Today Will Be Different(13)

“We’re about to find out, aren’t we?”

“I’m coming too?” Timby said with big eyes.

“Me and you.”





As for my constant low-grade state of confusion—the Blur is a term that seems to be sticking—let me break it into three categories: (1) things I should know but never learned, (2) things I choose not to know, and (3) things I know but totally screw up.

Things I should know but never learned? My left from my right. Sorry, but you better ask someone else for directions.

Things I choose not to know? Plenty. There’s only so much a good brain has room for, let alone a bad brain like mine. So I made an executive decision: There would be subjects I’d aggressively take no interest in, such as the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Lena Dunham, the whereabouts of the stolen paintings from the Isabella Stewart Gardner heist, what GMO even stands for, and, until Timby’s flirtation with kneesocks in the Gap five minutes ago, gender identity. If that makes my human existence a limited one, I stoically accept my fate. Today’s prevailing stance seems to be I have an opinion, therefore I am. My stance? I have no opinion, therefore I am superior to you.

Things I know but always screw up? Times. If I have a lunch at 12:30, I’ll write 12:30 in my book. But along the way, some alchemy happens in my brain and 12:30 becomes 1:00. You’d think that after arriving for the theater half an hour after curtain (a dozen times!), I’d have learned to triple-check the ticket. But no. I wish I could explain it. One of life’s enigmas.

My point is, switching Spencer Martell to Sydney Madsen might send you running to the neurologist, but to me it’s a shrug-fest.


A parking space gaped across the street from the restaurant. What if this was my only karmic blessing of the day? I almost hated to waste it.

“This is going to be a grown-up lunch, you understand that,” I said, sticking the parking receipt on the inside of the window.

“Will it be inappropriate?” Timby asked, climbing out of the car hugging the gift basket.

“We’re going to talk about what we’re going to talk about, and you’ll have to sit there. To nip it in the bud, in terms of can-we-go-nows, the answer is no.”

“What if there’s an earthquake?”

“What did I say?”

“Can I listen to the radio on your phone?”

“No. But I do have those books on tape.”

“It’s all Laura Ingalls Wilder.”

“You’ve been ruined by Literally Not Even,” I said.

“What’s Literally Not Even?”

“That horrible show you’re always watching.”

“It’s called I Know, Right?”

“Then I Know, Right? has totally ruined you,” I said.

“God, Mom,” Timby said. “You’ve never even seen it.”

“Don’t listen to anything,” I said. “Just sit there.”

“Fine,” Timby said bitterly. “Laura Ingalls Wilder.”

While we waited to cross the street, a homeless guy passed by. White with dreads, a beard, and red everything: skin, eyes, peeling hands, tops of his bare feet. His face, his whole body, searched for something, anything.

“Come here.” I pulled Timby in.

“Is he mentally ill?”

“I just want to hold you close.” I gave Timby a squeeze. He relaxed in my embrace. “I’m wild about you, you know that, right?”

“I know.” He smiled up at me.

“You don’t have to be wild about me too. Just try to like me a little more than you do now.”


We entered Mamnoon with its ebony walls, industrial ceiling, fabulous bursts of geometric mosaic, and whimsical, but not too whimsical, chandeliers. I don’t care where you live, but here in Seattle, our restaurants are better than your restaurants.

“Hmmm,” I said. “Who are we looking for?”

“Spencer Martell,” Timby said.

“I know that,” I snapped.

Deep in the restaurant, a man stood and waved. Thirties, skinny, he wore a yellow gingham shirt, a brown belt, and black jeans.

“There he is,” I said, waving back. “I know him…”

“From where?” Timby asked.

Fifteen steps away, he looked familiar. Eight steps away, and I almost remembered… And there we were.

“Spencer!”

“Eleanor,” he said, with deep affection.

“You!”

Timby shot me a look: Who is it? I shot him one back: Don’t ask me.

“Is this your son?” Spencer asked.

“You’ve met?” I said, not sure.

“We brought you a basket,” Timby said.

“If I’d known you were coming,” Spencer said to Timby, hands on bent knees, “I’d have brought you something too.”

Timby did the math quicker than Bobby Fischer and spotted a leather case on the table. He grabbed it and snapped it open.

On a bed of satin rested an orange Montblanc pen, the kind I used to use, the kind they stopped making forever ago.

“The rollerball,” Spencer said to me. “If I remember correctly.”

“I can’t believe you found one.” The weight of it, the unlikeliness of its clownish color, the double-click of the top coming off and on in my hand. “On eBay I can only find midnight blue—”