84
Late in the night, I hear footsteps in the hallway. I roll over and look at the door. It opens slowly.
“Finny?” I say. There is silence.
“Oh, Autumn,” my mother says.
85
On August 8th, Phineas Smith died, and I can imagine every detail of that night. I can see his face and the curl of his fingers around the steering wheel. I can hear his breathing and I feel the race of his pulse.
I know what he was thinking about as he took that turn too fast.
I know what they had been arguing about before the little red car spun out.
I know that Sylvie’s face was already streaked with tears when she crashed through the windshield.
It’d be wrong to say Sylvie killed Phineas. She was the instrument of his death, but not the cause. If he had been with me, Finny would still be alive. If he had been with me, everything would have been different. But whose fault is it that he wasn’t?
I see Finny sitting in the red car, perfect and untouched. Rain falls through the hole in the windshield but he does not feel it. He feels nothing. He thinks nothing. He is alive.
Stay. I whisper to him. Stay in the car. Stay in this moment. Stay with me.
But of course he never does.
Suddenly, as if he has been punched, his senses come back to him. He feels the warm leather seat beneath his jeans, and the steering wheel clutched in his fingers so tight that his knuckles are white. He sees the glass glittering around him and the gaping hole in front of him. And through that hole where the windshield once was, he sees her. Through the blackness and the rain he sees Sylvie lying in the road, still and quiet.
Stay, I whisper.
Just as suddenly, his hands unclench from the wheel and he is taking off the seat belt that spared his life, opening the door and running down the road toward her.
I see the puddle of water by her head even though he does not. I see the black glistening power line that the storm has torn down draped through the water. Finny does not; he only sees her, what he thinks is his destination.
Sylvie lies on the other side of the puddle, safe and unmoving, only serving her purpose.
He kneels before her. He says her name. She does not move. He is filled with a fear and panic that matches my own in watching this moment. To steady himself, he lays his left hand down by her head.
Death happens to him more suddenly than I can describe to you or even care to imagine.
86
It’s late September now. Without talking about it, we all knew I wouldn’t be going away to college this year. I stay in my room most days and tell The Mothers that I am reading. Aunt Angelina still sleeps over here every night, but my mother no longer has to beg her to eat. My father takes me out to lunch once a week; he thinks that he’s distracting me when he talks about taking me with him on his next trip abroad.
I had to go see Dr. Singh again. He asked me a bunch of questions and I told a lot of lies. He upped my prescription and let me go.
I haven’t taken my pills in a month now.
Today is the day halfway between our birthdays and the leaves have begun to change. I lie in bed and look at Finny’s window. This September was so hot and dry that some of the leaves have already turned brown and died, and in this setting, the beginning of autumn is dull brass instead of gold. I can see some of the roses still blooming in my mother’s garden. Brown on the edges and bright in other colors, they open and unfold, their petals drooping downward, dying just as their lives have begun.
They’ve stayed past their time, and I’ve realized that I have too.
In the end, my decision comes down to one thing: I think Finny would forgive me. It wouldn’t be what he wanted for me, but he would forgive me. And if I continue to try to survive without Finny, there are paths I could go down that he would think were much worse than this.
The afternoon passes into evening and then night. I wait until I can no longer hear The Mothers talking together before bed. I step carefully on the stairs, avoiding every creak I can remember. In the kitchen, I leave the note on the table. It took longer to write than I thought it would. I finally had to accept that I wouldn’t be able to say all of the things I wanted. I go to my mother’s butcher block, and this is the only I time I ever pause, and it is to consider if I should take the biggest knife since it is what I imagined, or if I should be practical and choose the one that would do the best job. But if I am caught with this note, I will have to tell lots of lies for days or maybe weeks until they will leave me alone long enough to try again, and so I decide that if I am determined enough, it won’t matter which knife I take and so I take the big one.
As I sneak out the back door, I spare a moment to glance at the backyards where we played together, at the tree where we never built our tree house. But I hurry across the grass to his yard, and run past the spot where he kissed me first.
Aunt Angelina is always losing her things, so she keeps an extra house key under the empty flowerpot on the front porch. After I unlock the door, I put the key back so that maybe she won’t realize I used it and blame herself. It’s the least I can do; this is already not fair to her. But the temptation to be close to him one last time is too great for me to resist.
The house is quiet, empty, shadowy. The stairs creak as I go up, but there is no one to hear and I relish the sound, remembering how we ran up the stairs together.
The door to Finny’s room is closed. I knew it would be. No one has been in there since he and I walked out of it holding hands.
I use clear tape to hang the sign I made on the door.
Please, do not try to break down the door. It is too late for you to do anything. Call the police and let them handle this part.
And I come into this room and lock the door behind me.
87
In books, people always wake up in the hospital and can’t remember how they got there, and then it all slowly comes back to them.
I opened my eyes and thought, “Oh shit.”
***
I sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, wearing a scratchy blue nightgown. The hospital blanket is depressingly small and thin, more like a beach towel. I have an IV in one hand and my wrists are so neatly wrapped and taped that it makes me wonder about the person who bandaged them. I study my bandages as the nurse takes my blood pressure and asks me if I know what day it is.
“And do you remember why you are here, dear?” the nurse asks me. I dislike her voice. “Autumn?”
“I remember,” I say. I remember much more than I wish I did, since I am planning on doing it all over again.
She asks more questions. I mumble answers. I shouldn’t ask about the person who did the bandages because that would be weird, and I need to get out of here as soon as possible. Finny would forgive me. No, Finny will forgive me when I get to explain to him afterward. I touch the cotton wrapping with one finger.
“And when was your last menstrual cycle, dear?”
For the first time in weeks, everything within me goes still and silent.
“On what day did you last have your period, Autumn?” I look up at her face for the first time. She’s younger than I thought.
“I can’t remember,” I say. She frowns.
88
Finny wouldn’t approve of me trying again if I am pregnant. I could argue with him all I wanted, but he wouldn’t budge. Finny couldn’t stand to let worms die on the sidewalks; I would never be able to convince him that it would be for the best.
I can see the expression on his face. His frown of disapproval. I try to explain to him and he just raises his eyebrows at me.
People do things like this. Aunt Angelina did.
We could live with The Mothers at first; they would be happy to have us. I could wait tables and save money and go to college a few courses at a time. I could still write at night,
maybe not every night, but still.
Just because something seems impossible doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t try.
And of course, it wouldn’t be like having him back. Not really. But it would be better than not having him at all. I remember him holding Angie’s baby at the hospital, the way he stared in wonder at that small face.
And Finny smirks at me because he knows he has won.
89
“It’s hospital policy, dear,” the nurse says. I blink at her.
“What is?”
“The test.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Now, I am leaving the room for just one minute. The ward is locked. Are you going to behave yourself and wait right here?”
“Yeah,” I say, “I’ll wait.” She leaves me. I wrap my arms around my middle and press until my wrists ache. My eyes close. I’ll wait. And I’ll be okay.
And for the first time in years, I feel like things are going to turn out the way they were always meant to be.
Acknowledgments
My husband, Robert, held my hand both literally and figuratively as I struggled to achieve this dream. Baby, we’ve done it.
My parents, Gary and Susan Nowlin, raised me to love myself and to love books. Mom, thanks for giving me a passion for beauty in all its forms. Dad, thanks for being exactly the opposite of Autumn’s father.
My big sister, Elizabeth Nowlin, is awesome. Thanks for toughening me up.
My in-laws, Jay and Tina Rosener, are two of the most loving and generous people I have ever met. Guys, I could not have done this without your support.
My agent, Ali McDonald, made this dream come true. Thank you. Thank you so very, very much.
And thank you, God, for these and all the many blessings you have given me.
About the Author
Laura Nowlin holds a B.A. in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing from Missouri State University. When she isn’t at home agonizing over her own novels, Laura works at the public library where the patrons give her plenty of inspiration for her writing. She lives in St. Louis with her musician husband, neurotic dog, and psychotic cat. Thank you for reading her book.
Laura Nowlin, If He Had Been with Me
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