It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,6
jamming the switch to turn on the light.
I breathe out, hard.
“You okay?”
“Ish,” I say. One of our jokes.
My walk-in-closet houses three faux-fur jackets Rena insisted I needed this winter (one with a faux-fur-lined hood that she said was just delicious) and rows of Converse and ankle boots, because they add stability and also passed Rena’s cute-enough-to-wear test. But there are also skeletons in my closet—my abandoned mobility equipment. My closet is a graveyard of stuff too expensive to get rid of.
A state-of-the-art electric wheelchair is parked underneath my spring clothes as if it’s waiting for its turn to become useful again. My Hoyer lift, the contraption we had to use after surgeries, when I couldn’t get up by myself, hovers in the back. Its metal chains and swing-seat—made of ballistic material—loom large and frightening like a character from a Stephen King novel.
I glance at Rena. “I’m going to need my scooter, I think, but it’s not charged.”
“It might be. You know how on top of things Mom is about your stuff.” My stuff. The stuff that I used to love because it helped me go places and do things. Since finding out about the settlement this past summer, my mobility equipment has become just another reminder of the entire birth injury lie. But I am aware that if I’m going to go to school, it will only be with the help of one of these little lovelies. So be it.
My head pounds, a sign that I should probably just go back to bed. What does it matter if I see Julian today or any day after this? But there’s no reasoning with me when I set my mind on doing something. Dad used to say I got my hardheaded stubbornness from him, but he said it as a source of pride. Eric said it was my middle-child syndrome that made me so relentless. But I’m not sure either one of them would think my current drive to make it to school today is either cute or admirable.
Rena bends down and turns on the scooter. “It’s got a little life, but not enough for an entire day.”
I groan. “The full-on wheelchair it is.”
She helps me back to the bed to sit, then returns to the closet and backs the wheelchair out of its corner, running it over her foot in the process. “Damn!”
“Sorry,” I call out.
“It’s cool.” She blows the hair off her face. “After you’re done with this contraption, I might have to exact some kind of revenge on it.”
I lay back on the bed. “I get that.” My legs ache. My back throbs. My head feels way too heavy for my neck to hold.
Mom throws the door open. “Oh, Jenna,” she says as she sits next to me on the bed. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” She looks at Rena. “Just grab some clothes for her and get ready yourself. I’ll take care of your sister.” Then she turns back to me. “Let me just call the school and make certain they’ve got an aide ready for you.”
And now my head hurts even more. “Not Mrs. Wilson.”
“You’ll take what you get, deciding to go into school after a procedure with no notice.” Mom’s in full-swing planning mode now. I want to argue. I want to remind her I told her I’d go last night, but it’s not worth it. If it’s Mrs. Wilson, it’s Mrs. Wilson. I’ll just have to deal.
* * *
Mom works the lift on the van and straps my wheelchair in. She hands me my shake. My hands tremble a little as I reach for it, and I’m almost positive Mom’s going to abort the mission. Instead, her face softens, and she cups her hand under mine, bringing the straw to my mouth. “You need some nutrition in you.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I hope she knows it’s for everything. A big part of me is still upset with Mom after my discovery this summer. But then Mom does so much for me—my whole family does—and I can’t help but feel grateful for that.
Rena hops to the car, pulling her boots on, a toasted waffle hanging from her mouth. She opens the front passenger door. Rena only sits up front when she wants something. Mom eyes her, waiting for Rena to click her seat belt on, and then backs out of the driveway.
It doesn’t take long for Rena to start making her case. “I’ve got to stay after today.”
Mom harrumphs and drums her fingers