A Flower Boy, A Doctor, and A Miss Julia Crawford

JULIA CRAWFORD

"Leaving so soon?"

I spun around, blush creeping up my cheeks. Seeing it was John, I turned and continued to shove clothes into my suitcase. "Yes. I can't leech off of state tax dollars anymore. I'm an independent woman."

John snorted, an eyebrow raised. "An independent woman?"

"Yes, sir."

He laughed under his breath and shook his head. "Well, Julia, I hate to see you go."

It was just at that moment that the door opened and in scuttled a boy with shaggy blonde hair, his hands clutching a vase of flowers. I shot the boy, who I noticed was really more of a slouching man, a look of frustration, childishly hating him for interrupting. Noticing he wasn't wanted, the man backed out of the room, his face turning a deep shade of scarlet.

As the door closed behind him, John Hobbs turned his lovely eyes back to mine. "How does dinner sound?"

My lips quirked up a bit, because to him, dinner must sound exciting.  I'd show him exciting... but we could start with dinner. "Perfect," I responded without much hesitation.  Then, straightening my back and giving a little wave, I picked up my bags and walked out of  the  room.

I signed out of the hospital, dotting my j with vigour.  I'd never learned how to make an uppercase one, and by the time I figured I should change it, my signature was already habit.  Waiting behind me was the man who'd walked into my room without notice, his hands holding a cardboard box full of some sort of purple flower.  

"Would you like me to sign out for you?" I asked him, nodding to the box in his hands.

His fingers gripped the box a little harder.  "No, thank you."

Shrugging, I plopped the pen back into the cup, I walked right out the double glass doors.

That next week, John took me to a stiff restaurant downtown, one where you have to put a napkin on your lap and eat dishes served specifically to 'clear the pallet'.  As the two of us returned there over and over again, I became accustomed to the mannerism, although I still found it slightly over the top.

That Fourth of July I met his family when we took a trip up to his parents' cottage for a long weekend.  His sisters, all woman I was sure couldn't possibly be born with lips that big, welcomed me with open arms.  With those big lips came big secrets, and it was only a matter of time before they were whispering stories about all of John's past relationships to me when they thought he wasn't around. Although rather self centered and outrageously dramatic, I became rather fond of them, despite the squabbles we'd have in the future.

On a warm spring night after spending the evening at a prestigious medical gala at a stunning modern art museum, John asked me to marry him with a four karat diamond inlaid in shining gold. Flattered, I agreed.

He bought us an old southern plantation three stories tall on the banks of a river with willow trees and a garden protected by pruned boxwood.  Every holiday was an excuse to shower me with endless and expensive gifts, all of which were pretty to look at, but absolutely impractical to use.  Eventually, I dabbed my mouth without taking hints and learned what each fork was used for.  I even started to collect china in a cabinet meant only to look at.

Our family grew as John and I had a son. I knew I wanted dozens of little ones, but John said one squealing child was all his ears could handle.  But his ears heard beeping monitors and screams of pain all day long.  Surely a cry of joy from a child would be nothing to him.  I persisted, but he wouldn't relent.  My first baby was my only baby.

But he was perfect.  His first word was mommy and his second was please.  I adored him with my whole heart.  I bawled the first day I dropped him off at preschool, and everyday thereafter for a month.

It seemed that our family had it all.  John took us to London, Paris, Greece, and the Bahamas-- something different every year, and yet every year was the same.  Our Christmas cards showed our family of three dressed in corresponding, spotless outfits, all smiling perfect yet absolutely fake smiles.

Our son grew. He went through a rebellious phase through high school, stayed out past curfew, smashed three cars. I knew he craved attention. John thought it was just hormones.

Years slipped through my fingers like sand, tumbling out of my reach faster than I could comprehend. My hair turned white and my face sagged with age.  John retired and purchased a condo for the two of us in Florida.  We both liked how we could sit in comfortable silence, pretending to enjoy the warming rays of the sun.

And then one day, the silence was permanent. 

I stared at the husk of a man I used to know, a man I remembered so fondly young, but that fondness seemed to muddle as the years grew fresher in my memory.  My son stood stiff at my side, no sniffles or heartbreaking gasps trying to keep back tears.  They lowered my husband, my husband of fifty two years, into the ground, his glossy black coffin already getting scuffed with dirt.  And, as a prayers were uttered and murmurs wished that he'd rest in peace, I found myself weeping over the loss of time.  Instead of mourning my John, I was picturing myself fifty two years ago, a young woman with a sharp mind and soft curves.  Selfishly, I grieved the loss of time and its opportunities that had fluttered from my reach into the expansive void of what might have been.