If Only I Had Told Her

I thought a mental hospital would be a stately building at the end of a long driveway with a big green lawn, like in movies, but it’s simply another wing at the hospital. It has its own front desk, waiting room with vinyl seats, and watercooler.

When I approach the desk and ask about Autumn, the nurse looks doubtful, like maybe he should send me away, but he says visiting hours start in forty minutes. The staff will give my name to Autumn.

“I’ll let you know if she doesn’t want to see you.”

The nurse pauses to gauge my reaction. When I shrug, he seems satisfied and goes out a door behind the desk.

I sit down in one of the chairs to wait. Its possible Autumn won’t want to see me. I suppose if I’d thrown a fit about it, it would be a sign I wasn’t someone who should see a patient.

When the nurse returns, he says, “You’re on her approved visitors list now, but you still have to wait another half hour.” He eyes the bag in my hand. “Is that for her?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to have to go through it. And she can’t have a plastic bag. I’ll give you a paper one.”

I pass him the bag and am grateful that I took out the condoms before coming. He roots around, looking for drugs or a knife, I guess. I think about the plastic bag being a danger to Autumn.

The nurse dumps the bag’s contents into a paper sack and hands it to me. I smile and say thanks. This must be a tense place to work.

The half hour goes by quickly, because I’m trying to figure out what to say to Autumn. The waiting room fills with other visitors, but the room stays silent. Before I’m ready, the nurse tells us that we can follow him, and we’re led to what looks like a school cafeteria.

The other visitors seem to know the drill, and everyone sits down at their own table. I pick one and look around the room. It even smells like a school cafeteria. There’s a beep and a dull thud. A different set of doors opens.

Autumn emerges from the group of strangers. I watch her scan the tables before she sees me. Her blank expression doesn’t change as she starts toward me.

“Hi.” She slips into the chair across from me.

“Hey,” I say. “Um, how are you?”

She looks like a store mannequin modeling baggy clothes.

“Even on a regular day, I’ve never known how to answer that question.”

She doesn’t look at me but up and over my shoulder, as if the answer is in the air.

“I think most people lie,” I tell her.

Autumn doesn’t smile, but her shoulders relax a bit, and she starts to look more like herself, so I continue.

“Everyone always says they’re fine. Everyone can’t be fine all the time. We all just pretend it’s true.”

“I guess I’m not good at pretending,” she says.

“Maybe you used to be too good at pretending.”

Autumn cocks her head to the side.

I try to untangle my thoughts. “Finn talked about you being depressed, and I could never see it. No one at school could. I thought he was—or you were—”

Am I seriously about to tell her that up until Finn died, I thought she was a fake?

“I’m pregnant,” Autumn blurts out.

We stare at each other.

What?

“Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s hard to think about anything else.”

“And Finn—”

“Of course.”

I burst out laughing, which is probably better than calling her fake, but still. She looks confused and perhaps even alarmed, so I try to explain.

“I cleaned out Finn’s car for Angelina, and this was under the seat. He bought this stuff right before—” I clear my throat and push the bag across the table toward her. “I thought you should have this. I probably should have given this to you then. Sorry.” I pause. “It’s more proof that he was coming back to you.”

Autumn reaches out and touches the bag but doesn’t open it.

“I laughed because, well, if you look at the receipt, he bought some—” I give up.

She opens the bag and touches the candy in a way that makes me think of his mother. She glances at me and takes out the receipt. She scans it and laughs too.

Then she blushes, and I look away. When I glance back, she’s stroking the candy packets tenderly.

“That’s a lot of candy,” I say.

“There’s only one place that sells these. Finny never liked that gas station. He only went there to get these for me. Maybe he was trying to avoid it for a while.”

“Why didn’t he like it?”

“I don’t know.” Autumn pauses, then picks up a packet and opens it.

“Maybe he thought it was unsafe for some reason?” I venture. “You know how safety conscious he was.”

Autumn pauses with the candy dipstick in her hand. “I never thought of Finny that way, but I suppose you’re right.” I’m honestly stunned until she says, “I always thought of him as protective.”

It makes sense, the way we’re seeing the same trait through our different lenses.

“Have you told his mom yet?” I ask.

Autumn shakes her head. “You’re the first person I told. I found out a week ago. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.” She’s finally dipping the stick in her candy powder and stirring it slowly.

“But you’re going to make a go of it and all that?”

“Yeah, I want to have it. I don’t know what I’d do if Finny were alive though.” She puts the candy stick in her mouth and gazes at the table. She sort of laughs and shrugs.

She’s pregnant. Autumn’s going to have Finn’s baby.

Finn’s baby.

“Well, if you are going to be around St. Louis still, when I’m home, maybe I can help or visit. Finn’s baby.”

Autumn smiles. The mannequin look is gone. “You were important to Finny. I’m going to need—”

She looks away.

I try to anticipate her answer. Diapers? Rides?

“I’m going to need people to tell stories about Finn, and I’m going to need a copy of every picture you have.”

I’m thinking about all the people crying at Finn’s funeral. Of his mom saying that it was proof of the mark he’d made.

“Yeah.” In my mind, I start to make a list of people to ask about pictures. Everyone I’d seen at the wake, at Alexis’s party. The time to ask people for stories is now. While the details are fresh. While the grief is still fresh. “There’re some people I can call too,” I say. “And down the line, if you need diapers or…”

“I don’t know what I’ll need,” Autumn says. “Parents always seem to need…everything…”

She’s gazing over my shoulder again, like a list of baby items is floating in the air behind me.

I wait for her to finish her thought. When she doesn’t, I say, “What do you think your moms—I mean, your mom and Angelina will think?”

Autumn shakes her head, and she looks down at the table between us. “They’re going to be happy. But they’re going to be worried about me.”

“I can see that,” I say.

“Ten minutes!” The nurse shouts from across the room, making us both jump.

We both laugh and fall into silence. She’s looking more alive than at the start of my visit.

“So, uh—” I’m not sure if I should say this, but something is telling me that Finn would want her to know. “Sylvie wanted me to tell you something.”

Autumn looks uncomfortable. She bites her lip, and I hurry my words so she doesn’t think I came here to yell at her for Sylvie.

“She’s glad you’re okay. Or going to be okay.”

Autumn’s face turns from uneasy to skeptical.

“She wanted me to come see you,” I insist. “She wants you to get better.”

Autumn gives me a withering look. If I were lying or exaggerating, I would squirm under her glare. But I’m not.

“I don’t think you get it.” I’m angry, because she should get it. “Just like you need my memories of Finn? The part of him that loved you is still alive as long as you are, Autumn. You almost took another part of Finn away from all of us. So yeah, Sylvie gives enough of a shit to ask me to make sure you’re not determined to take yourself and all your memories of Finn to an early grave. And now that you’re pregnant—” I stop. I’m practically yelling at a pregnant suicidal woman.

“I’m not going to do it again,” she whispers. Her voice quavers.

“Oh shit,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. I’m mad at me too.”

“I shouldn’t make you cry though,” I say. I glance nervously over at the nurse, but he hasn’t noticed. Yet.

Autumn surprises me by laughing instead of crying.

“Are you sure Sylvie will still want me alive when she finds out I’m having Finny’s baby?”

“I mean, I don’t think she’s going to throw you a baby shower or anything, but she isn’t a monster. So yeah, when Sylvie eventually finds out, she’s going to want you to be healthy, happy.” I shrug. “Just know that you have a lot of people who care for you. And everyone, fucking everyone, who loved Finn wants you to be okay too, okay? Even if something happens to this baby. Stay alive.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“Time!” the nurse booms.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

When she hugs me goodbye, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels like hugging Finn. I know now that she’s going to be part of my life for a long time.

It isn’t until I’m driving home that it dawns on me: I’ve been thinking about Finn, and for the first time since Alexis’s call that morning, it doesn’t hurt.

I’m so, so grateful that Finn was once alive and that I got to love him. That he got to love and be loved.

And be loved still.