Filed to story: If He Had Been With Me Book PDF Free
It’s bigger than it was yesterday, the mound between my hips. I study myself to be certain, because surely things couldn’t change that fast?
But it’s somehow true.
More sci-fi than fantasy.
I put my hands on my stomach and wonder how I didn’t notice it when I put on the jeans. Should I have? Am I already not paying enough attention? I look away from the strange body in the mirror and pull the black dress over my head. It’s a stretchy knit that hugs all my curves, the new ones too.
When I look back in the mirror, I’m surprised by how nice it looks. I feel like a woman in this dress, not a girl. I look like someone who can handle what’s coming. The bump seems smaller, more reasonable under the cover of black.
And I feel pretty for the first time in a long time.
I wish Finny could see me.
“You’re so beautiful.”
“Autumn?”
“It’s nice,” I tell Mom. “We should get it.”
On the drive home, the tension between The Mothers is gone. We bought an amount of clothes that everyone felt was reasonable.
I have jeans to wear with my vintage tees, a couple of blouses and a pair of khakis in case I want to look a little nicer, and then there’s the dress. The dress looks like something I should wear for an important meeting, perhaps with a publisher for my book or, equally probable, a rendezvous with someone from the CIA.
I have the dress as a talisman more than anything, proof that I am an adult woman, more or less.
Even if I don’t have Finny to tell me I look beautiful, I can tell myself for him.
nine
“It’s not uncommon for a pregnant woman to feel disconnected from her body, nor is it uncommon for a first-time mother to find it hard to believe that there will be a baby. This is not indicative that you will be a poor mother,” Dr. Singh says.
“Shouldn’t I love it more or something?” I ask.
He raises his hand in a gesture of ambivalence. “Eh?” he says. “Are you taking your prenatal vitamins?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been to all your obstetrician appointments, yes? Getting gentle exercise, yes?”
“I take walks a few times a week.” I don’t understand why this therapy appointment is suddenly about my physical health.
“Then it sounds to me like you are loving this fetus as much as you can,” Dr. Singh says. “Love is an action, and all the actions you are taking speak of love.”
It’s my turn to shrug.
“I wanted to talk to you about your plans outside motherhood,” he says. “You will still be a person with dreams. You said you wanted to write a novel, yes?”
“I wrote one.”
“You’re writing a novel?”
“No.” I laugh for the first time in days. “I wrote one. I finished it. Well, I’m still editing it.” I still cry while I edit, which slows me down, but I don’t have to stop anymore because of the crying, so that’s an improvement. And I’m reading books that aren’t about babies when I’m not editing. I may not be going to college this year or the next, but that’s no reason I can’t give myself my own literature course.
“But the story is complete?” Dr. Singh raises his bushy eyebrows in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Yeah.”
“That is very good. Very good.” He adjusts his glasses. “Do you know how many people start novels they never finish?”
“Probably a lot? Lots of people finish them too.”
“My son is thirty-two and has been working on his since college,” Dr Singh says. “I think you should be proud of yourself.”
“Finny was proud of me,” I say.
“I can’t wait to read it.”
Dr. Singh shifts in his seat. “I was hoping that at next week’s group therapy session, you’ll share with the others why you are there. I understood why you didn’t contribute last week, but I do hope it is a space that you can feel comfortable.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say. “That Brittaney girl was kinda annoying.”
Dr. Singh surprises me by laughing. “Oh, ha! Brittaney is what my generation calls a spitfire. She is someone I’ve known a long time, or rather I once knew her parents in a professional—Well, her story is not mine to tell, but she is someone you could learn from, Autumn.”
I can’t help what my face does at that idea.
Dr. Singh suddenly looks old. He presses his lips together before speaking. “Autumn, she is a survivor.” His voice lands heavy on the last word.
“Of what?” I ask.
“Everything,” Dr. Singh says.
ten
“Everything looks good,” the doctor says as she scans my chart. “If you could try again to pee for us before you go…”
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s like all I do is pee, and then I can’t when I’m supposed to.”
“Happens all the time,” she says. “Just try again because it is the best way to predict preeclampsia. Do you have any questions before the organ scan?”
“The what?”
“The ultrasound.”
“Uh, no.” The room is cold, and I’m anxious to put my new maternity jeans back on.
“That’s scheduled for next week, right? No, week after next.” She pauses, makes a note, and looks up at me and smiles. “Let’s see about peeing again, okay?”
In the restroom, crouched over the toilet with a cup between my legs, I think about what Dr. Singh said about love being an action and how my actions say I’m doing the best I can to love myself and the baby I don’t quite believe in. I wonder if trying to urinate for the preeclampsia test counts as an act of love, which makes me giggle, and then I finally pee.
When the nurse takes the cup from me, I ask, “So they’ll make sure the baby has all its organs and stuff week after next?”
“Yup. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
I say, “I’m not worried. I was just surprised when the doctor called it an ‘organ scan.’ I mean, it makes sense, but I never thought of it that way.” I’m babbling and not exactly sure what I’m talking about. The poor nurse smiles tightly at me and says something about needing to get this—with a nod to the urine—into the back.
I check at reception to see if they need anything more from me, but Mom has already made my next appointment and paid the copay with the little gold card, so we’re on our way.
“Everything good?” Mom asks. “You were in there awhile.”