Jean Marie.

Excerpt from UNI|VERSE — a travel memoir,

coming soon.

I shuffled around the overloaded ferry heading to Dover, on the prowl, hunting for somewhere—anywhere—to unburden myself from the multiple duffel and tote bags cutting into my shoulders. Hunger and exhaustion were getting the best of me. I could feel irritation churning in my stomach; my feet, aching, were begging for a break.

It had been an hour of searching when a wave of relief washed over me as my eyes landed on a vignette of barrel chairs—cobalt blue, crimson velvet, soft and plush, nestled together just inside the ferry's cabin, overlooking the Strait of Dover.

I practically ran to them, fearful that someone else would snag them.

But as I approached, I noticed items strewn about nearby. I forced myself to ask—just in case—if the empty seats were taken. A gentleman was sitting close by, and so I begrudgingly asked if he’d seen anyone sitting in them.

Please, say no. My mind pleaded.

“No,” he said, smiling over his glasses. “Sit down. No one’s been there for a long while.”

I thanked him, quickly plopping down into one and tossing my bags into the other as I reached for my AirPods case and phone. I quickly sent a message to my daughter informing her of my location and that I had finally apprehended some chairs!

I opened my AirPods case and pulled out one of the tiny white buds, breathing a deep sigh of relief. I had been looking forward to this ferry ride—settling into some music, maybe doing a bit of journaling for the remainder of the journey.

Just as I was lifting the AirPod to my ear, I heard a voice.

“Are you on holiday?”

I glanced over, dropping my hands into my lap, feeling a bit defeated.

The question had come from the man with the glasses.

I smiled politely and, with a single nod, said, "I am."

Then I turned back toward the water, reaching once more for my ears.

“Whereabouts are you staying?”

I swiveled slowly toward him again.

"Heading to London," I answered, cordial but acting uninterested.

I was exhausted and desperately wanted a little time to myself.

“I’m a Jock,” he added.

I raised my eyebrows, unsure what he meant.

“I was born in Scotland,” he explained, catching the confusion on my face, “but I haven’t lived there for over fifty years.”

I nodded, this time not looking at him at all, then made another attempt to lodge the AirPods into my ears, hoping the gesture would speak for itself.

“I was in France visiting my children,” he continued, “and now I’m heading back to London.”

Again, I tilted my chin up and down but kept my eyes fixed on the water.

“My daughter is right there,” he said, pointing.

His hand appeared in front of me, between me and the water—something I found impossible to ignore.

My eyes followed his finger to a woman about my mother’s age, holding a small girl on her lap.

“That little one, the one in my daughter’s lap—her name is Grace. She just lost her mum. She’s four.”

I turned fully toward the child. She was tiny and blonde, pink and purple freckled butterflies were painted across her cheeks.

“Oh my,” I said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“My name is Grace as well,” I told him, spinning back toward him, then asked - feeling more curious, as I twisted the air pods between my fingers, “What’s your name?”

“Hugh.”

He paused before continuing.

“My daughter and I have been caring for my wife. She has Alzheimer’s. But we can’t do it anymore. She had to be placed in a facility.”

His voice cracked.

I looked into his blue eyes as tears gathered and a couple spilled onto his tired cheeks.

The AirPods dancing in my fingers came to a sudden stop.

I shifted my chair even more toward him.

He grew quiet. Somber.

He stared past me, at the little girl who was too distracted to notice; I detected grief in his eyes. Like a sponge oversaturated, heavy, his tears began to leak freely.

He shook his head, eyes wide. Shock.

“I’m losing her. I’ve lost her. She’s still here—but I’ve lost her.”

I knew he meant his wife.

I stayed silent.

“Once in a while—just for a second—she recognizes me. But only for a second. Then she’s gone.”

His chin trembled as he fought back sobs.

“I’m losing her. I’ve lost her. And I’ll never get her back.”
He broke, tears now gushing. “I wish I could trade places with her. In a split second, I would.”

““I’m sorry,” he said quietly, wiping his face. “I’m a blubbering fool.”

“No,” I told him calmly. “You’re not. You’re in love.”

I asked her name.

“Jean,” he said, smiling.

“Jean Marie.”

“Tell me something about her,” I prompted. “Your first date, maybe.”

His eyes drifted somewhere far away—to a time before electronics, before dating apps, before speed, before dopamine and distraction hollowed out attention and satisfaction.

In his Scottish accent, he said, “You’ll never believe it.”

“I think I will,” I replied, smiling and leaning in to listen.

“A friend asked me to go on a double date at a club. I didn’t want to go, but I did. It was a long time ago—seventy years, probably.”

I did the math in my head. The 1950s.

He shook his head and smiled.

“The moment I saw her, I knew I was in love.”

“I told her,” he went on. “I said, ‘This may sound forward, but you’re the one I want to marry.’”

He moved his head back and forth, still in awe by the memory as if he was still living it, in that very moment.

“I had been with others before her. I had dated. I had girlfriends. But the moment I met Jean Marie, I knew. Everything before her had been something else. It wasn’t love.”

“And I knew then, I could not live life without her in it, it would never be the same, after knowing her.”

"And I knew then I could not live life without her in it. It would never be the same after knowing her."

He described her as she had been when they first met.

Long dark hair.

Beautiful eyes.

A smile that could stop him in his tracks.

He looked down and shook his head.

"...her smile."

“I’ve never met anyone like her,” a smile forming on his lips. “Not then. Not now.”

“I worshipped the ground she walked on.”

He reached behind his thick glasses and wiped his tears.

“I still worship her.”

They had five children, twelve grandchildren, and eighteen great-grandchildren.

“Her parents never approved of me,” he said with a nod. “But that’s all right.”
Though they’d been gone for decades, as he explained, I could still feel the ache.

I fought back my own tears as I listened—my earlier irritation long forgotten, replaced by a hungry curiosity—as this man unfolded the story of his life.

“We had our ups and downs,” he explained. “When things were bad, I’d put on my jacket and go for a walk. We always came back to each other.”

Time passed.

I stopped noticing the cliffs, the water, even the ferry’s progress.

I didn’t notice that the deck had completely emptied, that passengers had already disembarked, because Hugh and I remained in our velvet chairs, now turned fully toward one another.

I reached tenderly for his weathered hand as tears slid down his face.

“If I die today,” he choked, “I’ll die happy. We had a great life.”

“Thank you,” I said, “for telling me all of this.”

His eyes drifted back to Jean Marie.

“I am in love with her. She’s the only one. She will always be the only one.”

We stood.

He was slightly bent over, looking up at me.

“I hope you enjoy your holiday,” he said, bittersweet tears in his eyes as he patted my arm.

Then he walked slowly away, permanently hunched with age. He crossed the quiet, empty cafeteria, turned the corner, and disappeared.

I placed the AirPods—still resting in my palm—back into their case and wiped the tears from my eyes.

Only then did I notice that my daughter was sitting nearby, alone, reading.

She pulled her own AirPods from her ears.

“Who was that, Mom?” she asked as we made our way off the ferry.

I smiled.

“That was Hugh.”

I paused.

“And Hugh has a wife. Her name is Jean Marie.”

Photo credit: @sunnmy (Elina Sazonova)