At the resale shop, Mom found a dresser to double as a changing table that matches the wood tones already in my room. She was so pleased that I said yes, even though it felt, at the time, like it was all happening too fast.
But now, having it feels like proof, proof that Finny’s baby is real.
“I have all the drawers sorted.” I open the second from the top. “Look at this one,” I say, and we paw through together, unfolding each onesie to exclaim over it and therefore undoing all the meticulous work I had done.
The feeling remains. I’ve proved something to myself or Angie.
This is real.
Really real.
Sometimes it’s hard to believe.
Usually, it’s hard to believe, actually, and the rare times that it does feel real, it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced. And then I wish Finny was with me to make me less afraid, and the grief takes over.
Without my asking, Angie helps me fold everything again. She suggests a different drawer for pajamas that makes sense. I try to ignore the part about how I won’t want to have to root around in a lower drawer “while covered in something or other.”
“I promise that was the last mom thing we talk about today,” I tell her as I close the last drawer. “We should watch a movie.”
“I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk about mom stuff with me,” Angie sighs. “It’s an impossible balance. On one hand, Guinevere is everything to me, and on the other, I’m still me.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I think I get that.” Hoping that she understands my line of thinking, I add, “I finished my novel over the summer.”
“Autumn, that’s amazing,” Angie says as we descend the stairs.
“That is not the word for it,” I say. We stop together at the bottom of the stairs. “I mean, everyone knows someone who’s written a novel.”
“I don’t!” Angie says.
I try to suppress my smile and fail.
“I mean, I didn’t until now!”
“It’s great that I finished it,” I say. “Hopefully it will be amazing someday.” I’d tried to begin edits last week, but I had to stop to cry, and I haven’t been able to look at it again.
When I’d first written it, my novel felt like a place to put all the secret feelings I carried for Finny. But now that I know I could have told him, that I didn’t have to hide in my writing, it makes the manuscript impossible to read.
“Can I read it?” Angie asks. We’re heading back to the living room couch.
“Um—” I try to think as we sit down.
“Has anyone read it?”
“I thought you’d recorded my devotion in perfect detail and then dropped it in my lap without considering my feelings.”
I freeze, but since I was about to sit down, I sort of fall on the couch. I close my eyes.
“And I still loved it as a story.”
“Autumn?”
I open my eyes. Angie is leaning toward me, frowning in that concerned way I’m used to from The Mothers.
I take a deep breath. “Finny read it. That was part of our last day together.”
“I bet he said it was incredible.”
“You’re a good writer, Autumn. You’ve always been good.”
If only he could tell me that I’ll be a good mother.
I know I’m a good writer. Now I want to be both a good writer and a good mother.
“Autumn? You okay?”
“Sorry, I was thinking…” I trail off.
“It’s fine, Autumn. We’ve been friends long enough for me to know you get weird sometimes.”
“That’s offensive, Angie. I’m always weird, and you know it,” I tease, trying to shift the mood. “So how are other things with Dave?”
Angie sighs. “I took your advice. I told him I appreciated his not making a big deal about the sex thing. It meant a lot to him, and we had this great conversation about how I want to get back to having sex regularly, which actually turned into us fooling around a bit.”
“That sounds good—”
“For a couple of days, things were so much better. Then yesterday he hit me with the ‘all you talk about is the baby’ comment—”
“But you said that it led to a good conversation too?”
“It did!” Angie leans back against the couch. “But I can’t shake it. I hate that he even thought it.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” I say.