If Only I Had Told Her
Laura Nowlin
This book is dedicated to the memory of
Aliksir Drago Jaan
And in honor of all parents whose children live on in their hearts.
author’s note
In the winter of 2009, my husband found me crying over my secondhand IBM ThinkPad. He kneeled in front of me in my “office” （a deep window ledge in our tiny studio apartment that I’d claimed as a desk）， and I sobbed to him,
“I have to let Finny die inside my brain now!”
As I first drafted Autumn’s narrative in If He Had Been with Me, I crafted Finn’s side of the story within me, and I could feel all his thoughts and passion. I had even written a page and a half of Finn’s story. When my husband found me crying, it was because I had realized that I needed to delete those pages. I had no agent, no literary prospects; I couldn’t write a whole new novel from his perspective when my energy would be better spent revising the novel that I’d already written from Autumn’s point of view. So I dried my tears and focused on making sure Autumn’s story was the best it could be. I let Finny’s voice fade. I let him die again within me.
Over the years, so many readers have asked for a Finny POV, and I’ve always said, “I’m sorry, he’s dead; I can’t bring him back.” And it was true. I didn’t have that power. But Gina Rogers had that power.
I hadn’t planned to listen to the audiobook. The idea of my words in someone else’s mouth terrified me. But then Gina sent me a message asking that if I ever listened, I provide feedback—even if it was negative—because she too was an artist striving for an ideal. I was so touched by her sentiment and dedication to her craft that I decided to give it a listen.
The moment I heard Gina as Finny say “Hey” to Autumn at the bus stop, I felt him stir within me. Before I was done listening, he was alive and, dear reader, Finny was mad at me. Not for killing him—he understood I had to make If He Had Been with Me the best story that I could—but he had a few things that he wanted to say, some things he needed to clarify. Given his miraculous resurrection, his request seemed reasonable, and I was compelled to let him finally have his say.
So forgive me if I ever swore to you that this book would never exist. At the time, I believed it with my whole artist’s heart.
But life is like that sometimes, and that’s a good thing.
content warning
This novel includes depictions of death, depression, suicide, and pregnancy.
If you or someone you know is experiencing mental-health distress or crisis, please reach out for help.
Suicide and Crisis Lifeline:
Call or text 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org.
finn
one
Autumn is a terror to sleep beside. She talks, kicks, steals the covers, uses you as a pillow. The stories I could tell if I had anyone to tell them to. Autumn is uncharacteristically embarrassed about her nocturnal chaos though, and it’s one of her eccentricities for which she will not tolerate a bit of teasing. Our mothers—“The Mothers” as Autumn started calling them when we were young—have their own tales of Autumn’s nighttime calamities, and the look that she gives them has been enough to stop me from sharing my childhood memories of her violent, restless sleepovers.
This summer, I discovered just how much she hasn’t changed. The other day, she fell asleep watching me play video games. I had finally, finally, made a specific timed jump when she flung her arm onto my lap, causing my guy to fall to his death. I gently lifted her hand off me and scooted over a few inches, but not too far. I didn’t tell her about it when she woke up; she would say something about going back home when she starts to feel tired, and I’d rather give away all my games than lose a minute of whatever has been happening between us since Jamie broke up with her.
I made sure to insert myself between Autumn and Jack last night for this very reason. It was clear that we were crashing at my house, and I felt it was my duty to be the one to take the blows.
I have to admit: I’d hoped for something like this.
It was her fingers twitching against my ribs that first woke me.
Aunt Claire is right. Autumn snores now. She didn’t when we were children. I’d believed Autumn when, again and again, she insisted that her mother was only joking.
But here we are, in this blanket tent I made for her, her head under the crook of my arm. She’s on her side, curled in a tight ball, snoring, though not loudly. Her breath comes in hot, short puffs.
After Jack fell asleep last night, she and I stayed up talking for a while. Autumn was drifting, but I hadn’t wanted to give her up yet, so I kept her talking until she said, “Hush, Finny. I need to focus on sweeping.”