Filed to story: If He Had Been With Me Book PDF Free
I’m in the position that she and The Mothers have found themselves in when they’re talking to me. There’s nothing more to say to make it better, because it is hard, and it’s going to be hard for a while.
“Just because something seems impossible doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying,” I say, because it’s something I’ve said to myself before.
“I need to find something to make me feel like I’m still me outside being a mom,” Angie says. “It’s not like I can watch horror movies with Guinevere asleep in the same room.”
“Well, we can watch one together,” I suggest. “And afterward, we can go to the library, and I’ll help you find some horror novels to read when you’re home alone with the baby.”
“Yeah, okay.”
This time, I can tell that I’ve definitely helped, and I’m glad. Because she released me from a worry that I hadn’t fully articulated; that it was selfish of me to keep my dream of publication when I’m about to become a mother.
Angie winks at me. “Oh, you just want a ride to the library.”
“I actually haven’t been reading much for myself lately,” I confess. “Only a few parenting books.” Angie mimes being physically bowled over by my words.
“Who are you, and what have you done with Autumn Rose Davis?” She jumps off the couch and grabs my hand. “That’s it, we’re going to the library right now. Movie later. You need this more than I do.”
“I won’t say no to that.” I let her help me off the couch. Everyone knows voracious reading is the best way to improve your writing, well except for actually writing. So until I can hold myself together enough to edit the novel inspired by Finny, I need to be reading.
“We’re going to be okay,” Angie says to me.
Today, I choose to believe it.
eight
Going to the library with Angie to get books made me feel like myself again, and a few days later, I was able to edit the whole first chapter of my novel. Inspired by my own bravery, I approached Mom cautiously about shopping for maternity clothes. She was so enthused that she was unable to keep it from Aunt Angelina. So now it’s a trip for all three of us. Or, I guess, four.
“You need me to stop you from buying half the store,” she proclaims from the passenger’s seat.
“What would it matter if I did?” Mom retorts. “We want Autumn to be comfortable and confident during this phase of her life. It’s good to be prepared to dress for any situation that may arise.”
Most of the time, when people argue, they aren’t actually arguing about what they’re arguing about. The real disagreement flits between their words like a persistent dragonfly. I’m not sure what The Mothers are really arguing about; they’ve always had different ideas about consumerism. That isn’t anything new. But there’s an undercurrent to this discussion that is eluding me.
“I mostly need jeans,” I say from the back seat. “I think most of my T-shirts and sweaters will still work.” I again become aware of the heaviness of my middle, the sense that something is there that wasn’t before.
“A dress, pajamas, and some lounge wear too. Maybe a swimsuit?” Mom suggests.
“She’s due May first,” Aunt Angelina says. “She will not need a maternity swimsuit. That’s where I draw the line.”
Perhaps they are arguing because Mom will be using the little gold credit card that I’ve seen her use for all the other baby-related purchases, the card Dad must have given her in place of him being any kind of real support to me. Angelina probably thinks that letting Dad pay for things is like letting him buy his dereliction of duty.
“Maybe I’ll go to the indoor pool at the Y this winter?” I say because I’m not sure whose side I’m on. It doesn’t matter what we buy or don’t buy with his money; Dad’s always seen his involvement in my life as a sort of gift he bestows on me. He’ll congratulate himself on his generosity no matter what we do with the little gold card.
“Why not a ski suit?” Angelina asks, throwing up her hands. “At least it would be seasonally appropriate!”
“I don’t think they make maternity ski suits, but we can check,” Mom muses. ” Though it may not be the best time for Autumn to take up a winter sport.”
It’s obvious now, which one of us is pregnant, and the saleslady addresses me directly.
“Looking for anything in particular today?”
“Jeans.” All the clothes here look like they’re for, well, moms. Like, real moms who got pregnant on purpose. I feel like an imposter with my messy hair and my baggy Pixies T-shirt covering my unbuttoned jeans.
“Right this way,” she says.
I’m not sure if I’m imagining the tightness in her smile. I’ve been bracing myself for the disapproval this pregnancy will bring me, for being so young, for not having an engagement ring. So far, it’s not so bad, but maybe that will change when I’m large enough for strangers to want to touch my belly and give me unsolicited advice, like Angie says they will.
The saleslady leads us to a shelf of pants and points out the changing rooms, but my focus is on the heavy place in my middle that is now fluttering.
I don’t know if it’s the baby moving—it could be—but it also doesn’t feel that different from anything I’ve felt in my body before. It’s disappointing that I can’t tell the difference between Finny’s baby and gas.
My mother has already gathered a pile of pants to try on, not just jeans but khakis and linen palazzo pants. Perhaps I should have sided more with Aunt Angelina.
But I follow her to the dressing room because I need clothes.
I sit facing away from the mirror to pull off my pants. My reflection is disconcerting these days.
As I’ve slept and cried and dragged myself through the past few months, my body has carried on with its new work as if everything was going according to plan. Without asking my opinion, my nipples have become large and dark and my breasts dense and heavy.
And then there is the round swelling, starting at my pelvic bone and sweeping up gently toward my navel.
I should feel affection for it, shouldn’t I?
I pull up the jeans and examine the elastic at the waist, stretch it out to see how big of a belly it could accommodate, and let it snap back.
This doesn’t feel like my body. It doesn’t feel like a baby moving. It’s hard for me to imagine that this weight, this fluttering, is going to become a child. It seems like I’ll blow up like a balloon, then I’ll deflate, and someone will hand me a baby. Somehow, even though I understand the biology, even though I look at the pictures online, I still can’t believe that this is how humans get made, how every human was made. I always imagined that it would feel more magical. If this experience were a novel I was writing, it would be more sci-fi than fantasy or romance.
I always imagined I’d be certain I was ready when I had a child.
I always imagined I’d have a husband, a plan.
“It’s you and me now, right?”
I bite my cheek to stop his voice.
Mom raps gently on the door. “Autumn, how’s it going?”
“These jeans are weird,” I say.
“Your body is going to feel strange for a while, kiddo!” Angelina chimes in.
“Do they fit?” Mom asks.
“I guess so?”
I come out and she tugs on the waistband like she did when I was a kid and nods. I try on and accept and reject a few other pairs of pants. A couple of the blouses are okay. Finally, Mom wants me to try on a cocktail dress.
“Every woman needs a little black dress,” Mom insists.
I look to Angelina for support, but she grimaces.
“You never know what might come up, kiddo. It’s not a bad idea to have a dress just in case.”
I’m about to say, “Like for another funeral?” when I feel Finny in me.
“Come on, Autumn,” he scolds, and I deserve it. As punishment, I make myself take the hanger from her and go back into the changing room.
As I strip off my T-shirt, I pause, looking in the mirror.