It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,57
papers?
Yes. Unfort.
It’ll be ok. OMW.
By the time we get home, Uncle Steve’s car is parked in our driveway on the left side, which is the side Dad needs to pull into the garage. It seems tactical warfare is already at play in the Cohen household.
“What’s he doing here?” Mom checks her phone and Dad’s to see if they’ve missed a text or call from him.
“No idea.” Dad parks. “Probably a slow day at work or something.”
I detach my seat belt and open my door. Uncle Steve is by my side immediately. “Hello, niece-y.” He kisses me on the cheek. The first thing I notice is that he’s clean shaven.
“No beard?” I ask.
He winks. “Turns out I may have to go to court.”
“What’s up, Steve?” Dad walks ahead to unlock the door. “You parked on the wrong side of the driveway.”
“My bad.”
Dad looks like he’s not buying it.
As we get inside, Mom helps us all unload our coats. “You’ll stay for lunch? I think I have enough pasta salad for everyone. Plus there’s leftover pizza.”
Uncle Steve hangs up his coat, and I see he’s wearing a suit. “I’m here for Jenna.”
The room gets quiet. Mom and Dad may not know exactly what Uncle Steve is talking about, but I can see them putting it all together. Uncle Steve looking official in his court suit and no beard. Uncle Steve’s words. He puts his hand in his inner pocket and pulls out a document in an envelope.
“Jenna?” Dad’s voice is as tight as a guitar string.
Uncle Steve puts his arm around me. “Perhaps I should escort my client.”
Dad shoots him a look. “That’s great, Steve, let’s encourage this entire deal.”
“It’s not a deal. It’s actually called a motion.” He helps me to the living room couch and drums his fingers on the outside of the envelope.
Mom puts her hands up. “We will all be civil. Underneath all of this, we are family.”
Dad crosses his arms in front of his chest. I’ve seen him this pissed before. About Penn State football. About Eric’s grades in middle school, before he turned himself around. About Rena’s smart mouth. Never about me.
“So,” Uncle Steve says, “my client, Jennifer Alden Cohen, would like to proclaim her rights to make her own medical decisions by filing for a medical emancipation.”
“This is crap,” Dad says.
“No. This is her right.” Uncle Steve looks at me. “She is pursuing this action to assert her rights in deciding her medical care. This is in lieu of filing a living will, which would dictate in exquisite detail all of the possible morbid scenarios—which as her uncle, I would not like to be forced to do.”
“God forbid!” Mom says.
“God forbid,” Uncle Steve agrees.
Dad turns to me, face pleading. “Why wouldn’t you want to try everything to help yourself? Why limit your potential?”
Uncle Steve looks at me, but the words I need are stuck. Not because of my cerebral palsy, but because I’m trying so hard not to cry. Dad’s hand is fisted. I can’t stop looking at that hand.
“We aren’t forcing her to do anything, Steve,” Mom says.
“She wants to decide for herself about rehab. And any future treatments.”
“You don’t even have kids.” My dad’s voice is strained. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
Uncle Steve puts his arm around me. “If you think that I don’t feel like your kids are my kids, you’re mistaken. I love all three of your kids as if they were my own.”
Mom, predictably, starts crying.
“We’ve made our needs known. Now the ball is in your court,” Uncle Steve says.
“You didn’t have to show up here in your court suit with your…” Dad points to Uncle Steve’s pocket. “With your documents.”
“He’s my lawyer,” I say. “He did what I paid him to do.”
“Paid?” Now Dad can’t help but smile a tiny bit.
“Yes. From my account.”
Mom puts her hand up. “Jenna, are you scheduled for that baclofen class?”
“No.”
“What if you do that? What if you sign up for the class and then we’ll revisit this?”
Uncle Steve looks around the room, gauging the effects of Mom’s offer. “Jenna?”
I nod, but a tear escapes, and I know if I speak I’ll descend into full-on sobbing. Which pisses me right the hell off. Why can’t emotions be something my system suppresses like it dulls the feeling in my hands by the end of the day? Why am I choking on all of this instead of standing tall?
“Okay,” Uncle Steve says. “Let’s look to see when they are offered.”
“There’s one in a week and