A Year Without Autumn

  “Now, listen — what’s your name? And please don’t say something ridiculous like Spring or Sunshine.” She purses her lips together in a tight frown. I wish she didn’t seem so annoyed, but then I imagine having some girl turn up at your door for the third time talking absolute nonsense isn’t strictly the best way to bring patience and kindness out in people.

  “Jenni,” I say. “With an i.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Right. Well, Jenni with an i, I’m Mrs. Smith. With an i, too, as it happens. Not very original, I know. Not my fault, I’m afraid.” Then she smiles a bit.

  “It’s OK,” I say, feeling more stupid every time I open my mouth.

  “So tell me, Jenni,” Mrs. Smith continues over me. “Why were you so convinced you’d find your friend here?”

  “This has always been her family’s condo. I just saw her this morning, and she said it was definitely this unit again. I made her tell me the number just to be sure.”

  Mrs. Smith stares at me for a long time. I stare back. As I do, it’s as if I can see past the front she’s putting on, right behind it to the woman I met the first time I came here. The kindly, helpful, nice lady — the one who hadn’t had some girl show up three times with stories that don’t make sense.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, wanting to make it better for her. Why should she get dragged into my crazy mess? “Look, I got it wrong. I know I did. I just don’t understand how or why I’m the only person confused by things that everyone else takes for granted.”

  Mrs. Smith doesn’t say anything. She just keeps staring at me. I feel as if she can see right inside me, all the way into my soul. Can you see the truth in there? Can you tell me what’s happened?

  “Yes, dear,” she says, her voice soft like it was the first time. “You just got it wrong. Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “But I didn’t make a —” I begin, and then I stop. What’s the point? I don’t want to annoy her again.

  “They must have changed condos,” she goes on. “Your friend is obviously as confused as you are! This is only my first year here.” She pauses, her eyelids lowering slightly. “Well, my first for a very long . . .” Suddenly, her eyes go all watery, and she smoothes her dress again and gets up from her seat. “You’ll at least have a glass of water, won’t you,” she says, wiping an arm across her eyes as she goes to run the faucet, “on a hot day like this?”

  “I — yes, OK,” I say as she brings two glasses to the table. She sits down and stares into her glass.

  “So it’s your first year here?” I prompt her.

  Mrs. Smith glances up at me as if she’s just remembered I’m there. “It is, yes,” she says briskly. “That’s all there is to it, you see? You got it wrong. Your friend changed her condo, told you the wrong number. It happens all the time. I’m sure you’ll find her. Why don’t you ask someone which unit she has now?”

  “I don’t need to — I found her!”

  Mrs. Smith does this really weird thing. Somehow she manages to look relieved and disappointed all at the same time. “Well, that’s wonderful!” she says. “So you did make a mistake!”

  She says this as though it’s a statement, but the way she’s looking into my eyes makes it feel like a question, a challenge — a test. What’s the right answer?

  Something inside my stomach is playing leapfrog. Can I really tell her what’s going on? I don’t even know this woman. What makes me think she can help? Just because she said she’s always felt alone? She could have meant anything by that. Why on earth did I think she meant that everything around her suddenly skipped forward a year and left her behind? How crazy would it sound if I said that out loud!

  “Things have changed,” I say carefully, watching her face for a reaction.

  “It happens, you know. Life moves on. Things do change,” Mrs. Smith says back, just as carefully. She tightens her lips. “People get forgotten,” she adds, that sharp edge coming back into her voice.

  “No, I don’t mean that. I mean she’s changed a lot. And so have I. I’m not who I was. Or I am, but —”

  “You’re talking in riddles, child,” Mrs. Smith says. “Spit it out — what are you trying to tell me?”

  “She was a year older than I remember!” I burst out before I can stop myself. “And I am as well! Everything —” I stop to take a breath. “It’s all moved on. It’s all changed. I’ve lost a year of my life, and I don’t know where it’s gone!”

  Mrs. Smith looks as though I’ve slapped her. Her cheeks have gone white, sucked in, her eyes dark and hollow. “You what?” she says in a shaky voice.

  “I — I don’t know what’s happened to the whole of last year,” I repeat, less certainly. And then I realize what the look is on her face. She’s looking at me as though I’m insane. She thinks I’m a complete and utter crazy loon who shouldn’t be allowed to wander around freely.

  She stands up and takes a step away from the table. That’s it — she’s going to call someone and have them take me away. She probably thinks I’m dangerous.

  I’m a fool! Just because some lonely woman confessed to me that she’s always felt a bit lost, I decide to spill my guts at her kitchen table and make her think I’m a raving lunatic! I have to salvage the situation quickly, before she calls the police and gets someone to cart me away to a psych ward with padlocks on the doors.

  I try to smile. “Hey — I’m only joking,” I say. “Ha-ha. Just being silly. I mean, obviously I haven’t lost a year of my life! Ha-ha, just my little joke.”

  Mrs. Smith grips the back of her chair. “You were joking?” she whispers, her words tight like a taut piece of old rope that could snap at any moment. “Joking?”

  I try to smile again. I know I probably look even more like a demented idiot, but just hearing myself say those words — it was crazy to say them out loud. And to a complete stranger as well! What was I thinking?

  I need to get out of here. I get up and carefully push my chair under the table.

  “Look, I’m really sorry,” I say. “It was just a joke. A — a dare. Playing around. I’m sorry. It wasn’t true. Sorry.”

  She nods. Her grip has tightened on the back of her chair. She’s furious with me for playing a joke on her, and I’m not surprised.

  “I’ll go, then,” I say, backing away to the door. “I’m really sorry,” I repeat.

  “A dare,” she says, her voice trembling.

  “Yep. Sorry. Just kids, you know . . . ?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say one last time. And then, before she has the chance to say another word — or reach for the phone — I grab the doorknob, swing the door open, and get the heck away from there.

  My brain is in a scramble as I get to the elevators. I press the button. I can hear electrical whirring sounds behind the door, but the elevator doesn’t appear. I feel really bad about making Mrs. Smith think I was playing a joke on her — but what else could I do? It’s better than having her think I’m crazy and telling my parents to lock me up.

  I’m about to head toward the stairs when I hear a clunking noise behind me. The same clunking noise as earlier. It’s the old elevator.

  I yank the door open, pull the gate, and step into the elevator. I need to get away from here before Mrs. Smith comes after me or tells anyone what just happened. In fact, I need to get away from everyone.

  Clanking and heaving, the elevator slowly takes me back downstairs.

  Once outside, I find myself walking up a lane at the back of Riverside Village. I don’t even know where I’m going. I’m just walking along in a blind daze, trying to work out what’s happened to my life — where it’s gone, if I’ll ever get it back.

  How can I have lost a whole year?

  My thoughts jangle as I walk and walk. After a while I realize I’ve come to an unfamiliar patch at the start of the woods. I’d better get back. Dad said not to stay out long. I need to get back and look after Craig — and Thea. The thought of my little baby sister almost makes
me smile.

  I quicken my pace and head back to the condo.

  “Where on earth have you been?” Dad yells before I’m even halfway through the door. He slams it behind me after practically pulling me into the condo. What is his problem?

  “Sheesh, Dad, I’m not late, am I?”

  “Not late? Not late?” Dad sputters. “Lydia, get your coat!” he calls to Mom.

  “You’ve got hours still,” I say. “What time’s the table booked for, anyway?”

  “Table? What table?”

  “Your anniversary dinner.”

  Dad stares at me. “You think we’re going out for a meal? Craig, come on!”

  “I thought it was just the two of you?”

  “The two of us? What are you talking about?”

  Mom appears in the hall. She leans back against the doorway. “Jenni, where’ve you been?” she asks gently. Her face is starched white and streaked with damp marks. But that’s not the weirdest thing.

  The weirdest thing is her stomach. Her huge, round, eight-months-pregnant stomach. “Thea,” I say simply, staring at her belly.

  Mom pulls a strand of hair out of her eyes. “What?”

  “The — the baby.”

  Mom’s hands are wrapped around her stomach, and she winces and closes her eyes.

  “Are you OK?” I ask.

  She nods, breathing tightly. “Just a bit of cramp,” she says. “Come on. We need to go.”

  I look at Mom, then at Dad. “Go where?” I ask. “Mom, Dad, what’s going on?”

  “Craig! Turn that television off now!” Dad yells. Turning to me, he snaps, “We’ll tell you in the car.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Tom. This isn’t the kids’ fault, you know,” Mom says gently.

  “What’s not our fault? Where are we going?” I ask.

  They both ignore me. “I know it’s not the children’s fault,” he says. “I’m sorry, all of you. I just think we should get there. They’re our best friends.”

  Mom nods, still holding on to her stomach.

  “Mom?” I reach out toward her. “What is it?”

  “I’m OK,” she says, breathing quickly. “Just a bit of — just the stress. I’m tired. I’m fine, honestly.”

  Craig finally appears from the living room. Little Craig. The six-year-old Craig of this morning — not the taller Craig I saw the last time I was in this room.

  I reach up to touch my hair. I clutch at my head. Long. Tied back. But it’s impossible!

  “Are you ready?” Dad says to Craig, totally unaware of the growing panic snarling in my chest.

  As he grabs the car keys from the mantelpiece, Dad says, “Where were you anyway, Jenni? All that fuss you made about going horseback riding, and you didn’t even show up.”

  Horseback riding? My head starts to spin.

  “Where were you, Jenni?” Mom and Dad are asking me. I can hear their words, over and over again, blurring, slowing down, speeding up, washing over me. Where were you, Jenni?

  “I don’t know!” I scream eventually, slamming my hands over my ears as Craig walks by me and out onto the path. “I don’t know where I was! OK? I don’t know!”

  Dad looks at me and shakes his head. “I don’t understand what’s going on with you,” he says quietly.

  Yeah, you and me both, Dad.

  Mom suddenly lets out a sharp gasp and grips her stomach again. “Tom, can we get going?” she says. “I’m not doing too good here, and this isn’t helping.”

  Craig runs back into the hallway. “Can I have a cookie?” he pipes up before Dad can answer Mom.

  Mom smiles as best she can. “Of course you can, darling.”

  Dad puts an arm around Mom. “You OK, dear?”

  Mom nods. “Let’s just get there.”

  “Yes, let’s.” He follows Craig into the kitchen. “Come on. Just one, OK?”

  “Mom. Will you tell me what’s happened?” My voice is coming out about ten octaves higher than usual, and my throat feels as if it’s tightened into a narrow knot. “Please. Do you two have to go out somewhere before the meal? I’ll stay here with Craig if you want. Do you and Dad need to talk? Have you had a fight?” I’m searching my brain for anything I can think of that could explain the crazy panic around here. “You can go for your dinner on your own if you like, just the two of you. I don’t mind.”

  Mom’s looking at me as though I just spoke in a foreign language. Maybe I did. Nothing would surprise me today.

  Almost nothing.

  “There’s been an accident,” Mom says carefully. “Don’t get too anxious. I’m sure it’ll all be OK, but . . .” She pauses.

  “But what?” The blood is racing through me, pounding in my temples as I clap a hand over my mouth. I know what she’s going to say.

  “It’s Mikey.” She reaches for my free hand, wrapping hers around it. “He went riding with Autumn. His horse. It threw him off.”

  I nod, squeezing my lips tightly shut.

  “We don’t really know how badly hurt he is, but he —” Mom breaks off. A strange sound comes out of her throat, as though she’s choking. She swallows. “They thought he was all right. He got worse, very quickly — and then they had to wait. The ambulance was late; no one was there. Jenni, poor little Mikey ended up waiting two hours.” This time the choke turns into a sob.

  “Two hours for what?” I hold my breath as the hallway starts to spin away from me.

  “To get to the hospital.”

  I don’t respond. My body has turned to stone.

  “I should have been there,” Mom whispers. “I could have helped. I could have done something. I was late. The candle museum — it took longer than I thought, and with the baby . . .” Her voice trails away.

  “He’s in the right place now,” I say woodenly.

  She shakes her head. “I’m trained in first aid. Your dad and I did the course together. That’s the whole point of it. To be there. And I wasn’t. I wasn’t,” she croaks.

  I force myself to speak. “You didn’t know, Mom. It’s not your fault,” I say, numb and frozen.

  She nods, then pulls a tissue from her pocket. “We need to go now. Are you ready? Are you OK?”

  Am I OK? I nearly laugh. The only thing that stops me is that if I do, I think I’ll scream and scream and I won’t be able to stop. “Yeah,” I make myself say eventually. “Are you?”

  She smiles and dabs at her eyes. “Come on. Let’s get going.”

  Dad and Craig are back. “Ready?” Dad asks, then he opens the front door and takes Mom’s arm.

  Two minutes later, we’re on the road. Craig gets a couple of Matchbox cars out of his little backpack. Running them up and down his legs, he crashes them into each other, shouting out action-film sound effects. Dad grips the wheel with white fists and drives to the hospital at nearly twice the speed limit.

  No one asks him to slow down.

  Dad’s at the reception desk, asking for information about Mikey. I’m waiting in the foyer on some blue plastic seats with Mom, who’s pretty much doubled over in her seat.

  “Mom, are you OK?” I ask.

  “I’m fine, hon,” she says. “I just want to know that Mikey’s all right.”

  I don’t think she looks fine at all, but she obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.

  Craig’s racing his cars up and down along the floor. No one stops him.

  Dad’s back from the reception desk with a piece of paper in his hand. “Ward eleven,” he says. “Follow the orange signs.”

  We make our way to Ward 11 — but when we get there, they tell us that Mikey’s been transferred to the Critical Care Unit. Mom makes that choking noise again when we hear this. “Tom, I need to sit down,” she says. She looks really pale.

  “Mom, I think you could do with seeing a doctor yourself,” I say.

  Dad takes her hand. “Lyd, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine. Please stop fussing, everyone. It’s only a bit of indigestion; I’m sure I’ll live. My b
est friend’s son has just had a terrible accident. Nothing matters right now except that, all right?”

  Dad and I exchange glances, and he shrugs. “As long as you’re sure.”

  All I can think about is her words. Just had an accident. My head is spinning so hard I’m beginning to feel dizzy. I’ve seen my baby sister, who Mom probably still thinks is a boy. I’ve seen Autumn and her parents, their lives in tatters because of what’s happening in front of my eyes. But when I saw them, this had happened a year ago!

  Even if I’ve now got my memory back, it would still have happened a year ago. So I know my problem isn’t that I’ve got amnesia. Which just leaves me with one question.

  If I didn’t lose my memory — what on earth happened to me?

  The thoughts fizz and crash in my head, eventually grinding into nothingness. I walk through white corridors, my mind blank like the walls.

  “This is it. The Critical Care Unit,” Dad reads from a sign over two pale-blue fire doors.

  “Are we allowed in?” I ask.

  Mom looks around. “I’ll check with the nurse.” She goes over to the reception desk and talks to a nurse who smiles briskly, tucking her blond hair into a barrette as she nods and points to the fire doors.

  Mom comes back toward us. “She says we can see him for a little bit, but he’s not awake.” She pauses as her voice catches. “His parents have just stepped out to call their families. Autumn’s inside.”

  The nurse is behind her. “I’ll come in with you.”

  “You go,” Dad says. “I’ll stay out here with Craig.”

  My legs start to give way as we walk toward the doors. Mikey’s going to be on the other side. In a hospital bed. Autumn beside him, not knowing what’s going to happen to him.

  Mom takes my hand. “You ready to be there for her, Jenni?”

  How can I be ready to be there, ready to see what’s on the other side of the door, to see the effect it’s going to have on Autumn, on her whole family, when one single thought is making my body tremble and almost cave in on itself?

  I’ve already seen it.