A Year Without Autumn

by Liz Kessler

  I should tell you first of all: I have lived a happy-enough life. At least, as happy as it could have been, given my rather unusual circumstances. But more of that later. For now, I want to tell you this, and if it seems somewhat dramatic or obtuse, then at least I don’t need to worry about what your reaction may be. I can tell you my true feelings — I can tell you anything at all — because I know that you will never read this letter. And so I am going to tell you the truth — the truth that I have never spoken aloud and that no one has ever known. The secret that has been stored in my heart, like a genie hidden in a bottle.

  My secret is that I have always loved you and I always will.

  There, I’ve said it. And it’s true. But it’s also pointless, and so I am writing this letter to get the feelings out of me and let them rest, before they can take away any more of my years or trap me any longer with the hold they have over me. And so, Bobby, I —

  The front door slams. “Back!” a boy’s voice shouts. Craig. A moment later his feet thump up the stairs, and I quickly fold the letter, place it in my pocket, and shove my diary in the bedside drawer.

  Craig appears at the door. A grown boy, mud all over his T-shirt, spiky, gelled hair, but a still-childish scowl on his face. “What are you doing?” he asks in a grown-up, serious voice.

  I get off the bed and pick up some of his clothes. “Cleaning up.”

  He shrugs. Then he squints at me. “What are you wearing?”

  I pull at my T-shirt. “I —”

  “Lunchtime!” Dad calls from the living room. “Craig, get changed.”

  Craig pulls a clean shirt out of the closet and disappears into the bathroom. I shut the bedroom door after him, then grab some clothes out of my closet and throw them on, shoving the letter in my pocket. At least I look more normal now, even if I don’t feel it.

  We’re just finishing lunch when there’s a quiet knock at the door.

  “I’ll get it.” Craig leaps up from the table.

  A moment later, he calls me from the hall. “It’s Autumn,” he says as he sits back down at the table.

  “Autumn?” Dad looks surprised. “I thought you two weren’t speaking.”

  “We — we weren’t,” I mumble as I get up from the table.

  “Have you made up again, then?”

  “Um. I’m not sure. I think so, maybe,” I falter.

  “Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?” Dad says, smiling at Karen.

  “OK if I go out?” I ask.

  “Of course it is, love.” Karen answers this time, putting a hand on Dad’s knee. It feels really weird to see her do that.

  “Great.” I hurry to the door.

  Autumn’s waiting outside. She gives me a shy smile as I close the door behind me and follow her out. “Shall we go for a walk?” she asks.

  “Definitely!” We walk along in silence for a while, following the path upriver, the opposite way from earlier.

  “Look, I’m sorry about before,” I say eventually. “I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Neither do I.” Autumn laughs.

  I grimace. “I shouldn’t have done it,” I repeat.

  Autumn reaches out to grab my arm. I stop walking. “Yes, you should have,” she says seriously. “It was amazing. It was like an electric shock.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  Autumn shakes her head. “I don’t know. I feel like you woke me up again. Seeing you like that. You’ve never done anything like that. It was always me, wasn’t it? I’d always take the lead. I’d be the pushy one, telling everyone else what to do.”

  “Yeah, you could say that,” I admit, a smile creeping onto my face.

  “I always used to wish I could be more like you.”

  I nearly fall over in shock. “More like me?” I gasp. “Why on earth would you want to be like me?”

  Autumn kicks her feet in the gravel as she carries on up the path. “You’re so calm and steady. You take things as they come, take people as they are. And they’re the same with you. You’re easy to please.”

  “Oh, thanks!”

  “No, I don’t mean it in a bad way. I mean — I mean, things make you happy really easily, you’re laid-back. You don’t have to be the center of attention in order to feel good.”

  “But you’re the center of attention because you’re so much fun.”

  Autumn stops again and turns to me. “Do I seem like much fun now?”

  I don’t reply.

  “That’s the problem, you see. I’ve spent my whole life being like that — but I can’t do it anymore, and now nothing works.”

  “What doesn’t work?”

  “Me. My life,” she says. Her voice is dark and empty. “I put on this act, make people think I’m coping, make them think I’m happy enough. I spent the first year after the accident looking after Mom and Dad, the second year falling apart myself, and the third — well, I don’t even know where that’s gone. It’s as if I’ve disappeared altogether. I’ve turned into a paper-thin image of who I really am — and you just showed that all up for the pretense it is.”

  “How did I do that?”

  Autumn smiles shyly. “You reminded me what real friendship is.”

  I can feel my cheeks burning. For a moment, it all feels worth it. Everything I’ve gone through over these last few days. It is all going to work out after all! Even if I end up trapped three years ahead forever, at least I’ll have Autumn by my side. We’ll be best friends forever. I’ll tell her everything, and we’ll help each other cope with it all. She’ll help me fill in the gaps, and I’ll help her deal with everything that’s happened to her. A huge weight feels like it’s flying off me and into the distance.

  And then Autumn speaks again, and the weight boomerangs around and comes back to hit me flat in the stomach.

  “But it’s not enough,” she says.

  “What? What isn’t enough?”

  “Any of it. It’s too late.”

  “I don’t understand. Too late for what?”

  Autumn shakes her head. “For anything,” she says eventually. “For everything.” Her voice comes out as a squeak, as though the words are being squeezed and strangled in her throat.

  “Autumn, what are you talking about?” I repeat, taking a step closer toward her.

  She wipes the back of her hand across her face. “I can’t — I can’t . . . Please, just let it go, Jen.”

  One look at her tearstained face is all I need to let me know this is serious. “No, I won’t let it go,” I say firmly. A tiny part of me registers a split second of shock. I’ve never said no to Autumn before!

  Autumn looks into my eyes. She takes a deep breath, and when she speaks, her voice is so soft, it’s like a whisper on a breeze. “You remember last year, when I was so mean to you? I told you to stop living in a fantasy world? And I was so mad at Mom and Dad for hanging on to the smallest bits of hope?”

  “I remember,” I say. It’s not hard, seeing as it was only a few hours ago in my world.

  “Well, I was wrong.”

  “What do you mean? You were wrong about what?”

  “I thought that we’d all do better to face the truth. But I want the fantasy back,” she says.

  I stop walking and turn to face her. “Autumn, what are you trying to say?”

  She stops as well and looks at me. “They’ve been seeing a counselor for the last year. They’ve managed to drag me along a few times, too. He’s helped them face the facts. Helped us all to come to terms with the reality. With what the doctors have been telling us all for three years. That all we’re doing is prolonging the inevitable.”

  There’s a cold feeling that I can’t explain slithering around inside my body. It creeps up my spine, snakes along the back of my neck, and comes to settle in my throat. “I don’t understand,” I say eventually. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Autumn’s shoulders shake as she drops her head. Her reply is barely audible. “They wante
d us to come here to make the decision — the place where it happened, the last place we were happy together. We talked last night, and we’ve all agreed. We tried to find a way around it, but we’ve spent so long clutching at straws, there’s nothing left to hold on to.”

  “Agreed about what?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I know what she’s about to say.

  “We’re telling the doctors when we get home: it’s time to turn the machines off.” Autumn’s eyes are green pools of tears. “My little brother’s going to die.” And with that, she falls against me and sobs so hard her whole body shakes. “I can’t bear it, Jenni. My baby brother. I’m going to lose him forever.”

  I wrap my arms around her as tight as I can and try to stop myself from crying with her. She needs me to be strong — and I’m going to be whatever she needs.

  “Oh, Autumn. I wish I could change things,” I say as I hold her tight. “I wish more than anything that I could.” Little Mikey. I saw him two days ago, right here. And now — it’s unthinkable. It’s impossible.

  “I know,” she says. “So do I. I’ve wished it every day for the last three years — wished we could have acted quicker at the time. Those three hours from when it happened to when he was finally scanned — how could a couple of measly hours make such a difference? Even one of them could have been enough to save him, enough to catch the bleed before it spread too far for them to operate. No one will ever know how much I’ve wished for those hours back — wished I’d never told him to gallop on that stupid horse and wished I hadn’t believed him when he said he felt fine after the fall.”

  “Autumn, it’s not your fault.”

  “I know. I know. I’m past that. I know it’s no one’s fault. And I know that no one can change any of it. You can’t turn back time and make it all different. I wish you could, though.”

  That’s when I realize. My arms suddenly feel heavy, and I let go of Autumn.

  Can’t you?

  I’ve spent all this time thinking I’m trapped here for good — but there has to be a way to get back. There has to be. I might not be able to stop it from happening, but if I could just get back to the present day, I could get back to a reality where Autumn still has three more years with her kid brother alive. Let her live those three years again. And now that I know what’s ahead, I can be stronger for her; be a better friend; be by her side, no matter what. We could spend more time at the hospital, look after him better; maybe we could even do loads of research, find something that could change all this — maybe even discover a way of getting him out of the coma. Who says we couldn’t?

  I’ve got to be able to do something. I’ve got to at least try — or Mikey will be dead next week.

  “Jenni, are you OK?” Autumn’s staring at me.

  “What?”

  “Are you OK? You’ve gone pale.”

  I pull my sleeve back to look at my watch. It’s one thirty. In half an hour — three years ago — Autumn and her parents are going to get the news that Mikey’s in a coma that the doctors believe to be permanent. I need to be with her when she hears this. We need to do the whole thing differently. I have to find a way.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say suddenly.

  “You’re leaving me? Now? After everything I’ve just said?”

  I take both of her hands in mine. “Autumn, I’m not leaving you. I’m going to change things. Not everything, but some of it. I’m going to make it better.”

  “But how —?”

  “Just trust me, OK? Do you trust me?”

  She nods.

  “OK, I have to go, then.”

  “Jenni,” she says softly.

  I pause at her side. “What?”

  She swallows. “I’m sorry. For everything. I’m sorry I pushed you away.”

  I smile at my best friend. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” I say. “Nothing at all. It’s going to be OK. You’ll see.”

  And then I run up the path, back to Autumn’s building. If I can just get back to the elevator, if I can find a way of getting into it again somehow. There’s got to be a way. Things can’t be stuck like this forever.

  I’m standing on the fourth floor, in front of the old elevator. Correction, in front of where the old elevator used to be. But there’s absolutely no sign that it was ever there.

  Maybe there never was another elevator. Perhaps I really did lose my memory. Or imagined this entire thing. Maybe I really am losing my mind. I lean against the wall, letting my head fall against it. It makes a hollow thud.

  Hollow. The wall’s hollow. It’s plasterboard! The elevator must still be behind it! Maybe I can get to it after all. I hammer against it with my fists. But it’s useless. All I’m doing is bruising my hands.

  I search frantically around me. Nothing. The place is always so tidy, so perfect.

  Then I remember the closet downstairs with all the logs in it. Maybe . . .

  I tear down the stairs. The place where the old elevator should be is exactly the same as the place on the fourth floor: sealed up, painted over, but hollow and flimsy. But it’s not the elevator I want; it’s the door beside it. I throw the closet door open. A couple of brushes are propped up along one side, a mop in a bucket along the other. I consider these for a second. Not heavy enough.

  Then I spot it in the far corner. Bingo! The ax Mr. Barraclough used for the logs!

  I grab the ax and run back up to the fourth floor. I’ve got to come back to the first floor in the elevator.

  I’m panting by the time I get to the fourth floor. My chest feels like it’s got rubber bands wrapped tight around it. I run to the elevator.

  I’ve never done anything like this in my life. Jenni Green doesn’t do things like this! Except, judging by today’s events, it seems Jenni Green has changed. Autumn would be proud of me for what I’m about to do. Will I ever get to tell her? Would she believe me, even if I did?

  I’ve no time to think about questions I can’t answer. I’ve got to do this.

  With a quick look around me to make sure there’s no one there to see what I’m about to do — and a silent apology for what in anyone’s book would amount to mindless vandalism — I lift the ax over my shoulder, take a deep breath, and smash it as hard as I can against the wall.

  I’ve done it. There’s a hole in the wall. Through it, I can see the metal door of the elevator. It’s still there, behind the wall, exactly as it was.

  I just need to reach the button. I raise the ax again and again, cracking it against the wall until I’ve made a gap big enough to reach through. I feel around on the old wall behind the plasterboard. That’s it. The button. I press it and wait.

  Nothing happens.

  I’ve made a hole big enough to climb through now, but there’s nowhere to climb to. Just the old door standing closed in front of me. What am I going to do? This is my one and only chance to change this.

  I press the button again. Please, please, please work. I’ll do anything. I’ll be the best friend ever in the world and the best daughter. I’ll only ever think of others, never myself. I’ll work hard at everything. Just please let me get into the elevator!

  And then I hear it. The whirring noise. I leap up. It’s happening. It’s coming! My heart’s banging so hard it’s hurting my chest.

  I clamber through the hole, open the first door wide enough to squeeze through, then pull the elevator’s inner door across. Without pausing to think, I close the doors behind me, slam my hand onto the button that says 1, and hold my breath as the elevator rattles into action.

  The elevator seems to creak downward even more slowly and uncertainly than last time, shaking and rattling all the way. It sounds as if bits of metal are falling down the shaft below me. Eventually, it rattles to a halt and I pull the gate across, open the outer door, and step out. The plaster wall is gone! I glance behind me to make sure the elevator doesn’t disappear the moment I’ve turned my back. It doesn’t. It’s still there.

  I check my watch. Quarter to two. />
  Quarter to two? My heart drops so hard it’s as if it’s falling down an elevator shaft itself. What was I thinking? I’m a complete and utter fool! There’s no way I can get to the hospital in time to change anything. It takes at least twenty minutes to get there in the car. Half an hour if it’s anyone except my dad driving.

  And even if I could get to the hospital faster, what could I possibly change, anyway? I’ve been kidding myself — trying to stop something that’s going to happen whether I’m there or not. I was so desperate to help, it didn’t occur to me that the main thing I need to change is the accident — and there’s nothing I can do to change that. It’s already happened, and there are no buttons left to press in the elevator. I can’t go anywhere and I can’t change anything.

  The best I can hope for is that I can be a better friend this time around.

  I tighten my belt to hold up the jeans that are baggy again, get back into the elevator, and slump down against the wall, my head in my hands. Maybe I’ll just sit here in a ball, hide in this elevator, and hope it’ll all go away.

  There’s a noise in the foyer as someone comes in from outside. I jump up.

  “Jenni!”

  “Craig?” Six-year-old Craig! Cute, silly, messy-haired, and gap-toothed Craig!

  “Thought it was you!” He grins.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He nudges a thumb at the door. “I saw you from outside. I’ve been talking to the workmen. Mom said I could, remember?”

  I brush myself down and join him in the hallway. “Come on. Let’s go back to the condo.”

  Outside, I take his hand and try to act normal. “So what did the workmen tell you about this time?” I ask, ready to let him prattle away while my brain carries on being somewhere else.

  “They told me all about what they’re building over the road,” he says, his eyes shining with excitement. What is it about construction that’s so fascinating to six-year-old boys? “They’re making a new building where we can play Ping-Pong and pool and foosball,” he says.

  “Great. What else?”

  “Um.” Craig presses a finger to his chin. “That’s it.” He swings my hand as we walk. “Oh, yes,” he says as we approach our block. “They were telling me how that one”— he points back at Autumn’s building —“used to be a hotel, and all the rich people used to come there and the servants used to live in the basement and you never saw them and —”