Filed to story: If He Had Been With Me Book PDF Free
When I come home in the afternoon and the cold gray hours are stretching on before me, I cannot stop myself from sliding under the covers and hiding in obliviousness.
I fight with Jamie because he doesn’t understand anything I say. I hate him for not truly knowing me deep down inside, and at the end of our dates, I cling to his coat and beg him to never leave me. He says he never will.
It snows a few times, but a wet sloppy snow that collects dirt and makes puddles. It is never enough to cancel school, never enough to be beautiful.
It makes sense that Finny loves Sylvie and doesn’t miss me.
At least once a week, he and Aunt Angelina come to dinner, or we go to them, and The Mothers talk while we eat, and afterward I say I have homework and I go upstairs or cross the lawn alone. I cannot sit in silence watching television with him. I cannot bear our small talk as he passes the remote to me. He is the better one of the two of us; he always was. Perhaps he is relieved to not have me holding him back anymore. He has so many friends now. He has Sylvie. It makes sense.
My father is back to his old schedule, no more Family Dinners, and I am angry with my mother for being upset. She should have expected this, she should have known better, and I hate her for making me sad for her. I have enough without having to worry about her too.
My hands are dry and red and my lips chap. I look in the mirror and do not think I am pretty. Some days, I do not bother to wear my tiaras, until people’s comments and questions make it easier to just grab any old one on my way out the door. I do not bother to see if it matches my outfit.
I cannot write anything good. I try and I fail. I realize now that it’s all fake. It always was. I turn off my computer and rip up my paper.
I used to say to myself that I just have to get through winter, that I just have to wait. That things would get better then.
And I know that winter is supposed to end, but things are not always the way they are supposed to be.
My mother sits down on my bed. I am lying on my side, facing the window. If I ignore her, she might go away.
“Autumn?” she says. Her voice is low. She thinks I am sleeping. “Autumn, we need to talk.” She runs her fingers through my hair and I let her; it feels good. She keeps stroking and the bristling resentment relaxes. I sigh.
“About what?”
“Can you sit up?”
“I’m tired.”
“I’m worried about you.” I shake her hands from my hair and sit up.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just having trouble sleeping at night. It will be okay when winter is over. I just have to get through winter.”
“I think it’s more than that, honey,” she says. “I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Singh.”
At first, the statement is so ordinary that I do not know why she is telling me. Dr. Singh is her psychiatrist. She sees him every few months. But she keeps looking at me.
“For me?” I say. She nods and tries to touch my hair again. I flinch away again.
“I’m not depressed,” I say. “You are.”
“I know the symptoms,” she says.
“No. You’re just projecting on me. Everything is fine. When it’s warm again, I’ll feel better. That’s the only thing that’s wrong.”
“I’ll be picking you up early on Thursday,” she says, and she starts to get up.
“I don’t need drugs,” I say. She closes the door behind her. Her footsteps going down the stairs are the only sound. At dinner she says nothing, and the next day she lets me sleep.
***
The call from the office comes fifteen minutes into English class. I begin to pack my bag as soon as the intercom beeps. I want it all to be over already.
“There isn’t any homework,” Mrs. Stevens says. “Is there somebody you can get notes from?”
“Yes,” I say. I am standing now.
“Who?” she says. This is why I do not like her. I suspect her of suspecting things of me.
“Finn,” I say, and then I remember Jamie and Sasha have this class too. It wouldn’t help to take it back now. Mrs. Stevens looks surprised. She likes Finny; perhaps she doesn’t think he would associate with someone like me. The scattered whispers I hear tell me that a few of my classmates are surprised too.
“I can drop them by tonight,” Finny says. I wonder if he is sort of defending me. I don’t look at either of them when I leave.
***
My mother is sitting in the office in a tailored suit with leather pumps and a clutch purse in her lap. Her ankles are crossed and the secretary is laughing with her. She rises when I open the door and smiles at me.
“Have a nice day,” the secretary says to her, smiling too. I’m sure she could never imagine the rest of my mother’s life, the medication and the fights with my father, her times in the hospital. Sometimes I admire my mother’s ability to appear perfect; today I hate it.
My mother’s shoes click evenly on the linoleum as we walk down the hall.
“What class are you missing?” she asks.
“English.”
“Oh. Sorry. Too bad it couldn’t have been math,” she says. I shrug. “I love you,” she says.
“Mom,” I say. She doesn’t say anything else.
***
The office my mother brings me to has the smallest waiting room I have ever sat inside. It reminds me of my mother’s walk-in closet, the small, windowless room where Finny and I turned out the lights and told ghost stories in the middle of the day. I sit down on one of the padded plastic chairs and my mother tells the nurse my name. I flinch at the sound; I do not belong here. Two chairs down from me, an old man is bouncing his left leg, then his right, back and forth. Every once in a while, he snaps his fingers as if someone just called bingo before him.
“Damn,” he mumbles. Across the room from us, a large black woman is weeping silently. Both of her fists are stuffed with tissues. Still sobbing, she reaches in her purse and takes out a piece of gum, scattering tissues over the gray carpet.
My mother sits down next to me and crosses her ankles. “It’ll be a bit,” she says. “He’s running a little late.” She picks up a
Newsweek and begins reading.
I look down at the table. Most of the magazines are for parents or golfers. While I’m looking, a man gets up and takes a kids’
Highlights magazine off the table and sits back down.
“Mom?” I whisper. She looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “All these people are really weird.” My mother covers her mouth and laughs silently.
“Honey,” she whispers, “what did you expect? And what do you think they would say about the girl with the tiara and ripped knee socks?” I scowl at her and she goes back to reading.
“Aw, shucks,” the old man mumbles.
***
“Autumn?” a nurse in blue says. I stand up, suddenly feeling exposed in front of the others. The old man and the crying lady have been replaced by a girl my age and her cranky baby.
“I’ll be waiting,” my mother says. I do not look at her. The nurse leads me to a narrow hallway. A small Indian man is waiting for me.
“Autumn?” he asks. I nod. He pronounces my name “Ah-tim.” “Ah,” he says, “come with me.” His accent is thick, like a character in a movie, like I’ve never heard in real life before. We walk to an office even smaller than the waiting room, and crowded with a desk, a bookshelf, a filing cabinet, and a small chair. He motions for me to sit in the small chair. I’m disappointed that it isn’t a couch. He sits down at the desk and opens a file.
“So, Autumn,” he says. “What brings you here today?”