Dressing The Ghost

Abstract

Dressing The Ghost Emily Schultz (bio) None of my friends wanted to model a dead girl's dress, but after they did they all posted photos of it to their Instagram accounts. The outfit was black with a gold belt and black bows on each shoulder. A pleat ran across one hip, making the fabric of the skirt drape in a sexy way. I didn't remember having ever seen my roommate in it. When my roommate was killed, I'd been left with a stack of blue jeans and blouses and an empty room. Her name was Olive Baker. I met her through a friend on social media when I posted that I had an extra room. I didn't know the friend well and I hadn't lived with Olive more than three months when she was hit by a delivery truck while cycling home from work. Her parents, Stan and Jodi Baker, had that broad Midwestern stature, feet shoulder-width apart, standing tall and wide even in their grief, like very old trees. They came and collected some of her things—fit three boxes into their Toyota Corolla. They had driven nine hours to ID her body and make arrangements for her cremation. I cried a little and gave them milk and cookies, as if they were children, and told them I was sorry. They took Olive's vintage typewriter, some photographs in frames, her laptop, a couple pieces of pottery she'd made, a box of books, a teapot, and an old plush dog with a chewed-up ear. They asked me if I could look after the rest. "Of course." I didn't know what else to say. Olive died five days before rent day but I couldn't bring it up, and I found out it was hard to say no to people who had lost their child. Since moving in the only purchase Olive had made that wasn't edible was a bookshelf she ordered online from Dot & Bo. I took [End Page 233] a photograph of it, and sold it on Craigslist for $150 to a couple in Williamsburg. In Olive's closet I found vintage dresses: mostly unworn, probably because she biked every day across the Williamsburg Bridge to a publishing office in Gramercy Park. I struggled into a few different garments. The looser styles didn't look bad on me—I snapped pictures using the full-length mirror in her room. I posted them to my Etsy, Sue-Sue-Studios. I kept the descriptions brief. Wool cardigan with rhinestones, good condition, size small. Floral 1990s shirt-dress—cotton. And the measurements. A-line skirt with hot air balloon appliqué. I priced everything $30 more than I thought it was worth. The Etsy page was left over from my vase project—a couple years ago I collaged old black-and-white photos onto flower vases and mugs. It went awry when I pasted a grainy image of General Josip Tito of Yugoslavia onto a purple pitcher. He was a Communist dictator. I didn't know. My wares got reported as hateful and I was put on suspension. By the time the ban was lifted, I had tired of collage on objects, and now I mostly used my Etsy to sell stuff when I was short on cash. Electronics were what I really needed: the cold green digitalglow of cash. I looked on her shelves, but her mom had remembered to take her tablet. I tried on a pair of Olive's Mavi jeans, but they were too snug. She was a size 10. I texted my friend Gabi, who was small-waisted, and asked her to come over and help me sort. It was while I was waiting for her that I spotted the black dress. I could see right away it was too little for me. I laid it down on the couch and took a photo of it against the blue seating. I couldn't decide if it looked sad like that, empty and flat, so I picked it up and took it back in the bedroom. I tried to shimmy into it, but it was stiff—not a...