulder.

“Jason, wake up. You’re beeping!”

Still nothing. I started to understand. I shot up and frantically turned to him, my heart thumping in my throat. I screamed.

“Jason! Jason! Get up!”

He was cold and lifeless. Mr. Cat had stopped meowing now that I was awake and aware of the situation. I grabbed my cell and called 9-1-1 while I raced to Jason’s side of the bed and ripped open a sugar packet. I slathered it into Jason’s mouth, hoping some of the lime-green goo would reach his bloodstream in time and revive his still heart. A wave of déjà vu passed through me. Like I’d done this before. Been here before. But I knew I hadn’t. Time slowed as I waited for the emergency operator to answer, and a tiny memory came through like radio static. As I desperately rubbed sugar onto Jason’s gums, to bring him back to life, I saw a flash of Duncan’s mother doing the same thing to herself with wisps of cocaine in the club bathroom.

I poured another packet of goo into Jason’s mouth, this one a cherry red. And then another. Tangerine. I could tell by the sickening slack of his head when I grabbed his shoulders and shook him that he was already dead. But I still had to keep trying. I knew it wasn’t rational. I grabbed a fourth packet. Grape. And was told by the emergency operator that an ambulance was on the way.





CHAPTER 32


    WIDOW



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.