It’s too simple to say that people who don’t believe in ghosts don’t see them. Nana said she’d seen enough of Granddaddy when he was alive, not least when he wasn’t speaking and in a diaper. Nana said she didn’t need to see his ghost.

Only God knows how Aunt Abigail and Aunt Martha really felt about ghosts; only time would tell if my aunts were susceptible to seeing them. I would venture a guess that Aunt Abigail and Aunt Martha basically disapproved of ghosts; I always believed they would express their moral indignation upon seeing one. Only God knows what form that moral indignation would take. Only God would be there, upon their apparent ghost sighting.

If Uncle Martin or Uncle Johan ever saw a ghost, I’m sure their response would be completely inappropriate. My uncles, and other people who can’t distinguish between comedy and tragedy, probably shouldn’t see ghosts.

Surely Henrik lacked the imagination to see or believe in ghosts. He would one day be elected to the U.S. House of Representatives from a southern state—the same state where he went to college, to play lacrosse. At the time of my mom’s wedding, Henrik had not yet revealed his political inclinations, but given Henrik’s habit of expressing his desire for Em with his lacrosse stick, we should have known his politics wouldn’t be altruistic. A future Republican, Henrik was too self-interested to adapt to ghosts.

It suffices to say that my thoughts about ghosts were wandering while I waited for Granddaddy’s ghost to appear. It’s true that the ghost of the bogus principal emeritus wasn’t the first ghost I saw, but the diaper man was the first ghost I had known when he was (more or less) alive.

Then I saw Lewis Brewster’s ghost. He was nicely dressed, in a jacket and a tie—a much younger man than I’d ever known, and he seemed to take a frank and kindly interest in me, which he’d never taken. “My dear boys,” the youthful-looking English teacher said to Molly and me. Ghosts didn’t see very well, or this one didn’t. “Punctuation doesn’t have to be this difficult,” young Mr. Brewster assured us. I’d only seen photos of him at this age.

“What is it, Adam?” Molly asked. She’d put her arm around me. I must have made some sudden, startled move beside her when I saw the ghost. The young English teacher was standing under the skylight, as if he’d descended from the heavens.

“It’s him—he’s not burnt,” I told Molly. “It’s him, before I was born.”

“I’ve got you, Kid,” the night groomer said, putting both her strong arms around me.