Forever, Interrupted(82)

“We’ll be getting her one though,” Ben said, and he came toward us.

“Oh, stop it,” I said.

“Well, do you two want silver or gold?” she asked.

“Gold,” I said, but Ben said, “silver,” at the same time.

We both quickly swapped our answers to match and missed again.

“Baby, I just want what you want,” he said to me.

“But I want what you want!” I said.

“Let’s do what you want for this because I want to eat at Hooters after this and I need compromise points.”

“You want to eat at Hooters for our first meal as a married couple?”

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s because of the wings, not the boobs.”

The woman ignored us. “Okay so . . . gold?”

“Gold.” She pulled out a tray of gold bands, and Ben and I tried some on until we found ones we liked and ones that fit. Ben paid the bill, and I told him I’d pay for half of it.

“Are you joking? We’re not going Dutch on our wedding,” he said to me.

“All right, lovebirds. Do you want to order any copies of the certificate?”

Ben turned toward me, his face asking me to answer.

“Yes,” I said. “One copy should be fine, I would think.”

“Okay, I’ll add that to the final charge,” the woman said as she put her hand out expectantly. “Do you have the license?”

“Oh, not yet,” Ben said. “We need to fill that out, I guess.”

The woman put her hands down on the counter, as if to halt everything. “You need to walk down to the Marriage License Bureau. It’s about three blocks down. I can’t do anything else until you get that filled out.”

“How long will it take?” I asked.

“Half hour if there’s no line,” she said. “But there’s often a line.”

There was no line. We were seated and filling out paperwork within minutes of walking in the door.

“Oh, I didn’t bring my social security card,” he said when he got to the question about his social security number.

“Oh, I don’t think you need it,” I said. “It just asks for the number.”

“Well,” he said, “I never remember the number.”

“Oh.” What a remarkably mundane hurdle to find ourselves up against. My excitement started to deflate as I realized this might not happen after all. Maybe we couldn’t get this done. He might need to call his mom for it, and then where would we be? “You know what? We can wait until you have it,” I said.

“What?” he said, appalled at the idea of waiting. “No, I’m almost positive I know what it is. Here,” he said as he wrote it down. “I know it’s either 518 or 581, but I’m pretty sure it’s 518.” He finished writing it and put the pen down triumphantly. He walked right up to the window, handed in the paperwork, and said, “One marriage license, please!” Then he turned toward me. “We’re getting married, baby! Are you ready?”





NOVEMBER


I put the check in a drawer where I won’t forget it and I look around my apartment. It feels like mine again. It feels like I can live a life here of my own. I know that I envisioned a life for Ben and me here. I imagined we’d move out one day when we had kids. I even imagined that one day, Ben would be moving boxes out of the house by himself while I looked on, eight months pregnant. That life is not going to happen for me. But now I realize that there is a world of possibilities. I don’t know what it’s going to look like when I move out of this apartment. I don’t know when it will be. And that, in its own way, is kind of thrilling. Anything could happen.

My cell phone rings, and it’s a number I don’t recognize. For some reason, I decide to answer it anyway.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Elsie Porter?” a woman asks.

“It is.”

“Hi, Ms. Porter. This is Patricia DeVette from the Clark County Recorder’s Office in Nevada,” she says. I swear my heart stops beating for a moment. “I have a . . . We don’t usually call people directly, Ms. Porter, but I have been filing some paperwork here and I wanted to speak with you about your county record.”

“Okay . . . ” I say. Oh God. I avoided this moment so long that it decided to take matters into its own hands and crash into me.

“It’s taken me a while to figure out what exactly went on here, but it appears that Ben Ross put the wrong social security number on your marriage license. I’ve left a number of messages for Mr. Ross and have not heard back.”

“Oh.”

“I’m getting in touch with you, Ms. Porter, to let you know that the marriage has not yet been filed with the county.”

And here it is. What I have feared all along. Ben and I are not legally married. During Ben’s lifetime, we were never recognized as a legal union. My worst nightmare has come true, and as I stand here on the phone, silent, I am surprised to learn that I don’t collapse. I don’t break down.

“Thanks, Patricia. Thank you for calling,” I say. I’m not sure what to say next. It’s such an odd predicament to be faced with. All I’ve wanted since Ben died was proof that we meant something to each other. Now, I realize that no piece of paper can prove any of that.