A Year Without Autumn (24 page)

The doctor is still talking. “He’s being treated as we speak,” he says. “As soon as we’ve operated, we’ll be able to tell you the situation more accurately. But I
can
tell you that, barring any unforeseen circumstances, he should almost certainly make a full recovery.”

“A
what
?” I yelp. Did he just say what I thought he said? He couldn’t have. I must have heard wrong. I need to be sure. “Can you say that again?”

The doctor turns to me and smiles. As he does so, I can’t help wondering if this is the very same doctor who saw Autumn and her family in the other version of this moment. Were they sitting on these very chairs? Did he smile at them that time, too?

“All our tests tell us that Mikey should be fine,” he says. “He’ll have a bit of a sore head for a week or so, and a great story for his friends — but that should be about it. If you hadn’t gotten him here so quickly, this could have been very different. Another hour and the bleed could well have developed to a point beyond our control.”

“What would that have meant?” Autumn asks.

Dr. Wilson shakes his head. “It’s hard to say for sure. But, potentially, brain damage, coma . . . It could have even been fatal.” He turns to Dad. “But thanks to you, Mr. Green, young Mikey should be just fine.”

I look over at Dad. He’s staring at me. His eyes are watery. I’ve never seen my dad cry. Ever. He tries to speak. Then he scratches his forehead and shakes his head. “It was Jenni,” he croaks, eventually. “It was all thanks to Jenni.”

Dr. Wilson comes over to me and looks right into my eyes. “Well, you, my dear, are a brave, smart, and lucky young lady. You don’t even want to
think
about what this could have meant without your actions.”

“No,” I reply, banishing the pictures in my head of the world where I know
exactly
what it could have meant. I look back at him and, for what feels like the first time in about a hundred years, I smile. “You’re right. I don’t.”

It’s the last day of our week here, and there’s something I need to do.

“I’m going to see Autumn,” I say to Mom and Dad. They’re sitting cuddled up together on the sofa, looking at a parenting magazine. Craig’s playing with a miniature digger on the floor. I stop to look at them all. Mom’s face is so content. Will it stay that way? Will
they
stay that way — in love, relaxed,
together
?

“Send our love to them all,” Mom says, looking up from her happy haze. I smile back at her, and as I do, it’s almost as if I can see the future in her eyes. And I realize that there’s no reason for anything to go wrong, now that Mikey’s OK. No reason for Mom to drive herself crazy worrying about losing a child. Mom and Dad will be just fine — I’ll make sure of it!

I go over and kiss them both. “Will do,” I say. And then I head over to Autumn’s condo — in the normal elevator. There’s no way I’m going in that other one ever again!

There’s music coming from inside and a smell of incense wafting out. I smile at the signs of Leonard family normality as I knock.

Autumn’s mom opens the door. “Hi, Jenni,” she says, smiling. “Come on in.”

Autumn’s on the sofa sitting next to Mikey. They’re watching a cartoon together. Mikey’s got a bandage around his head and a very grumpy look on his face.

“How you doing, Mikey?” I ask, sitting down to join them.

He grunts something unintelligible in reply.

“He’s so miserable,” Autumn says. “His head’s too sore for him to play his video games or run around doing anything interesting.”

“Did they say how long till he’ll feel OK?”

“Couple of weeks at most, they think. Then he should be totally normal again. Well, as normal as Mikey could ever be!” Autumn smiles at me. “One of the nurses said you were a heroine,” she says. “I told her you’re my best friend, and she said I’m the luckiest girl in America to have such a great best friend.”

Her words are like the sunshine, warming me up inside.

“I told her she was wrong, though,” Autumn says, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

My warm feeling evaporates on the spot. “Oh.”

Then Autumn smiles so brightly, the room lifts another notch in color and light. “I told her I’m the luckiest girl in the WORLD!”

I grin back at her. “So am I,” I say. And for the first time, I realize what being best friends means. It’s not about thinking that she’s the most amazing person ever, and I’m the luckiest person alive because she’s my best friend.
No one’s
the most amazing person ever. We’re all just who we are. I still think she’s wonderful. But I deserve her because — you know what? — I’m not bad, either.

“Best friends forever,” Autumn says.

“Absolutely. Nothing will ever get in the way of that,” I say, meaning it more than she will ever know. “Nothing.”

Autumn flops back into the sofa. “So, what do you feel like doing today?” she asks casually.

For a moment, I hesitate. When was the last time Autumn asked
me
what we were doing? I don’t think I can remember a time. Then I smile as I realize how many things I’ve changed.

I get up. “Follow me,” I say.

Autumn jumps up and stands in line behind me. “Ooh, follow the leader. Fab!” I start walking across the room, and Autumn follows behind me, bouncing up and down in a funny walk that makes even Mikey laugh as he watches us.

I lead Autumn out of the room, out of the apartment, and out into the beautiful day. Across the road, Mr. Barraclough is walking toward the reception building. He gives us a quick wave and goes inside.

That’s when I realize there’s still something I’ve got to do.

“I just need to pop in there,” I say as we pass the reception building. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

I’ve got to try it. I owe it to her, and to myself.

He’s just inside the hallway.

“Mr. Barraclough!”

He turns and smiles. “Jenni, hi. How’s Mikey doing?”

“He’s fine,” I say.

“Just a bandaged-up head, eh?” Mr. Barraclough says. “I guess it could have been worse.”

“Yes, it could,” I agree. “A lot worse.” I fumble to reach into my pocket. “I’ve got something for you.”

“For me?” Mr. Barraclough watches as I pull something out.

“It’s a letter,” I say. “But you’ve got to do exactly what I say.”

He stifles a laugh. “Exactly what you say?”

“Please,” I insist. “It’s important.”

I hand him the letter. “Read it now,” I say. “On your own. And then you have to go up to the second floor of the old building, condo 210, and take the letter with you.”

Mr. Barraclough’s staring at the folded pages. “Who’s this from?” he asks, suddenly serious. “Where did you get it?”

“It’ll all be explained if you do what I say. Condo 210, OK?”

“Right, right,” he says, wandering away, still staring at the letter.

“Mr. Barraclough,” I call after him.

He stops, turns.

“I haven’t told you the most important thing.”

“And that is?”

“Use the elevator,” I say carefully.

“Yes, yes, if you insist.” He turns away again.

“Listen!” I call after him. He stops again. “The
old
one,” I say. “The one that doesn’t work. Use that one.” He stares hard at me then, as though he’s looking for something more in my words. “Very well,” he says eventually, holding my eyes. “I will.”

We’ve been sitting talking and watching the weir rush by for the last hour. Autumn hasn’t suggested we try to cross it. Even
she
wouldn’t do it when it’s this full. She hasn’t suggested we climb any trees or leap any fences, either. But even if she did, I wouldn’t mind. The last few days have made me realize that I can do a lot more than I’d thought.

Autumn suddenly jumps to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Two people are coming toward us as we head up the path. As they get closer, I see it’s Christine and Sally. “Hi,” they say, smiling at Autumn and blanking on me, as usual.

“Come on, Autumn,” I say, heading the opposite way.

“Oooohh, don’t answer us, then!” Christine snorts, sticking her nose in the air.

“What was that for?” Autumn asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. Sorry. I just don’t like them. I don’t think they’re real friends.”

We’re passing the front doors to Autumn’s building when there’s a clunking noise from inside. Through the glass door, we see the old elevator being opened.

“I thought that one didn’t work,” Autumn says.

“Maybe they fixed it,” I reply casually as two people emerge from the elevator. Mr. Barraclough — and Mrs. Smith! They’re smiling at each other, lost in a world of their own.

Mr. Barraclough stops to hold the door for her, and they come outside. His eyes are radiant; his smile seems to light the space around them. I’ve never seen him smile like that. And I’ve never seen two people who look so much as though they belong together.

They don’t notice Autumn and me. I guess Mrs. Smith wouldn’t remember me, anyway. Maybe in her world, we didn’t even meet.

But as they amble slowly up the path, Mrs. Smith looks back over her shoulder. Catching my eye, she smiles at me so broadly, I can’t help grinning back at her. Her face is a mix of happiness, confusion, and gratitude.
She does remember me!
Then, when no one’s looking, she mouths,
Was this you?

That’s when I realize — of course! Mr. Barraclough only went forward a year. She hadn’t even written her letter then! I nod and give her a sneaky thumbs-up in reply. I did it! I really did it. I changed everything!

Mrs. Smith mouths,
“Thank you”
and smiles. Then she turns back to Mr. Barraclough. He takes her hand in his as they walk away.

Autumn nudges me and points to their locked hands. “Who’s that, then?”

“Mr. Barraclough’s wife, perhaps?” I say, smiling.

She gasps. “Wife? I didn’t know he was married.”

“I’m pretty sure he isn’t,” I say. “But I’ve got the feeling he might be soon.”

We continue on up the path. As we walk along, the questions slip into my mind. Will I ever tell Autumn the truth about what happened? Would she believe me if I did? Would it make her angry like last time, or would it be the best secret in the world to share?

“Come on. Let’s go to our place,” Autumn says, and I remember the last time we went there. When was it? Yesterday? Last week?
Next year?

And then I can’t help laughing to myself as I realize that none of the questions matter now. The past is over and done with, and the future will look after itself. The present is all we’ve got — and, right now, it’s all I want.

Autumn turns to look at me. “What’re you laughing at?” she asks.

“Everything!” I say, looking around me at all the things that are back to normal. “The fact that the parking spaces aren’t numbered and the ivy isn’t too bushy — and your dad owns a bright-red Porsche.”

“Weirdo!” Autumn rolls her eyes and nudges me in the ribs. “How on earth did I get stuck with you as my best friend?” she asks with a laugh.

I punch her on the arm. “I dunno,” I say, quickening my step as we cross over the bridge and head for our place by the river. “I guess you could call it good timing.”

I would like to thank . . .

my family, for all sorts of reading and listening and pointing out of things that they’ve done during the process of my writing this book — even though they’ve probably forgotten that they did most of it, as I did start writing it a long time ago!

Fiona Kennedy, for deciding that actually the book really was worth publishing after all;

Amber Caravéo, for helping me to make it the best it could possibly be;

Catherine Clarke, for still and always being the best, nicest, most supportive, and generally fabbest agent ever;

Jonathan Engler and Meliora Thomas, for helping me with my medical facts. (If I’ve got any wrong, it will be because I didn’t listen properly. They know their stuff!);

Laura Tonge, for doing, saying, and being all the right things at all the right times;

The Candlewick folk, for being wonderful to work with, and for doing so many great things for me and my books;

and the usual writer buddies, for the usual support, encouragement, feedback, and general sharing of the agonies and ecstasies of this writing lark.