My takeaway from all this? I was fated to be freakishly skinny (and soon to be freakishly tall) with a heart that might pop like a zit.

The good news was that I no longer had to wear the back brace. Score!

The following Saturday, on the aimless drive around Beverly with Mercy, I told her about the impending surgery, but not the Marfan’s, as that possibility made me feel more fragile than I already felt. I joked that I’d be like the Terminator, living tissue surrounding my metal endoskeleton. It was a relief to tell someone other than a family member about the fusion. The date was far enough away that it would never happen, but when it did, I would have a friend who would support my recovery, even if it were from afar. She commiserated and said that it sucked but I’d be fine and imagine how tall I’d be after, “You’ll be the tallest Terminator, the T-Tall-1989 or something,” and she promised to visit me when recovering and bring me new music.

I said a simple “Thank you.” I didn’t tell her what she said meant a lot, but I hoped it was in there crouching between the two words.

Then, after a beat, she made an odd joke. “We need to get our Renfield straightened out.”

“Renfield?”

“Wasn’t that guy all hunched over? No, wait. Igor, then.” She waved a hand as though swatting a fly. “Same diff.”

There are some big-ass paragraphs here. I don’t mind them, but others might. Maybe I should read more memoirs before making comments like that, but not knowing hasn’t stopped me from giving an opinion before. It’s the American way! I’m tempted to quote lyrics I’m sure you already know by heart from “In a Free Land”—one of the Hüskers’ finest moments.

I could read about your love of music all day, every day. Do any of us love music—or anything else—as much as we loved it when we were young(er)? In the earlier chapters, despite my criticisms, I’ll now admit you captured my tired cynicism well upon meeting me. Maybe you couldn’t tell how much I enjoyed listening to albums with you. Your unbridled joy at the discovery was intoxicating. I couldn’t get enough of it, so I kept happily feeding you and feeding off you.

Like last chapter, I don’t think you need the bit about your hangover Sundays. What does that add or tell the reader other than our Saturday jaunts tuckered you out? And then your mom brings it up at the doc appointment, plus your ominous parenthetical hint at explanation … of what? I haven’t figured it out yet. I probably won’t like it.