Filed to story: If He Had Been With Me Book PDF Free
Dombey and
Son.
I pick up the book and pretend to read.
Trying to be friendly, she said. That’s the same word he used when I gave him her card on Valentine’s Day; he asked if she had been friendly to me.
I’m surprised when my heart leaps as I realize that he doesn’t like his girlfriend laughing at me or spreading rumors about me.
Sylvie laughs and I can’t help looking at them from the corner of my eye. She looks happy, and I can’t deny that he does too.
And then she kisses him. And I start reading.
On the last day of school, I worry that I will cry when I say good-bye to Mr. Laughegan. I know that if I do, no one, not my friends or Finny’s, will ever let me forget it.
“I’ll see you the year after next in my writing class,” Mr. Laughegan says to me.
“Hopefully,” I say. “I know there is a lot of competition to get in.”
“You’ll be in,” he says quickly. I take it as a promise.
***
The first day of summer, I wake up and stretch in bed, feeling all my muscles and joints. It’s early still, just after seven, but the sun is bright in my window. I sit up and rub my eyes. A story idea has been bouncing around in my head for the past few days; suddenly it feels like the perfect moment to write. I’m not sure where the story begins, but I know what I want to happen.
Like most of my stories, it will end tragically.
I sit down at my desk without eating or brushing my teeth. I hesitate for a moment, then type my first sentence.
The day
Edward died, I dropped a vase of tulips while walking up the stairs.
I begin to describe the tulips—red—and the white porcelain vase smashed against the dark wood of the staircase. I’m not sure what the significance of the tulips is—yet. It will come to me.
By ten o’clock, I have a rough draft. Five pages. I’m pleased with myself. The narrator was the accidental murderess; her guilt has left her reeling in near madness, and I close on the first image: the blood red flowers, the broken innocence of the white vase.
***
My mother is reading the newspaper in the kitchen when I skip downstairs. She looks up at me over the rim of the paper.
“In a good mood?” she says.
I nod. “It’s the first day of summer and I’ve already killed someone off,” I say.
“In a story?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Ah.” She goes back to reading. The phone rings and I pick it up.
“Autumn?” Aunt Angelina’s voice says after I say hello.
“Hey, I’ll get Mom,” I say. My mother looks up.
“No, actually, Autumn, I wanted you.”
“Oh.” My immediate thought is that something has happened to Finny.
“I’m going to tear down my classroom today and my good-for-nothing son canceled on me. Do you think you can help me? I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Oh, sure,” I say. It’s been a long time since I’ve been inside our elementary school. I’m curious, and spending time with Aunt Angelina can be fun.
“Really? Can you be over in fifteen minutes?”
“Easy,” I say. She thanks me and reiterates the promise of making it worth my while.
“What was that?” my mother asks.
“Aunt Angelina needs someone to help her tear down her classroom,” I say.
“Where’s Finny?”
I shrug. It is unlike Finny to cancel on his mother, but I felt odd asking. I have a fear of someone suspecting how often I wonder about Finny. I always try not to show too much interest, just in case.
***
Finny opens the back door when I knock. His face is blank; he doesn’t look startled to see me, and even though I’m sure that I do look surprised, he does not react to my face.
“Oh. Hi,” I say. “I thought you were gone.”
“I’m about to be,” he says. His voice is as sterile as his face. Aunt Angelina comes in the room with a bundle of portfolio books and canvas bags.
“How long will you be?” she says.
“I don’t know,” Finny says. “I’ll come by if I can. Sorry.”
“It’s fine, kiddo, get going.”
“Bye,” Finny says. He sidesteps me and leaves out the back door. His step is quick on the stairs. I look up at Aunt Angelina. I wasn’t intending to ask, but it must be plain on my face. She knows I know Finny well enough to see when something is wrong.
“He didn’t say,” she says, “but it’s something with Sylvie.”
“Oh,” I say. I hope that my face and voice give no more away. Aunt Angelina hands me some of her things and we go outside. I glance at the spot where Finny parks in the driveway, even though I know he won’t be there. We don’t talk as we load up the trunk and pull out of the driveway. It’s a short ride to the school; less than a minute later, we are only a few blocks away.
“So Finny tells me you’re thinking of teaching,” Aunt Angelina says to me. I shrug and then nod.
“Gotta do something practical,” I say. “I think it could be fun.”
“It is,” she says. She pauses as she makes a left-hand turn down the side street next to the school. “But it takes a lot of dedication.” I don’t say anything. She parks the car and turns off the engine. “You have time to decide though,” she says.
We unload the car and walk through the side door of the school where Finny and I grew up. It’s an old building from the 1920s, dark brick, high ceilings, long, narrow windows on every wall. Whenever I see or hear the word “school,” this building is the picture that comes to my mind.
As I cross the threshold, I think how I don’t have as much time to decide as I once did. When I was a student here, anything in the world seemed possible. It hadn’t seemed like a dream to move far away and write books; it had seemed like a plan. At ten, I hadn’t thought wanting to be a writer was impractical; wanting to be a pirate princess was impractical and I had put that dream aside.
But I’m older now, and I realize that a career of nothing but writing stories all day is as likely as marrying my dream pirate prince. I’ve done the research; getting published is nearly impossible, and of those few who make it, only a fraction can live off their work. If it was just about me, I could wait tables in the day and write all night and be happy.
But there is Jamie now, and he wants to buy a house and raise children with me. He says I’m perfect. He says I’m all he wants. I can’t disappoint him.