Where She Would've Stood

The wedding wasn’t held at a church, or a beach, or a plantation; it was held in their backyard, where so many memories lay. Barbecues. Cook-outs. Birthday parties. Graduation parties. Gender reveals. Baby showers. A funeral’s aftermath.

The sun was setting. The lawn was freshly cut. Chairs lead from the back porch to the arch they bought on Amazon.

The guests took their seats. The bridesmaids and maid of honor took their places. The groom stood at the altar and shivered; maybe because it was chilly or perhaps it was just nerves.

Beside him stood his best man. And then, there stood nothing, just a gap wide enough to be noticed, yet narrow enough that you might overlook it. And then, there stood another groomsman.

It wasn’t an accident, the empty space between them. Not with the way the groom tilted slightly toward it. Or the way the groomsman occasionally brushed the air, as if reaching for something that wasn’t there.

There should have been another person there. The groom’s sister.

Some of the older guests remembered her; childhood neighbors, the groomsman and his side of the family, and a few lifelong friends. However, no one spoke of her.

It had been twenty years.

She’d died when they were seven. Her name had been Claire.

The groom never mentioned her during the planning. There was no slide show. No candle. No speech. But he left the space.

The bride had noticed, of course. She noticed everything about him. The way he knotted his tie too tight and had to redo it. The way he always overcooked eggs (or any food for that matter) when he was thinking too hard.

He hadn’t told her about the space in advance. She saw it at the same time everyone else did, as she stepped down the aisle on her father’s arm and saw him waiting. And saw it—the empty gap—between the best man and groomsman.

Claire.

A name she’d only heard once, early in their relationship when they’d shared the kinds of secrets you tell at 2 a.m., when you're half in love and want to finish the fall.

He'd said, simply, "I had a twin sister."

That was three years ago.

Now, the bride reached him at the altar. She took his hands. His eyes met hers. He didn’t look at the space.

The officiant began.

Afterward, people said the ceremony was beautiful. The bride’s dress caught the light just right. The groom’s voice cracked during his speech. The bridesmaids and maid of honor cried. The groomsman and best man smiled. The guests smiled, too. And the mothers cried as well.

The chairs were folded. Champagne was passed around. The cake was cut. The first dance occurred. Laughter. Smiling. Mingling. Everything was perfect.

Occasionally, one by one, everyone glanced at the arch once or twice, at the exact space where no one stood. They couldn’t say why.

Then, something happened.

The bride’s veil fluttered; there was no wind. The groom laughed, even though no one had spoken.

Eventually, it was time for the toasts.

The best man told college jokes. The groomsman shared sentimental memories. The maid of honor read a poem. The mother of the bride cried again during it. The groom’s father mentioned something about love. The bridesmaids did an amusing dance.

And so on, and so forth.

When the music resumed, the bride slipped away for a moment. Her dress rustled the grass as she walked back toward the arch. She stopped where she had stood earlier, and turned to look at the space.

She didn’t speak. Just stood there, unsure what she believed in, or if she had imagined the presence, but something about the air felt different.

She reached out her hand, not expecting anything. She stayed there a while afterwards.

Long after the guests had gone and the moon had risen, the bride laid in bed beside her husband. He was fast asleep already.

“Claire,” she whispered.

Outside, the wind stirred the false leaves of the arch and the moonlight seemed to beam down at one particular spot.

Where she would’ve stood.