Not one of the doctors could be one hundred percent certain about his brain activity. They may have been experts, but as far as I was concerned, they didn’t know shit. Every time they did an MRI it came back differently, from no brain activity to slight activity and everything in between, which made it possible to believe that somewhere in there, the great LC Duncan was pulling some elaborate hoax.
“They’re acting like they need Pop’s bed or some shit,” Orlando said. He had been relegated to the dog house since he screwed up Vegas’s plan and got Sasha snatched, so he’d been pretty quiet up until now.
“Fuck them. We will buy that hospital and put those same doctors out of work. He’s going to wake up, and right now that’s all we need to be focused on,” Paris fumed, pacing the length of the living room floor.
“You know what they’re suggesting? There is no way I’m ready to do that,” Vegas said, his voice cracking with emotion.
“Me neither,” I jumped in, adding my vote. Of course, Pop’s death wasn’t what anyone wanted, but I felt like I had even more at stake than they did. If he died, everyone would blame it on me and Sonya. I didn’t know if I could survive the guilt, and I definitely didn’t think our relationship could survive that.
Sonya caught my eye, probably reading my mind. She was across the room laying out a feast for our family.
“I talked with a Dr. Lindquist in Stockholm,” I told them. “He’s one of the world’s leading neurologists. According to him, there are all kinds of new treatments that aren’t approved in America. He says we can’t get caught up with the percentages that the doctors are giving us. His exact words were, ‘For every terminal diagnosis, there are people who have long outlived them.’”
“I just want him to get up off that bed and prove all these motherfuckers wrong, ’cause no way are we pulling the plug,” Paris added.
“That’s not really up to you guys,” Harris announced as he walked into the room holding up a manila envelope. Rio was following behind him. “At least not according to these.”
“What the hell is that?” Orlando snapped.
“Hopefully nothing you can fuck up.” Vegas dug in again, pushing all Orlando’s buttons.
“It’s a health care proxy form that LC signed two years ago,” Harris answered, still holding on to the paperwork.
“What’s a health care proxy?” Rio asked.
“It a legal document stating that in a situation like this, your father doesn’t want to be kept alive artificially. He wants to be left to die.”
“And you let him sign this?” Orlando snatched the envelope out of Harris’s hand and pulled out the document. “What kind of lawyer are you?” he asked, perusing the legal paperwork. I went and stood over his shoulder to read it along with him.
“I didn’t let him do anything. Can any of you imagine trying to stop LC from doing something he wants to do? Ain’t a lawyer in hell can control that man.”
I happened to believe what Harris was saying. LC was stubborn as hell. Orlando, on the other hand, wasn’t convinced.
“Ma would have never let him sign that. Must have been you,” he accused Harris.
“Well, to be honest, she signed one too,” Harris explained, shocking us all. “I wish you guys would stop acting like I’m the bad guy all the time, especially when I’m as loyal, if not more, than people who should be.”
I knew he was poking at me, but Pop would have wanted me to help keep the peace, and the way folks were acting, I needed to take that position seriously. So, I decided to give him that one.
“He ain’t lying,” Orlando announced, looking down at the paperwork. “Pop did sign this. It’s his signature.” He looked around the room, making eye contact with each of us. “Maybe we should give this some thought.”
Vegas protested. “Oh, hell naw. You best believe Pop would not want to die with the mess you’ve made of things.” He was glaring at Orlando, who jumped up, ready to go to blows. I stepped in between them.
“We need to respect this document. We need to respect LC’s wishes,” Harris insisted.
“Fuck you, Harris. And fuck you,” Vegas yelled at Orlando.