The boy asked if Pat was a ghost.
Our house is tucked behind a brick storefront, separated from the back of a bike shop by a narrow lane of concrete. There’s a front porch, though — a relic from before the store, we think, and we sit out there sometimes. Yesterday Pat was writing on the porch when an older woman and a little boy came around the side of the store and stopped right in front of our house.
She carried a sporty hiking stick, had short Grandma-coiffed red hair (dyed?), and clip-on sunglasses. The little boy wore spectacles and could have been a young Harry Potter. They froze when they saw Pat.
“Oh, we’re just out here looking for zombies and ghosts!” she said, casual and jovial like she was in a department store “just looking”.
She went on: “We found this house back here one day and now we have to go check on it every day.”
The boy whispered something up to her and she whispered something back. Then he called out manfully but shyly to Pat, “Are you a ghost?”
I was watching all this from a chair by the window.
Pat looked positively tickled but held it together. “No, just a person!” he called back. The boy nodded, the woman nodded, and off they went.
Pat and I got married! We did. A wedding a wedding a wedding. With so many of my favorite people there in actual life and many well-wishes sent via electronic digitalness and paper. I wore a short dress made by my friend Rachel’s Cambodian clothing company, cut to fit on my dining room table the day before.
Our ceremony at Humboldt Park — where everyone sat around us in a circle, felt electric and serene at once. Violin music, flower petals, and we walked together. Our funny, kind friends wrote and read things. Thea played a silly, lovely sing-a-long. We did it. Our friend Josh officiated and at the end said, “I present to you Pat and Lindsay, who are now married.”
We exited the building into a tunnel of people blowing bubbles. Then we piled onto a school bus, docked at an old loft space in a warehouse district and slipped into a dream — the most light and love I have ever seen in one place, radiating through two stories of glass, across gleaming wood floors and sparkling china. This was for us? It was.
Pat and I danced to an Otis Redding song. I danced with my dad, to a lullabye he used to sing us girls. Everything was good, and okay, and better than good or okay. Oh, and pie. Instead of cake. Of course.
Senior year of college I wrote a list of what I wanted out of life. It was a joy-centric list, in opposition to the success-centric pressure coming from all around me that felt strangling.
I said on this list, more than a decade old now, that I wanted margaritas, Cadbury eggs, and music I could dance to. And, strangely, at the wedding I got all of those things. We ate margaritas and tacos. There was a basket of Cadbury eggs (IMPORTED FROM THE UK SO THE CHOCOLATE WAS BETTER) by the door, for people to take as they left. I danced every single song.
All the while I wanted to bottle it. Our parents, healthy and happy, our siblings, knitting into one goofy, dual-familied pack, our friends, dressed in bright spring clothes. If you’ve never danced in a twirly white dress in a circle of people screaming that they love you, well, you are missing out.
When everything wound down, we took a black car to a fancy hotel, where we managed to drink two more beautiful goblets of room-service champagne. In the morning, we woke up to time that felt molasses-slow. I shoved my dress into a clear plastic bag and ferried it homeward in a taxi. A useless and lovely parcel. We got out about a ten-minute walk from the house and stopped for coffee. Pat, talking to the cashier at Starbucks, referred to me as his wife for the first time. We walked home on a cloudless April day through our sleepy neighborhood — the buds just coming out, me swinging that dress in the bag.
It was pretty great.
My sisters and I had a mysterious house that we checked on, when we were kids. It was set way back in the woods, and we only knew it by its mailbox, which said, “Shube”. On long drives with our grandmother we would pass it. We never went back there. But we surmised that a woman named Mrs. Shube lived there in a wooded hermitage, and we longed more than anything to see her. We imagined her life so vividly. Every time I am back in the area, I look for it, even though I know the house is gone now.
We eventually found out through the yellow pages that the name was actually “Shubert” — and if you told me you knew something about that house, to this day I’d be all ears right away.
Now it’s funny to be that mystery house for another kid and his grandmother. A special kind of life cycle, a circle of imaginative children and the adults who let them dream.
We are ghosts, though, contrary to what Pat told that little boy. We are happy ghosts and loving ghosts and ghosts of immense intelligence and purpose, but ghosts just the same, to be checked on every day. We are here for just a flicker and constantly shape-shifting, ghosts of our old selves, not yet our new selves. Surrounded by ghosts, too, of our grandparents and great-grandparents, their guidance still flowing through our veins.
Ritual eases that ghost-y feeling, I learned.
I wasn’t always convinced about the wedding— why have one? So much work and money and time! So many people, diverted from their daily routines! But the wedding is a pause. It freezes us. Full stop. Exist here. Be here, just for now — ye shapeshifting, translucent, unpinnable ghosts, with these people, in this place, with this love.