The door opens. “Oh, Jenna,” Mom says, her voice soft and shaky, like I feel. And it makes me wonder if you can ever completely remove yourself from the person who created you, and the body you were created in. Maybe when you’re typical, you can adequately detach from your mother and carve out your own place in the world, but when you’re the girl with cerebral palsy who has so many regressions, maybe there’s a tiny ethereal tether that keeps you tied together. I don’t know, but I feel like there is. When I was little, that tie felt special. Now it feels confining and childish. I don’t have to tell you no teen really wants to be that.
Mom is quiet as she loads me into the van, but I can feel her heart cracked wide open, and I know she understands the entirety of my humiliation. We ride home encased in silence. I feel like a failure. I failed to make it through a day at school. Just like Mom said I would. I should have listened. I know Mom’s mind is working overtime as well, as she maneuvers the van through the drizzly day, so we both sort of jump when Dad calls.
“How is she?” The Bluetooth in the car broadcasts his voice, etched with concern.
Mom steals a glance in the rearview. “I’ve got her. We’re going home.”
“Pick up.”
I can see Mom’s neck and shoulders tense as she holds the phone to her ear, the phone call private now. I know that he’s telling her he wants me to get more tests done at Summit Children’s Hospital. That’s Dad’s answer to everything. As if my body and brain is a stubborn motherboard on one of those supersmart computers he writes code for. Tests mean the hospital. More IVs filled with that horrible liquid slicing through my veins so that the contrast can light up my insides like the branches on my twisted tree. Just thinking about the pain from the dye and the discomfort from the procedures reminds me that my body does not like medical procedures. It rebels and rejects any attempt to see inside it. That’s a lesson Mom and Dad haven’t quite understood, but I live it.
I tap my head against the car window, a tiny bump that does nothing to soothe my building angst. Mom tries to tell Dad this is not a good time to talk. Dad and I share the same fiery outrage and stubbornness when things are unfair. Mom’s always saying I’m his daughter.
My phone beeps. It’s Rena.
You OK?
News travels fast. I palm my enormous phone and aim my fingers. Sometimes they’re pliable and responsive to my commands, but at present, they’re stiff and fixed in place, so I have to bat at the letters.
M OK
Nobody saw anything. I asked.
I lean my head against the window and let the tears stream down my face.
I swear. They cleared the hall right away.
Rena knows the dark thoughts that plague me after one of my episodes, even if she doesn’t know about my lingering crush on that boy. Julian had always been part of our all-kid band. But he moved away before my crush could become real enough to share with Rena. Which means I can’t ask the most important question: Did he see me? Does he know? Of course he does, everyone does by now. Everyone at school is talking about poor Jenna. Even though they mean no harm, the fact that I’m the topic of conversation makes all of this worse.
It was just because of the dye, right? It’s all going to be ok. You are going to be ok.
More and more she feeds me the lines I want to hear, but even though I believe in magic, I’m not stupid. I am going to have to deal with stuff like this my entire life. I close my eyes and let my mind drift to my own fantasy. Not about getting better, but about being someone else. I pretend I am with him, Julian. We bump into each other in the hall. I’m the new girl in town, Jennifer. The full name, because in my fantasy, my tongue isn’t bunched and torqued. It’s long and loose and able to leisurely slip over the r sounds—slow and seductive, sweet and sure. No reason to cut it short to Jenna. I am Jennifer. I am here. I am her. I’ve got long, straight, shiny brown hair that I curl sometimes. Today I have it totally straight, and when we run into each other I almost drop my books, but Julian catches them. I’m annoyed at first. But Julian says, “Sorry. I should look where I’m going.”
I straighten the papers that fell on the floor.
“Will you let me make it up to you? Buy you coffee?”
I’d turn away from him, just slightly. “I’m late.”
“For what?” he says.
But I’m gone now, walking down the hallway onto my SGA meeting. I’m not the president or an officer or anything, but that’s cool because, in my fantasy, I’ve got way too many other things on my plate to commit to just one club.
“We’re home,” Mom announces, shaking me from my daydream. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then you can spend the day Netflix bingeing if you like.”
I tell myself I was smart to dumb down my classes. If I was in the AP or honors classes, I’d have to spend this time catching up on all the classroom stuff I missed. Gen Ed English is ridiculously easy for a girl like me. I tell myself that I’m happy with my choice, even though I know I’ve already read all of the novels we’re doing this year. Not having to sit through kids struggling with the end of Of Mice and Men today should feel like a gift, but it doesn’t. It’s not about the books. It’s not about the teachers. It’s about me being separated from Ben and everyone else. Almost myself. So close, but not quite there.
In bed, under the covers, my Netflix account loaded, I think about that appointment that’s looming where we’ll go over the results of the tests we just ran. And who knows what kind of plan they will come up with. It’s always the theys that come up with the plans. Mom. Dad. The doctors. Not me. And that’s got to change. I pull up my email. Uncle Steve was there at the beginning. He needs to be here now. For me this time.
I hit the compose button and type:
Uncle Steve,
We need to talk.
Jenna
I hit send, my fingers hesitating only for a second. He knew this was coming. I’d told him during Rosh Hashanah, when we were alone in the living room and Rena was fighting with Mom and Dad about not wanting to miss another day of school, that I wanted his help with a little lawyering. That’s exactly what I called it.
“Whatcha need, niece-y?” he had asked.
“I’ve been doing some research.”
He’d taken a bite of Mom’s famous chocolate torte. “And?”
“Two words: medical emancipation.”
He choked a little on his torte, which would have been comical if all wasn’t so critical. He stared at the door. When we couldn’t hear anyone talking anymore, he said, “That’s a really big step. Are you sure?”
“Maybe,” I’d said.
“Well, tell me when you’re sure and we’ll talk.”