By Emily A. Conner
Julie & Jack met when they were only nineteen, at a college house party in 1958. Jack was studying law at Harvard. Julie was an MFA student at BU. One of the Jewish fraternities was throwing a tiki-themed blowout for the end of the semester. Jack got invited because his roommate from his freshman year joined the frat. Julie got invited because she was beautiful.
At said party, Jack Lawson hit behind the large marble counter in the kitchen. He mixed random drinks using the alcohol, syrup, and sodas that were around. He wore his favorite tweed suit jacket and trousers over a wrinkly white button-up. While he was fixing his fifth drink of the night, he bumped into someone while reaching for the ice. He spilled his bright red, syrupy drink all over the white dress standing in front of him. Julie Page threw her hands up in the hair at the impact of the drink. With heat bleeding into his cheeks, Jack apologized and attempted to blot away the mess he made. He ended up spreading the drink around and making Julie’s dress a faded pink.
“I am so sorry,” he pleaded, “Please, give me your number. I’ll call you tomorrow and pay for the dry cleaning.”
Julie grumbled and gave him a death stare. She found a napkin and a pen and wrote down her number.
Two days later, with a cleaned dress in hand, Jack showed up at her doorstep with flowers.
Back then, Julie was the pinnacle of the American beloved "girl next door". Her shiny blonde hair sat in a curly bob on her shoulders. She wore gingham skirts, turtlenecks, and babydoll dresses. She wrote poems in her journal and listened to Doris Day on her record player. Any man who laid eyes on her wanted to have her. Every girl who knew her loved her like a sister.
Jack was not immune to this power. Even though he was too embarrassed to even think during their first encounter, he soon after realized that by some miracle, he had gotten the number of one of Heaven’s angels. When he met Julie, Jack looked like every other Harvard boy at the time. He was skinny and tall, with legs so lanky he often tripped over them. He had light brown hair that he usually slicked back with gel. He wore cotton suits, cashmere sweaters, and horn-rimmed glasses.
When he showed up at Julie’s door with her dress, he almost forgot to give her the flowers. Right before she went to close the door, he shot his hand out towards her, throwing them in her face.
“Flowers?”
“Daisies. I felt they matched your dress”
“Don’t all flowers match a white dress?”
“Maybe.”
She laughed at him.
“Yes, well. I guess you’ll just have to buy me more and see.”
Five years later, Julie threw a bouquet filled with twenty-five different wildflowers.
The centerpieces at all the tables were all daisies.
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Over six decades later, at the ripe age of 83, Julie & Jack moved into a one-bedroom apartment on the coast of Georgia. An independent retirement apartment, that is.
After two lifelong careers, three kids, and four houses, they were ready to settle down for the end. Their two youngest, Danny and Dora, were backpacking through Europe with their partners. Daisy, the oldest, was living in Washington State with her family, starting an art gallery.
The home in Georgia looked like a huge beach resort. There were two apartment buildings, three themed dining halls, a golf course, four game rooms, two pools, and a view of the never-ending ocean.
When Julie & Jack moved there, they were both happy and healthy. Julie had a few breast cancer scares through the years but never anything that bad. Jack’s blood pressure was high and he had to watch his sugar intake. And some other things had changed. Julie’s blonde hair turned into silver curls that sat to her waist. Her eyes had sunk into her face slightly and her spine was starting to curl forward. Jack lost his skinny stature and traded it for a pleasant apple belly. He had to put in his front teeth every morning and he maxed out his glasses prescription.
But other than that, they were the same as ever.
Every morning, Jack would roll over and kiss Julie awake on the forehead. He would make them both coffee and read/watch the morning news. Julie would get dressed, shakily do her makeup, and take a short walk down the coastal boardwalk. Sometimes, Jack would come with her on these strolls. But usually, he'd spend his morning with Anderson Cooper on CNN.
At noon, they would walk down to the small cafe for lunch. Julie never had much of an appetite, but Jack needed to eat right to keep his sugar good. Later, Julie would drag Jack to a yoga class that consisted of more arm stretching than downward dogs. Jack would always pretend to be less mobile than he was to get away with doing the bare minimum. He would stretch his arms forward and then pretend to fall asleep, making no one laugh except Julie.
Later, they would end their night with a hefty dinner in the dining hall. Some nights it was wine, soup, steak, broccoli, yams, and then ice cream. Others it was tea, salad, pasta, eggplant, and pie. It was like reliving their first date every night.
They never ran out of things to laugh at or stories to tell. They could repeat themselves a million times and never get bored.
Things at the retirement home were going great for about ten months. Since they started living there, Julie’s spine had gotten worse and she had to use a bright pink walker. She had weekly visits with a primary care physician and bi-monthly chiropractor appointments. Her doctors told her she was strong but old, and that it was best for her to take things slow.
Still, every morning, she drank her coffee, went on her walk, and did her stretches. She was better equipped for elderly life than anyone. She seemed to be on the precipice of immortality.
Jack, physically, stayed in almost perfect health. He didn’t keep up with his exercise as Julie did, but his body seemed to combat any major problems. He checked his blood every morning and night, but he didn’t have to frequent the doctor as Julie did.
The decaying part of Jack lived in his mind, not his body.
It took months to realize what was happening. So long that it became impossible to solve.
With the routine Julie made, Jack lived everyday like it was his first.
He would wake up, and only by an innate habit, kiss Julie and make her coffee.
She would leave for his walk and he would sit on the bed watching the news for the morning.
But, if you were to ask him what Anderson Cooper was talking about, he wouldn’t be able to tell you.
The odd thing about losing your memory is that it doesn’t feel like losing anything at all. Every day, Jack was forgetting more and more. But there was nothing in his life to show him that this was happening. With such stability that Julie brought him, he never felt like anything was wrong at all.
When he forgot where he put the apartment keys, Julie found them. When he forgot how to use the blood pressure monitor, Julie did it for him without a question. When he couldn’t think of what to order for dinner, Julie called him indecisive and ordered for him.
It was a few months later, on a chilly, but a humid day, when Julie died.
Jack woke up at the same time he always did. He turned over to kiss Julie awake. But she stayed still.
He tried to shake her again, but nothing happened. He looked around the room, almost got up to make the coffee, but then laid back down.
Ten minutes later, he woke up and did the same thing.
Another ten, the same thing.
He did the same process five more times until everything snapped. The frustration of it all is what made the crying start. He couldn’t process what happened, he just knew that something was wrong. He tried to move toward the phone, but it was as if his brain was too upset to control his nerves. He sat in the bed paralyzed for what could’ve been minutes or hours before he was able to reach over and press the emergency button behind the bed.
Julie died of a saccular aneurysm in her sleep, mostly caused by a buildup of stress on her spine nerves. It was a silent, speedy, and painless way to go.
Her last thought was of daisies and seashores.
It’s hard to say when things got bad for Jack. You can’t remember when you stop remembering.
For Jack, it just felt as if all the things around him started to fade all at once.
It could’ve been a year before it happened. Maybe even months. Or maybe Julie was only there for days once it started, and Jack’s mind had convinced him she was always there.
A few days after Julie died, Jack was formally diagnosed with middle-stage Alzheimers.
The doctors felt bad for not catching it earlier. Usually, it would take years before a person got to that point. Some concluded that he must’ve developed it longer ago than anyone realized. They said he hid his development behind his stability with Julie.
What was hardest for Jack wasn’t mourning Julie, it was remembering her. It’s hard to grieve for something you don’t remember having. It’s like grasping at straws in a river when you know you’re drowning in an ocean.
He woke up every day and turned to kiss Julie. But then he remembered she was gone. And then he forgot that he remembered that.
He got up and made himself coffee. He’d go to make two cups. Then he’d remember. Then he’d forget.
He watched the news for hours on end, subconsciously waiting for Julie to return from her walk. Then he’d remember. Then he’d forget.
He’d get phone calls from his kids, but he was never able to talk much. They were always sad and worried. He had no recollection of why they would be like that, then he’d remember. He’d wish them well and hang up the call, then he’d forget.
He’d walk down to the dining hall for dinner every night. He’d ask for a table for two. He’d order wine for two, then he’d remember. He’d go to order his meal, then he’d forget.
So, he’d order a burger and fries every night. Then he'd try to remember how to get back home, go to sleep, and wait for it all to begin again.
While most who lose their memory turn mean because of frustration, Jack kept his placid mien. Even after decades of stressing in the courtroom and panicking at the pediatrician's office, he still kept a strong manner about him. Before, he used to say that this was all because of Julie. He said that if he had never met her, he would’ve ended up as a bitter, crooked old man. She was his sugar and sunlight.
But once she was gone, he still stayed the same. Not even with the power of her memory, but with the power of his proof. She was still with him in the smell of the pillows, in the glow of the sun, or the salt of the coastline.
Still, every day, he smiled at the sunset, used his manners with the doctors, and held the door for everyone.
There was no grief, nor memory, for him.
All he had was a breath in his lungs, a sun to keep him warm, and a bed to sleep in.
Every day, he woke up at the same time. He’d make his coffee and sit by the window. He’d watch the coastline float in and out. He’d let the new play as white noise in the background. He’d remember, he’d forget, he’d remember, he’d forget.
He did that every day, for who knows how long, until the day he woke up and Julie was right there next to him.
And she had bright eyes and blond hair. And she wore a white dress covered in a pink drink. And there were wildflowers around her wrists. And daisies on her neck.
And he would smile and kiss her awake.
And he would remember everything.
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