~prologue~
autumn
August Phineas Smith-Davis. Born April 14, 2014. My boy. Mine and Finny's.
Too many times I reached out for him in my bed. Cried his name out. I called him, just to hear his voice play, but sometime during December Aunt Angelina took his number off her plan and I called only to have some teenager pick up.
I don't know which was worse. Winter, when it was all starting to get worse. Mom and Aunt Angelina forced me to eat, "if not for your sake then for the sake of the baby". That was their new favourite phrase— "For the baby". And damn them, it worked.
But during labor, they had to put me on something to calm me down. I hardly remember much past the initial discomfort, then pain, then my water breaking. And Finny.
He was there.
I could feel him.
I could see him.
When my head was clear enough to remember anything, Mom and Aunt Angelina were in the room, tears in their eyes. They both rushed over and I didn't know how to feel. They were both happy, but sad, and worried. Really worried.
"Have you thought about names?" Aunt Angelina had asked.
"We didn't tell the doctor anything because we wanted it to be your decision," Mom had said.
I blinked at them, then at their empty arms. "My baby?" I croaked.
"Sleeping," Mom hurried to say. She must've thought I was about to cry. I wasn't. I was simply worried about my baby. Mine and Finny's. "He's sleeping right now and we didn't want to wake him, taking him out of his bassinet." She pointed beside me. "There he is."
I lifted myself up, ignoring the aching of my lower body. I leaned over and looked down.
It was hard to tell who he favoured. His hair was blond but both Finny and I were both blond as babies. Mine just got darker with time.
I wanted to wake him.
But I know Finny would've shook his head, all gentle, and whispered, "Let him sleep, Autumn."
Someone was talking to me.
"What?"
I turned back to The Mothers. "What were you thinking of naming him?" Aunt Angelina repeated.
There were a lot of names I had thought of.
Finn, for obvious reasons.
Oliver, because of that one stray cat we had found and named and never saw again in third grade.
Olivia, a girl version of Oliver.
Peter, after Peter Pan, our favourite childhood story.
Lilly, Aden, Emily, Ava, Will, Noah, Ellie.
Mom had bought me a baby name book for Christmas. I had circled all the ones I thought he'd like.
But it wasn't until that moment, in the hospital, with The Mothers looking at me, that I decided on a name.
August.
After the last month I had with him.
After the best month I had with him.
I wanted him to keep his surname as Smith because it's what would've happened if Finny hadn't died. We would've gotten married. We would've decided on a name together. He would've stayed up with me and stayed calm even as I freaked out while my water broke.
Mom wanted me to at least hyphen Davis with Smith. "It's your son just as much as it is his," she told me.
So I wrote out August Phineas Smith-Davis, even though August Phineas Davis-Smith would've sounded better. You can't separate Phineas and Smith. You just can't.
August slept for another hour. I laid down and watched him. I imagined Finny next to me, running his hand through my hair, murmuring about how proud he was of me, how much he loved me, how everything was going to be all right.
My friends came by after August had nursed. They cooed over him, had all the appropriate reactions, asked all the right questions. Angie squealed and gushed about how August and Gwen could be best friends. I smiled and gave them all the perfect replies. I'm a little tired. A little sore. His name's August. Yes, after the month. Isn't he adorable? He hasn't opened his eyes yet, Mum said it was cos the light's too bright. He's cried some but otherwise he's a quiet baby. Aunt Angelina said not to worry though, Finny was quiet as well. Gwen's looking well. She's getting prettier by the day. Yep, we're all set. Nappies and onesies and a carrycot. The nurse said we can leave as soon as tomorrow morning.
They left not long after they came. It might've been because I wouldn't let any of them hold August. I didn't want to let go of him.
"He's going to be so loved," Aunt Angelina told me, running her fingers through my hair. "We'll make sure the two of you are taken care of. He won't want for a thing."
Mum leaned down and pressed a kiss to my temple. "I'm so proud of you, baby," she murmured. I felt a tear fall, hot and wet, onto my cheek. I wasn't sure if it was hers or mine.
We huddled together on the little hospital bed, bent over the tiny bundle in my arms.
August yawned, my baby, my son, and opened his eyes.
And Finny looked back at me.
