It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,3

the hallway to listen to the adults.

They were sitting at the kitchen table, and Mom was drinking red wine. She looked really sad.

Aunt Flora was holding her hands and said, “You’re doing fine. She’s doing fine. Look at her, I mean…she’s so smart and so pretty and so confident.”

“I know. She is. I just can’t help but think…”

“Look, Steve got enough money for her settlement. For the…what did the judge call it?”

“Medical malfeasance.” Mom took a sip of wine. Put the glass back on the table. I could see from my perch that Mom was crying and Aunt Flora was rubbing her back.

Eric found me, put his finger over his lip, and walked me back to bed.

“Mom’s crying,” I told him.

“Yeah. She always does when Dad doesn’t come with us for these vacations.” It seemed like a big brother lie to make me feel better; I had a sense the entire thing was about me, even if I couldn’t understand why. Medical malfeasance. I stored those toxic little words away for later, but forgot about them.

Back in the SAT classroom, I put those words together: malfeasance, settlement. As smart as I am, I’d never considered that when I was born, something maybe happened to make me like this.

I put my pencil down, got my crutches, and got out of there. The classroom doors slammed behind me like an audible exclamation point. Mom had been waiting outside for me. Ben followed. I told them I felt like I was going to have a seizure, even though usually those came without warning. We went home right away. Mom kept stealing looks at me in the mirror. I closed my eyes, trying not to think of those words, but they dive-bombed me like mosquitos in the summer. Medical. Malfeasance. Settlement.

Mom asked, “Are you okay, Jenna?”

I said, “No. I need to go home. I need to go home. I need to go home.”

“We’re going, baby. We’ll be there soon.”

When we got there, Mom unloaded me from the van and helped me to the bathroom and then to bed. I pulled up the browser on my iPad and typed my name, plus my Uncle Steve’s name, plus medical malfeasance, then settlement.

I tried to tell myself whatever I found wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t change me.

Then I pressed search. The results loaded, and I saw it. My name. The doctor’s name, Dr. Jacoby. Settlement. Steve Cohen, my Uncle Steve. The rest was hidden. I could pay money and find out how much we got, but there was no point.

I finally knew the truth: I wasn’t supposed to be born like this.

The world shifted under me. Mom knew. Dad knew. Uncle Steve knew. This was worse than the Santa deception. I wanted to scream at Mom and Dad. I wanted to yell at Uncle Steve. I wanted to find them and shake them and make them fear me.

I sat there for a long time, staring at the screen until my vision felt painted with the blue-light glow. How could they all have lied to me?

“Do something,” a voice inside me whispered, sounding braver than I felt. “Do something.” The voice sounded familiar. Like it belonged inside me. Because it did. It was Jennifer, the girl who I could have been, would have been, if only a doctor hadn’t messed up sixteen years ago. I beat my tears back. She was right. I needed answers. I would get them.

And the first person I was going to start with was Uncle Steve. He had been part of the betrayal, so he was going to spill his guts. He owed me.

I sent him an email with the settlement information attached and one simple line.

We need to talk.

He texted back.

In a meeting. Can’t call now. But can text. How did you find that?

Does it matter?

No. I guess not. This was all for you. To be sure you were cared for.

Cared for? Like an abandoned kitten? Like an orphaned child?

No. Like my niece.

So you did one of these for Rena?

Do you want to meet up after I’m out of work? Talk about this?

No. Not now. Right now I want you to keep this between you and me.

I don’t think that’s the right thing. For you or your parents.

As your client I expect you to respect my wishes.

My client?

Uncle Steve has always joked with us that he’d represent us against our parents if we ever needed him—as long as we paid him a dollar, he was our legal knight in shining armor. But if