The Least Suckiest Gifts of All
- Jill Williams
- Oct 24
- 10 min read
by Jill Williams
I didn’t have a father. To clarify, I wasn’t hatched, nor did I come into being by my mom releasing an egg into the water, some dude swimming along minding his own business, dumping out a gallon of his jizz like fertilizer, and poof—there I was. No, I came into the world in the usual way: some random sweaty guy tussling with Mom in a cramped back seat, whispering an assurance of undying love. He was out of there before the whisper escaped his lips, already gone, quicker than the hoist of a zipper. A post-coital cigarette burned to the nub, dissipating faster than “I’ll call you.” Mom never got the memo that most men were slippery fish, swimming downstream, taking the easy way home, staining you with the scent of smoke while they slithered away.
She’d end up crumpled on the sofa, her bellows the discordant note of an accordion. “I really thought he was the one, someone who’d stay forever.” I feigned a smile, handing her a box of tissues and a steaming mug of elderberry tea and whiskey, never saying what I really thought. Gee, Mom, all you had to do was look at his pornstar mustache and souped-up Trans Am to know that he’d pull a disappearing act. God gave you eyes for a reason. I’d walk her to her bed and tuck her in, her tears soaking the pillows where their heads had laid. Their scent—stale sex and dime store aftershave—enveloped her as she slept.
Mom was like a goose following a predictable migratory pattern. When the days turned chilly and sunlight shriveled faster than dried fruit, her internal compass led her on a navigational journey to perennial stopover sites. Right before Christmas, they’d swoop in, honking she was their mate for life. But once the frost had melted, their wings would flap fast, a swinging door slammed shut forever. By Easter, she’d be gulping down liquids laced with whatever alcohol was lying around the house. Her eyes, smudged with a raccoon’s mask of grief, stared blankly into
the distance. A carton of chocolate ice cream was clutched in one hand, a bottle of vodka in the other: a two-fisted attempt to either sweeten the sorrow or numb it completely.
I would wrap my arms around her, trace the delicate curves of her face with my Easter egg-dye-stained finger, and lie through my teeth, “Mom, I’m going to miss Jason.” (Strange, but her boyfriends were all named Jason. Same dude, different shoes.)
“Me too, baby. Me too.”
I would give her a final squeeze and race off to play with whatever Christmas toys the guy had given me. All the Jasons were deemed “sucky” or “non-sucky”, depending on the gifts they gave me at Christmas.
There was Dr. Jason DDS, a strawberry-blonde dentist whose office Mom cleaned. He, in turn, whitened Mom’s teeth to snowy white perfection and filled her cavities, if you catch my drift.
“Baby, Dr. Jason is stopping by tonight. Best manners, okay? Say please and thank you, and don’t ask questions.” Her voice was an ebbing tide, distant and fading.
I was seven and left very confused. A doctor? Was I sick and didn’t know it? Would I have to take yucky medicine and stay in bed all day? My heart pounded imagining the gigantic needle he’d shove into my arm or the barrels of cough syrup he’d pry down my throat. My body pulsed with fear, a broken washing machine on a spin cycle.
I was peeking from behind Mom’s legs when she opened the door. His scent—a sudden burst of latex and mint mouthwash—chased him inside. He cupped her butt with both hands and growled, “Hello, Goddess.”
She cleared her throat nervously and pointed to me. As he knelt down and gazed at me, his eyes and teeth reminded me of those plastic glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across my bedroom ceiling. “Well, hello, sweetheart. What a pretty smile you have. Here are three princess toothbrushes just for you: Ariel, Mulan, and Belle. Here’s some yummy bubblegum-flavored toothpaste.” He winked at me, eyes rat-like and beady. “Why don’t you go to your room and play with your toothbrushes? Your mommy’s teeth are so dirty. She’s been a very, very bad girl, sucking on all that nasty candy. They’re going to need a long, hard, deep polishing.” Mom giggled, a sound like a bleating helium-sucking goat.
I stayed in my room, never interrupting them. I wondered what they were praying about because I kept hearing shouts of, “Oh God! Oh God!” over and over again.
Variations of this theme continued for the next several months. There would be awkward early-morning encounters when Mom would still be asleep (no doubt exhausted from all that loud, shrill praying) and I’d patter barefoot into the kitchen, starving for a bowl of cereal. And there he’d be, hunched over, eyes glowing like a
gargoyle’s, shoveling buckets of cereal down his throat. He waved the empty box and shrugged. “What can I say, kid? I gotta keep my energy up.”
That Christmas, he gave me a gorgeous, fully furnished, two-story Barbie dream house, complete with tenants: twelve Barbies and one very satisfied Ken. It was quite nice, but with a selfish intent: to keep me out of their hair whenever they needed to "summon God." Mom got this gaudy, imitation ruby necklace, an elastic bedazzled bracelet, and a tricolored imitation rabbit fur coat and acted like it was the Shroud of Turin. She squealed and cried, “I love them! They’re the best presents I’ve ever had in my life.”
He smirked, “Relax, babe. Discount Debbie’s had a 75% off sale. It’s not that deep.”
By Easter, he had moved on to the next victim: Amber, his busty nineteen-year-old dental assistant. Mom despised him after that. But in my eyes, that awesome Barbie Dreamhouse made him suck a whole lot less.
The next five years were a revolving door of Jasons, possessing varying degrees of doucheyness. For brevity’s sake, I’ll just mention a few notables.
Who could ever forget Human Resources Jason? He was a man whose hair consisted of gleaming arrow tips protruding through his scalp. What can I say? The man was a serial hair gel abuser and a chronic, unrepentant spray tan addict. But he did give me one of the most non-sucky gifts ever: a karaoke machine. Alone in my room, I’d pretend I was black-out drunk at TGI Fridays, singing along to the Black Eyed Peas with a slew of my bleary-eyed cubicle office mates—all low-level temp workers, like myself.
But HR Jason utilized it for a more practical purpose: to issue a warning to the neighbors for allowing their dogs to take their morning shits on our lawn. “You are in violation of housing covenant 627A. Evacuate the premises immediately! And for God’s sake, take the poop with you!”
Mom would look at him all starry-eyed (like the ones on my bedroom ceiling) and croon, “He’s so responsible.” But she didn’t think he was so responsible after he pawned her jewelry for a lifetime supply of hair gel and fled to Mexico. This cued Mom’s non-stop crying and self-flagellation. “You’re an idiot, a loser, a failure!” Deep down, I agreed with her assessment, but I didn’t say a word. I just quietly patted her on the back and handed her the thermos filled with gin and orange juice.
Gym-owner Jason was a whole other level of awful. His upper body was an inverted, bulky triangle; his lower half a masterclass on skipping leg day and being delusional enough to think no one would notice. The only phrases I ever heard the guy utter were, “I’m pumping heavy today, gotta get swole!” or “Ten-day-old meal prep chicken is totally legit.”
Mom was left with a shattered heart and severe salmonella poisoning after reading a note taped to a sixty-gallon drum of creatine powder. “I’m leaving you for Ashley. It’s not you, it’s her. She’s got lower body fat and appreciates the sacred art of the protein smoothie. The three-week-old chicken is a gift, a symbol of my love. Just don’t let it get cold.”
Mom puked for days. I’d wipe her mouth and secretly enjoy the Christmas gift he smuggled to me: an unsucky pink iPod filled with explicit rap music, christened, “Let’s Get Swole”
And now we come to the biggest Jason of them all. No one was more Jason-y than him. He was an airplane mechanic. Quiet and intense, his eyes were a stormy ocean, and in their depths, you could see a shipwreck. I tried to be nice to him, ask him questions about himself, and he’d sneer, “Nosey little shit, aren’t you?” Mom would laugh and say, “Jason, you’re so funny. Isn’t he funny, Sweetie?” I’d shake my head, heart pounding, and answer, “Yeah, hilarious.” (Like a knife through a throat.)
Within four weeks, Mom and I moved into his house, a three-bedroom bungalow so clean and shiny you could lick the floors. “Ground rules,” he said, his voice a bone-rustling monotone. “No shoes in the house. I paid a lot for these wood floors, and I don’t want any dents or scratches. And if you don’t pick up your shit, it gets tossed in the trash. We eat together as a family, sit up straight, and say grace. And if I so much as see a strand of hair in the bathroom sink, I’ll shave your head so it never happens again.”
Mom and I exchanged horrified glances. He noticed and said, “Just kidding about the hair part.” Mom blew out a relieved puff of air and chuckled, “You’re so funny. Isn’t he funny?” I nodded my head. “Yup, a real laugh riot. Funny like a deadly car crash.”
Living in that house was like being in a prison camp. Both Mom and I suffered the indignity of Jason’s pop-up phone inspections. We had to hand over our phones so he could scour them for any inappropriate conversations or content. One day, he launched Mom’s phone from across the room, smashing it into her head. The sound was like a rock being split in two. “Who’s Terry?! Are you whoring around with him? Answer me, or I’ll kill you right now!”
She choked on the blood gushing from her head, voice thick and gurgling. “Terry’s my sister. Call the number, you’ll see.”
After confirming what Mom said, Jason collapsed at her feet, burrowing his face into her lap, his sobs a car alarm you couldn’t shut off. “I’m a monster. I don’t deserve an angel like you. I love you so much it hurts. I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Mom massaged his head, bloodstained tears dripping from her face. “It’s okay. You’re just stressed about work. You didn’t mean it.”
After that outburst, Jason acted like a suck-uppy altar boy for the next couple of months; breakfast in bed and lavender lattes, daily deliveries of roses and tulips, and constantly saying, “You’re an angel sent from heaven.” He even issued a formal declaration one day, “I hereby announce the suspension of all pop-up phone inspections. The edict is now null and void.”
Mom jumped to her feet and hugged him like the idiot she was, a stray dog who’d eat maggot-infested food just to stay alive. I huffed off to my room, muttering “asshole” under my breath. I smashed my iPod earplugs into my ears, Gangnam Styling to Gym-owner Jason’s “swole” playlist.
Soon Christmas came, and Jason bought these goofy, oversized, matching Grinch pajamas for us all. Because, yeah, nothing says “I love you” quite like a crack in your skull and a set of idiotic lounge wear. Makes it all better. I wanted to throw up in my eggnog every time Jason waved a mistletoe over his and Mom’s head. “Go for it, Jason! Just French my mom right in front of me. I don’t mind a bit.”
We opened our gifts and, no surprise there, Jason gave me the suckiest gifts ever: a coat, a suitcase, and a ceramic cat. The coat was construction-vest orange. Butt ugly, but warm. A suitcase, totally unnecessary; I was stuck in his house for eternity. I wasn’t going anywhere. And the cat? Well, I’m allergic, need I say more.
Apparently, Jason’s ability to read my mind decided to make its debut that day. He sprang out of his chair and yanked me up by the collar, my feet dangling in the air. “You unappreciative little bitch. I saw you rolling your eyes at that coat. You don’t deserve any of it. You stay in my house, eat my food, and this is the thanks I get.”
Mom just sat there, her eyes staring impassively, a pigeon on a park bench. “It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little appreciation, you know.”
At that moment, something shattered inside me, breaking the mold that contained a monstrous force. “Appreciation for what? For mopping up after your messes? Watching you chase after men who look at you like you’re dog crap stuck to the bottom of their shoe. You make me sick!” I reared back and hocked a giant loogie right in Jason’s eye. “That’s the only thing you’ll ever get from me!”
Jason’s hands coiled around my neck, constricting my breath and my vision. My head was a balloon about to burst. I desperately clawed at the air, kicked my feet—anything to escape. But then I realized it wouldn't make a difference. Mom was too weak to defend me, gladly choosing a man over her own flesh and blood. My world collapsed into darkness. Within seconds, I’d be dead. I’d be free at last.
I woke up, choking and sputtering, to the sight of Jason unconscious on the ground, a lake of blood surrounding him. My ceramic cat was shattered to bits, its glass paw extended, reaching for a lifeline. Mom grabbed my hand and yanked me to my feet. Her eyes held a steeliness that I’d never seen before. “Come on, we have to hurry. He won’t be out for long. Fill the suitcase he gave you with as much stuff as you can. And grab your coat. It’s gonna be a cold ride.”
As we drove away, the world was no longer black and white. That “butt ugly” orange coat kept me warm as we went from shelter to shelter. The suitcase, filled with all we had, was our only possession. The ceramic cat, once a nuisance, had become a relic of our survival. The gifts had been right all along. They were never about love; they were about leaving. And they were about finally being free. They were the least suckiest gifts of all.
***
Jill Williams returned to the literary world after a decades long hiatus following college. Her debut novel, “Losing My Innocence, Finding Myself “ is currently in the editing process. Jill’s work can also be seen in “Winamop Literary Magazine,” “Suddenly and Without Warning,” and “The North Georgia Mountains Magazine.”
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