It's My Life

  Also by Stacie Ramey

  The Sister Pact

  The Homecoming

  The Secrets We Bury

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020 by Stacie Ramey

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Kerri Resnick

  Cover image © Piyapong89/Shutterstock

  Internal design by Jillian Rahn

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ramey, Stacie, author.

  Title: It’s my life / Stacie Ramey.

  Other titles: It is my life

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Fire, [2020] | Summary: While facing disturbing revelations about the cause of her disability, a high school junior with cerebral palsy is on the verge of giving up on herself until her childhood crush moves back into town.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019024129 | (trade paperback)

  Subjects: CYAC: Cerebral palsy--Fiction. | People with disabilities--Fiction. | Love--Fiction. | High schools--Fiction. | Schools--Fiction. | Jews--United States--Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.R36 It 2020 | DDC [Fic]--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019024129

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Bonnie and Mark,

  because they keep me tethered to this world

  One

  Everything’s different for girls like me.

  My younger sister, Rena, would say I’m being dramatic. As in, “Stop being so dramatic, Jenna. Having CP doesn’t make you the star of a telethon.”

  I always laugh when she says it, which is the whole point.

  But right now, Rena and my best friend, Ben, are both at school, living their lives, while I’m lying on a cold MRI table, bare-assed and covered in a skimpy hospital gown. See? Different.

  And also maybe a little dramatic. I get that.

  The door swings open. I hold my breath, hoping for Gary as my nurse today. I cannot deal with my yearly MRI with anyone else.

  “How’s my favorite girl?” Gary’s voice reaches me, and I let my breath go, turning my head to shoot him my best I’m-not-feeling-too-sorry-for-myself smile.

  Gary’s tall and lean. Muscular, though. I can see those peeking out of his scrubs. He’s always changing his overall look, but now he’s blond with a soul patch under his lip. He is dressed in his usual blue-gray hospital scrubs—no dorky Disney scrubs for him, despite this being the pediatric wing. We’ve known each other far too long, Gary and me. He was there for most of my surgeries and even the time I smashed Mom’s Waterford glass into my forehead during a muscle spasm, effectively ruining Passover. So, all the good times.

  He’s wearing a Tree of Life necklace on a silver beaded chain and some other charm I can’t make out. They clink together as he leans over me to prepare the straps they need to hold me in place. The sound is comforting, like church bells or something. I’ve always been a sucker for spiritual stuff. “You need anything?” he asks.

  “I wouldn’t turn down a trip to Florida and a good book,” I joke.

  “Let’s run away. We can leave out the back door,” Gary says. This is one of our things. “I’m thinking North Carolina. I’m sort of into mountains these days.”

  “Good plan. I’m pretty sure my body would terrify the beach-goers.” I pull down my gown that’s ridden up from all of his fiddling with the table, uncovering the most recent scars from my surgeries. If I was here with anyone but Gary, I’d feel pretty exposed. With him I don’t have to worry.

  Gary scoffs. “Girl, scars are sexy now. Totally in. Like tattoos and body piercings.”

  I laugh so hard I snort. “Are snorts sexy now, too?”

  My left leg starts to spasm, pulling away from the straps. Gary launches into a story about his current boyfriend, Bryan, as he runs my leg through its range of motion, massages it, and puts it back into place.

  “Bryan is very pretty to look at, but is a diva to the nth degree,” Gary tells me as he adjusts a pillow under my arm and cleans the area for the needle. I barely feel the IV line going in.

  “It’s bad enough he’s into all that new age, no-caffeine lifestyle for himself.” Gary pauses for effect, his hand over his heart. “But when he buys me coffee, it’s decaf!”

  I fake a gasp.

  “I know. You don’t mess with a person’s caffeine.” Gary tapes my IV line in place. “I’m just going to inject the sedative now, then the contrast; it may feel a little cold.”

  This is one of the reasons I don’t want these stupid tests. For normal people, it doesn’t even hurt. For me, it’s liquid ice snaking through my veins, slow enough that the rebound pain is there at the same time as the first burn. I tense, and Gary squeezes my hand. I do not want to cry. It’s a deal I made with myself years ago, back when I pretended I was Daddy’s little warrior.

  Gary loads up a new playlist that Rena made for me called Songs for Enduring Stupid Pain, and he catches my gaze. “Going to start now. You just close your eyes and go someplace better than this, baby girl. See you on the other side.”


  He pushes the button, and I slide into the tube. I close my eyes and try to breathe easy. The drugs in the IV help my muscles relax, but they aren’t enough to make me sleep—which would make this entire deal easier.

  As I wait for the first song to play, I try to guess which one Rena started with. Let’s see, pain as the motif? So many choices. But instead of a song, her voice pipes in. “Stay cool, Jenna. It’s going to be fine.”

  That’s my sister being all Zen like usual.

  Then my big brother Eric chimes in, “Go get it!” I’ve got no idea how they managed that with him away at college.

  “Kick its ass,” Rena says.

  “Stay out of the woods,” Eric adds. It’s an inside joke from when we were little—the three of us and our neighbor Julian used to go to the nearby woods to look for animals and trees and mythical things, because I convinced them all if they were around us, that’s where they’d be.

  Rena laughs, and then the soulful sound of Michael Stipe singing “Everybody Hurts” fills my ears. I can’t help but appreciate Rena’s choice on so many levels. The MRI clicks and thrums as the sedatives start to unclench the muscles in my head. Everything feels softer. Gary told me to leave my body, and in this tube I feel like I can. And I do. Soon I’m flying through the air, through the clouds, feeling what it’s like to move free and easy, way above the hurt. Away from this body, to someplace better.

  A familiar voice inside my head whispers, “It’s so easy.” It’s me, but it’s not—I call this voice person Jennifer, and she’s like the one I could have been. Free. Easy. Strong. Clear. I want to be her someday, and that possibility fills me until my head feels all light and my mind expands until I’m flying even higher. And higher. And then I get a little queasy. My stomach backs up in my throat, and I swallow to get rid of the taste.

  “Jenna?” Gary calls through the speakers. “Stay with us, okay? A few more minutes.”

  More clicks. More gongs. More time in the tube. I close my eyes and slow my breathing.

  I wonder how he knows I feel sick—how he always knows. The rational part of me realizes it’s because of the monitors I’m hooked up to, but I also partly believe it’s because of our bond. A bond I wish I had with a boy.

  And just like that, my focus shifts again. To Julian. Julian Van Beck. The kid I’ve had a thing for since kindergarten.

  Almost like the universe hears me, the next song is “Fix You” by Coldplay. The first time I heard this song was at one of Eric’s rec hockey games. Eric was twelve. I was ten, but a very cool ten. Or at least I thought I was. I was sitting on the bench next to the hockey players—a perk of being Eric’s sister, since he was the captain of the team. I had one earbud in, and as the song started, Julian came off the ice and sat down next to me. The little smoke of breath that sprouted from his lips in the icy rink air was so soft, like a flower petal. If I closed my eyes now, I could still feel the puff of breath, could reach out and touch it with my fingertips, just before it dissipated.

  “Try to stay still, Jenna.” Gary’s voice reminds me I am not on the bench at a hockey game. I am here, stuck inside this tube. Stuck inside my body.

  A tear rolls down my face, but secretly I’m glad. Even if it’s pain, it’s wonderful anguish. I am, simply, a girl who loves a boy. A boy who will never know, since Julian moved away in middle school. But, the point is, all of this longing is so strong and, in some way, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt.

  Right now, in this electric cage, I let my mind ride the waves of sedatives. The song shifts, and I’m floating again. Flying over a lush field. The grass under me looks spongy and fresh and so real that it makes me want to walk on it. Want to feel it spring up under my bare feet.

  “Hold still, hon. Just a few minutes more. You’re doing great.”

  I hold still. A breeze blows my hair back, which I know is impossible, but it still feels so real. And I’ve got that voice hovering next to me again, a small breath in my ear, like how I saw Julian’s breath that day on the bench. “It’s so easy,” the voice says. Only the e part is stretched so it sounds like eeeeasy.

  A strand of hair comes loose and tickles my cheek. I wish I could move it. I try not to think about it, try not to obsess, but it’s killing me. Then it’s blown back, off my face. “You’re okay now. It’s all done,” Jennifer tells me.

  “All done,” Gary says. “Be right there.”

  And, just like that, I have to prepare myself for reentry. Into the harsh light of the room. Into the harsh vibe of this life. I leave that other version of me, the one that could move freely and easily, in that MRI tube. And I wonder if I could have been that girl all along, if only Dr. Jacoby hadn’t screwed up.

  Two

  Looking back on it now, I feel pretty stupid for not figuring any of it out way earlier. It was my own version of believing in Santa—I was told the story so often that I never thought to question it. (We didn’t have to deal with the Santa fallout; I’m Jewish. Mom used to go on and on about how proud she was that they never lied to us, as if the worst crime ever perpetrated on a kid was the invention of a benevolent old dude in a red suit who distributes presents. It isn’t.)

  Dr. Jacoby—or Dr. Jerkoby, as Ben refers to him when we discuss the subject—is probably a good guy. He had a really strong history leading up to my delivery. He’s a Harvard Medical School graduate who did his OB/GYN residency at Johns Hopkins. From what I could find online, there were no complaints filed against him. No lawsuits. Very small percentage of C-sections. I’m sure his kids and grandkids love him. He probably volunteers at his church, or cleans stretches of the woods so that animals don’t choke on litter strewn by inconsiderate campers. Maybe he builds houses for Habitat for Humanity or serves soup to the homeless.

  He may do a hundred million nice things, but nothing he does now will make up for the day he delivered me.

  Because the thing is, I wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t supposed to have cerebral palsy. That day, something he did caused it.

  But I didn’t realize that until this past summer.

  Ben and I were taking an SAT study course—his idea—and we were in the midst of a vocabulary practice test. I came to a fill-in-the-blank question: “The doctor was accused of…so they settled the claim in court.”

  My eyes danced over the choices. The root of all of the words was mal, as in bad. Maleficent, malevolence, malfeasance, malignancy, maliciousness. Maleficent was the bad fairy in the movie, and that word in particular meant mischievous. I knew the answer wasn’t maleficent, because a doctor wouldn’t be evil or mischievous. The other options—malevolence, malignancy, maliciousness—weren’t the right ones, either.

  But a doctor could be blameworthy. As in, “The doctor was accused of malfeasance…”

  I started to sweat even though it was freezing in the classroom, my eyes locked on the word malfeasance. I bubbled the answer, so sure of my response, but that word stuck with me. That sentence. A doctor could be accused of malfeasance and settle. The combination of the words, the phrasing, made my mind race.

  And everything around me became suspended in time. The air. The sounds of pencils scratching and my classmates breathing. My own breath caught in my chest. Suddenly, I remembered why the phrase sounded so familiar.

  The other time I’d heard it, I was six, and we were visiting my Aunt Flora in Florida. Even back then I was obsessed with language and with words. Mom said it was like I inhaled them.

  Aunt Flora took us to see these wild parrots that had been released by their owners and had all found each other, forming a parrot community. There were some other little kids there, and we were all being so careful not to spook the beautiful birds. But then I moved and my crutch made a sound, and the birds flew away.

  A sour-faced little kid said, “You chased them away with your silver thing.”

  “Crutch,” I told him. “It’s called a c
rutch.”

  The kid didn’t seem impressed by the new word I just gave him. “How did you get like that? What’s wrong with you?”

  In my mind, it was a ridiculous question. I was born this way, just like he was born short and with weird spiky hair, and I told him as much. I saw my Aunt Flora and my mom exchange a look, and they took us back to Aunt Flora’s.

  That night, I had trouble sleeping. It’s not like no one had ever asked me that question before. But this time it sort of got inside me. After tossing and turning for a while, I gave up on sleep, and I snuck into 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.