Filed to story: If He Had Been With Me Book PDF Free
“He’s dead,” I say, because I figure if we’re going to talk, I might as well match her speed. I turn from the mirror and grab a paper towel to dry my hands. “My mom will go with me. But I’m scared that there’ll be something wrong with the baby.”
“Oh, girl, it’ll be fine!” She shrugs. “And if it’s not, it’s outta your hands. Sometimes shit is.” She sighs.
I hesitate before asking, “You had a baby die?”
“Brain cancer,” Brittaney says. “It was fast. They found it on her one-year checkup, and she was gone before she was two.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It is what it is,” she says, and for the first time, I can see that her nonchalance is her armor. I feel guilty for not seeing it before.
“If it was cancer,” I say, “why would your ex-boyfriend say it was your fault that she died?”
For the first time ever, Brittaney looks uncomfortable with our conversation.
“Like I said before, I don’t start showing until the third trimester, and I’d only gotten my period a couple of times before I got pregnant, so it was easy for me to be in denial for a while. By the time I knew for sure I was pregnant, I was six months gone, and I was thirteen. I’d been smoking cigarettes since I was eleven, so it was hard for me to give up.” She looks at my face. “I tried. I really did. But finally my doctor told me that at a certain point, my being so stressed out was more harmful to the baby than a cigarette. I was really stressed too, you know? The foster mom I had that year was a bitch. Her nephew was my baby daddy, and since he was nineteen, she was worried she was gonna get in trouble with my social worker. It was a whole thing.”
“He was nineteen? And you were only thirteen?”
“He was the one buying our cigarettes anyway!” She holds her hands up in exasperation. “I asked the cancer doctor, and she said those cigarettes would have only increased the chances by one percent, that it was mostly genetics that gave my baby that kinda cancer, not me having one cigarette a day.” Brittaney gives her trademark shrug. “I was able to quit smoking last time I was pregnant. I was your age, and things were a little better for me. I’d just bought my house and stuff.”
“You own a house?” She should probably be insulted by my surprise, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Okay, so you won’t believe this, but before my parents lost their shit to drugs, they were doctors.” She chuckles and leans forward to whisper, like she’s telling me a dirty joke. “Can you imagine going to medical school, getting married, having a kid in preschool, and then getting hooked on fucking dope? Couple of losers, those two.” She laughs and rolls her eyes so hard this time that it looks like it hurts. “But the one thing they couldn’t sell for drugs—and trust me, they sold everything for drugs, even me—was their life insurance policies. I got to collect on those when I turned eighteen, and I bought my house, free and clear. Neighborhood’s a bit rough, but the school’s okay, and I can save money on gas most days walking to my job.”
“Girls?” Wanda sticks her head inside the restroom. “We’re waiting on you. Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, tell Singh we’re coming,” Brittaney says. “She’s a total suck-up,” she whispers to me.
I nod.
She is a survivor, Dr. Singh had said.
I don’t share anything during group therapy, even though Dr.
Singh gives me several significant looks. I don’t know what he expects from me. The others are talking about being unable to save children or getting shot at or raped.
Perhaps when Dr. Singh said I could learn something from Brittaney, he meant I could learn that I didn’t really have anything to be traumatized about.
But then, even though our circumstances are so different, the things the others say about their traumas sound like the things I feel about Finny’s death, like we carry an indelible mark on us.
I don’t speak, but I listen.
When the session is over, I have a text message from Mom. Her car has a flat, and Angelina is coming to change it for her, but they’ll be late picking me up. I stop short in the lobby. I should have brought my book about French parenting to read in case of something like this.
“You okay?” Brittaney asks. She’s already holding her cigarettes and lighter in one hand, and we aren’t even outside.
“Yeah, my ride is late,” I say.
“Oh shit, where you live?”
“Ferguson.”
“My favorite foster mom lived in Ferguson! I live in North County too. I can drop you off.”
“No, no—“
“Girl, people bring their unvaccinated, snot-nosed kids through this lobby all day long. You’ll catch a new kind of measles that gives your baby superpowers or something. Don’t worry. I don’t smoke in my car. I’ll have this done by the time I reach the parking garage. Wait right here.”
Before I can protest again, she heads outside and lights up to smoke as she walks, ignoring the landscaped pathways and crossing flower beds, stepping over the bushes surrounding the building as she makes her way to the garage.
A car pulls up a few minutes later with a muffler that rattles, and I know it’s hers. She waves me in, and I open the door and sit down next to her.
“I’ll keep the window open a minute until the cigarette smell gets out of my clothes.”
“No, you don’t have to,” I say as it occurs to me that maybe she needs to go overboard to protect my child for her sake, because of what she went through. “But thank you.”
Brittaney makes the wide turn on the roundabout to leave the hospital’s campus. “So I called my old foster mama in Ferguson, and I’m gonna go see her after I drop you off!”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I say. “When did you live with her?”
“That was while Dione was sick.”
I feel an ache at the way she says the name.
“She took care of me afterward. She was the one who got me to fill out all the paperwork to get the money from my parents’ insurance, ’cause at first I was like, I want nothing to do with anything that has their name on it, you know?”
“Yeah, I kinda do,” I say.
“Oh?” she glances as me as she rolls up the window manually.
“I recently found out that my, uh, baby’s daddy’s father put a bunch of money in his name before he died, so like, legally, the money should be the baby’s. To get it, I’d either have to deal with him or sue him, and part of me doesn’t want to do anything about it.”
“But it’s not your money,” Brittany says, still smacking her gum. “It’s your kid’s money, right? So you gotta think about that.”
“I know,” I say.
“You have to think about the future, even when it feels like there won’t be a future. That’s what Sherry, my foster mama, said to me. You got dreams and shit, Autumn?”
I can’t help my smile.
“Yeah, I got dreams and shit. I want to be a writer,” I say. “I mean, I am a writer. I wrote a novel, and I’ve started editing it, and when I finish, I’m going to look for an agent, then a publisher.”
“No shit? Look at you, girl. Fucking proud of you. But writing doesn’t pay out, does it?”
“No, probably not.”
“Man, I was so glad I had that money when I found out I was pregnant with CiCi—my daughter’s name is Cierra, but nobody calls her that but me when I’m mad—but babies are expensive. Have you read
The Hip Mama Survival Guide
?”
“Uh, no?”
“Okay, so that’s, like, required reading for you, okay? What’s her fucking name… mermaid politician? Ariel Gore, that’s it! Read it. You need it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.” I wasn’t expecting a book recommendation from her, and it’s a pleasant surprise.