Blood Sugar(51)
And then he said, “Tell me, Ruby Simon, did you ever wish your husband was dead?”
Roman spoke again, crisp and clear. “We are happy to cooperate, but I don’t think that is an appropriate question for my client. We’ll be going now.”
What an idiotic question. Of course I had wished for Jason to be dead. Every now and again. What wife hasn’t had that fantasy creep in? I liked the countertops of the kitchen to be totally free of clutter, but he liked to have the blender, the toaster, his protein powder, various water bottles, a canister of cooking utensils, the spice rack, everything and anything we might possibly use at some point in our lives out all the time. I knew this about him from the minute I first stepped into his condo and looked at his kitchen. So it wasn’t a surprise to me, but it was grating. Clutter, clutter everywhere.
In the time between Jason immediately falling asleep at night and the twenty minutes to an hour it would take me to drift off, my mind raced with scenarios. I would sometimes imagine him dying, in some vague way, painlessly and quickly, of course, and how I would immediately clean the kitchen counters and clear out his side of the closet and have so much more space and I would keep things perfectly tidy. And no more shoes by the door. The thought of that alone soothed me like mint tea with honey.
The antique marble-topped dresser on my side of the bedroom had exactly nothing on it. The sparseness pleased me, knowing everything was put away. In its place. The dresser on Jason’s side of the bedroom had important items on it like test strips and packets of sugar goo. But it was also cluttered with books he pretended to want to read, baseball caps, random quarters, single socks, and old paper receipts dredged out of jean pockets. He was a grown man; he had the right to have his side of the bedroom just as he wanted it. I knew this. Because of years of therapy, because of practicing being rational, and because Ellie told me in no uncertain terms not to micromanage him. Alisha too encouraged me not to oversee and control Jason’s space. My way was not right, and his way was not wrong. We were merely different. Which is what makes marriage so beautiful. Loving another person not for their sameness, but for the oppositeness.
At times Jason and I compromised to the point that we were both unhappy. That is marriage. He wanted black square tiles for the kitchen backsplash. I wanted lavender mosaic tiles. So we got white subway tiles. And we both vaguely didn’t like them. I always thought the Julia Tuttle Causeway was fastest. He liked MacArthur. So we often found ourselves taking Venetian.
Sometimes I wanted to come home from a long day of work and hide. But Jason could read my every facial expression and emotion. He wanted to talk, to demand I open up more, to share real feelings all the time. Like his refusal to ask the typical first-date questions, he refused to make end-of-day idle chatter. But sometimes that was all I had left in me after hours of counseling others. Sometimes I just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to sit and watch stupid TV shows. I wanted him to go away. And sometimes that wanting-him-to-go-away feeling would hop toward, Maybe he’ll die and then I won’t have to deal with him at all anymore. I knew I had to work on just telling him that I needed some space for a few hours. He would understand. But I would have to say it in a kind and loving way so as not to hurt his feelings, and that alone took energy. And sometimes I didn’t have enough left.
On occasion we would fight. He thought I was distant. I thought he was needy. He would get mad and yell. I would get mad and give him the silent treatment. One day I was so furious I stormed into a different room and gave him the finger through the wall. It was immature of me. But it felt good. Fuck you, Jason! Fuck you! We made up twenty minutes later. Laughing about how silly we were. We said “I love you” to each other and kissed and went about our mostly happy marriage.
I knew I annoyed the hell out of him at times. Constantly wanting to plan, never letting anything go. I’m sure in the depths of Jason’s mind he thought about strangling me from time to time. Mostly to stop me from nagging or back seat driving or grumbling while passive-aggressively tossing his sandy flip-flops outside the back door. An occasional fantasy about a spouse dying is normal and common. It’s not a threat; it’s flippant frustration. A natural symptom of two imperfect people living together while attempting to maintain a personal sense of style and space and budget and a sex life. But there is no way I was going to admit any of this. To anyone.
Especially not to Detective Keith Jackson. Who was now stretching. He reached his arms over his head, and pushed his legs straight out against the bolted-down table. He wanted to convey he was so comfortable and confident that he didn’t feel the need to protect his innards.
Roman stood up. The chair scraped across the cement floor. It was time to go. But it was ten seconds too late. Because I lost my guile. Detective Jackson’s insinuations about me and Jason were too much for me to handle with grace. I stood up quickly, my chair flinging back, almost toppling over, and I said in a cold huff, “I’m sorry your marriages weren’t successful, Detective, but don’t put your shit on me. I’m not perfect. But I loved my husband.”
Roman guided me out of the room before I could say another word. His jacket was slipping off my shoulders, and he caught it before it fell. As we walked out, Detective Jackson opened his arms wide; his wingspan looked impressive inside the small room, his middle fingers almost able to touch each wall. He said, “Thanks so much for coming in.”