Filed to story: If He Had Been With Me Book PDF Free
I had to go see Dr. Singh again. He asked me a bunch of questions and I told a lot of lies. He upped my prescription and let me go.
I haven’t taken my pills in a month now.
Today is the day halfway between our birthdays and the leaves have begun to change. I lie in bed and look at Finny’s window. This September was so hot and dry that some of the leaves have already turned brown and died, and in this setting, the beginning of autumn is dull brass instead of gold. I can see some of the roses still blooming in my mother’s garden. Brown on the edges and bright in other colors, they open and unfold, their petals drooping downward, dying just as their lives have begun.
They’ve stayed past their time, and I’ve realized that I have too.
In the end, my decision comes down to one thing: I think Finny would forgive me. It wouldn’t be what he wanted for me, but he would forgive me. And if I continue to try to survive without Finny, there are paths I could go down that he would think were much worse than this.
The afternoon passes into evening and then night. I wait until I can no longer hear The Mothers talking together before bed. I step carefully on the stairs, avoiding every creak I can remember. In the kitchen, I leave the note on the table. It took longer to write than I thought it would. I finally had to accept that I wouldn’t be able to say all of the things I wanted. I go to my mother’s butcher block, and this is the only I time I ever pause, and it is to consider if I should take the biggest knife since it is what I imagined, or if I should be practical and choose the one that would do the best job. But if I am caught with this note, I will have to tell lots of lies for days or maybe weeks until they will leave me alone long enough to try again, and so I decide that if I am determined enough, it won’t matter which knife I take and so I take the big one.
As I sneak out the back door, I spare a moment to glance at the backyards where we played together, at the tree where we never built our tree house. But I hurry across the grass to his yard, and run past the spot where he kissed me first.
Aunt Angelina is always losing her things, so she keeps an extra house key under the empty flowerpot on the front porch. After I unlock the door, I put the key back so that maybe she won’t realize I used it and blame herself. It’s the least I can do; this is already not fair to her. But the temptation to be close to him one last time is too great for me to resist.
The house is quiet, empty, shadowy. The stairs creak as I go up, but there is no one to hear and I relish the sound, remembering how we ran up the stairs together.
The door to Finny’s room is closed. I knew it would be. No one has been in there since he and I walked out of it holding hands.
I use clear tape to hang the sign I made on the door.
Please, do not try to break down the door. It is too late for you to do anything. Call the police and let them handle this part.
And I come into this room and lock the door behind me.
In books, people always wake up in the hospital and can’t remember how they got there, and then it all slowly comes back to them.
I opened my eyes and thought, “Oh shit.”
***
I sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, wearing a scratchy blue nightgown. The hospital blanket is depressingly small and thin, more like a beach towel. I have an IV in one hand and my wrists are so neatly wrapped and taped that it makes me wonder about the person who bandaged them. I study my bandages as the nurse takes my blood pressure and asks me if I know what day it is.
“And do you remember why you are here, dear?” the nurse asks me. I dislike her voice. “Autumn?”
“I remember,” I say. I remember much more than I wish I did, since I am planning on doing it all over again.
She asks more questions. I mumble answers. I shouldn’t ask about the person who did the bandages because that would be weird, and I need to get out of here as soon as possible. Finny would forgive me. No, Finny will forgive me when I get to explain to him afterward. I touch the cotton wrapping with one finger.
“And when was your last menstrual cycle, dear?”
For the first time in weeks, everything within me goes still and silent.
“On what day did you last have your period, Autumn?” I look up at her face for the first time. She’s younger than I thought.
“I can’t remember,” I say. She frowns.
Finny wouldn’t approve of me trying again if I am pregnant. I could argue with him all I wanted, but he wouldn’t budge. Finny couldn’t stand to let worms die on the sidewalks; I would never be able to convince him that it would be for the best.
I can see the expression on his face. His frown of disapproval. I try to explain to him and he just raises his eyebrows at me.
People do things like this. Aunt Angelina did.
We could live with The Mothers at first; they would be happy to have us. I could wait tables and save money and go to college a few courses at a time. I could still write at night, maybe not every night, but still.
Just because something seems impossible doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t try.
And of course, it wouldn’t be like having him back. Not really. But it would be better than not having him at all. I remember him holding Angie’s baby at the hospital, the way he stared in wonder at that small face.
And Finny smirks at me because he knows he has won.
“It’s hospital policy, dear,” the nurse says. I blink at her.
“What is?”
“The test.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Now, I am leaving the room for just one minute. The ward is locked. Are you going to behave yourself and wait right here?”
“Yeah,” I say, “I’ll wait.” She leaves me. I wrap my arms around my middle and press until my wrists ache. My eyes close. I’ll wait. And I’ll be okay.
And for the first time in years, I feel like things are going to turn out the way they were always meant to be.
Book 2
Finn
One
Autumn is a terror to sleep beside. She talks, kicks, steals the covers, uses you as a pillow. The stories I could tell if I had anyone to tell them to. Autumn is uncharacteristically embarrassed about her nocturnal chaos though, and it’s one of her eccentricities for which she will not tolerate a bit of teasing. Our mothers—“The Mothers” as Autumn started calling them when we were young—have their own tales of Autumn’s nighttime calamities, and the look that she gives them has been enough to stop me from sharing my childhood memories of her violent, restless sleepovers.
This summer, I discovered just how much she hasn’t changed. The other day, she fell asleep watching me play video games. I had finally, finally, made a specific timed jump when she flung her arm onto my lap, causing my guy to fall to his death. I gently lifted her hand off me and scooted over a few inches, but not too far. I didn’t tell her about it when she woke up; she would say something about going back home when she starts to feel tired, and I’d rather give away all my games than lose a minute of whatever has been happening between us since Jamie broke up with her.
I made sure to insert myself between Autumn and Jack last night for this very reason. It was clear that we were crashing at my house, and I felt it was my duty to be the one to take the blows.
I have to admit: I’d hoped for something like this.
It was her fingers twitching against my ribs that first woke me.
Aunt Claire is right. Autumn snores now. She didn’t when we were children. I’d believed Autumn when, again and again, she insisted that her mother was only joking.
But here we are, in this blanket tent I made for her, her head under the crook of my arm. She’s on her side, curled in a tight ball, snoring, though not loudly. Her breath comes in hot, short puffs.
After Jack fell asleep last night, she and I stayed up talking for a while. Autumn was drifting, but I hadn’t wanted to give her up yet, so I kept her talking until she said, “Hush, Finny. I need to focus on sweeping.”
I turned my face and, in the darkness, saw her closed eyes, her gentle breathing.
“You’re sleeping?”
She frowned.
“No. Can’t you see me with the broom? It’s so messy in here.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Oh, you know…in the room…in between…”