so if you want to move this mofo to Applebee’s, that is A-OK by me.”
I thought about it for a second. “I’ll try,” I said.
So I texted Davis while waiting for the second bell to ring and commence biology.
Couple friends are getting dinner at Applebee’s at 86th and Ditch on Friday. Are you free?
He wrote back immediately. I am. Pick you up or meet you there?
Meet us there. Does seven work? Sure. See you then.
After school that day, I had an appointment with Dr. Singh in her windowless office in the immense Indiana University North Hospital up in Carmel.
Mom offered to drive me, but I wanted some time alone with Harold. The whole way up, I thought about what I’d say to Dr. Singh.
I can’t properly think and listen to the radio at the same time, so it was quiet in the car,
except for the thumping rumble of Harold’s mechanical heart.
I wanted to tell her that I was getting better, because that was supposed to be the narrative of illness:
It was a hurdle you jumped over, or a battle you won. Illness is a story told in the past tense.
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