Today Will Be Different(47)

“I totally messed up! I thought we were having lunch.”

“Which I gathered from the number of voice-mail messages you left.” It took twice as long to say as a normal person due to her plodding enunciation. “My phone was turned off because I was in a two-and-a-half-hour conference. When I came out, there were five messages from you.”

At water parks, certain rides have a sign: YOU WILL GET WET. Sydney should have to wear a sign: YOU WILL GET BORED.

“I feel so stupid,” I said. “I’m totally fine.”

But Sydney Madsen wasn’t done. “I tried calling your cell phone but there was no answer. I tried calling your house. I called the restaurant. I came here and this young man let me up to your floor to knock on your door but he wouldn’t let me into your apartment. I called Joe’s office and they said he was on vacation.”

“She hit her head,” Timby chimed in. “In the museum. She passed out. She threw away her phone.”

Sydney brushed aside my bangs and looked startled. I raised my hand to my forehead.

“Ooh,” I said with a flinch. A goose egg had formed.

“Have you gone to the hospital?” Sydney asked.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Let me go upstairs and lie down.”

“That’s exactly what you don’t do,” she said. “Eleanor, there’s a concussion protocol. Have you tested yourself with the concussion app?”

“There’s a concussion app?” Timby asked.

“Wait,” Sydney said. “Please tell me you have not been driving with a head injury.”

“Umm,” Timby said, smiling adorably.

“I’ve held my tongue for years,” Sydney said, off on another slow, insistent tear. “But I’m concerned enough by your pattern of behavior to say it now: you must start taking some agency over your life.”

Is there anything more joy-killing than hearing agency in that context? Consider yourself warned. Say agency all you want, just know you won’t be hanging out with me.

“You’re walking around half in this world and half who knows where,” Sydney droned on. “I’m a busy person. I canceled an appointment so I could come find you. I walked up and down the parking garage looking for your car. I saw Joe’s but not yours. I was sick with worry. It’s almost as if you have zero consideration for others.”

“She got you this.” Timby handed Sydney the ravaged gift basket with its ripped cellophane and half-devoured food items.

“I’m taking you to the hospital.” Sydney held out her palm. “You’re not driving.”

“Okay.” I handed her my car keys. “I’ll go.”

“You will?” asked Timby.

“Let me run upstairs and get my insurance card. I’ll be right down. Come on, Timby.”


Up in our apartment, I went straight to the utility closet. I pulled the top off the vintage flour canister where we kept our extra keys.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

“Something fun.”


Back in the elevator, Timby reached for L. I stopped him just in time. I pushed P2.

“Sydney said she saw Dad’s car,” I explained. “If it’s true, that’s a significant development.”

“It is?”

Timby followed me into the garage.

Sure enough, Joe’s car sat in his space. He parks one level down from me (don’t you love him, giving me the better parking space!), which is why I hadn’t noticed it on our way in. I used his spare key to unlock the doors.

“Are we getting in?” Timby asked.

I started the engine and waited for the display to boot up. The speakers blared inane jam-band music from the Sirius channel Joe likes.

“Yech,” I said, slapping it off. “A live concert needs to be listened to live. Otherwise, it’s like eating day-old salad.”

Timby hooted with laughter from the backseat.

“What?” I asked.

“Day-old salad! That’s hilarious!”

“Gee,” I said. “I always thought you didn’t get my jokes.”

“I get them,” he said. “Most of the time they’re just not funny.”

Our neighborhood appeared on the GPS. I cycled through the menu options until I found TRACE ROUTE.

On the screen, our neighborhood again, but this time overlaid with dotted lines showing the routes Joe had driven. I zoomed out to get a sense of Joe’s big picture.

The thickest line formed between our apartment and his office. But there was another line, nearly as fat, between our apartment and a mystery destination about five miles away. In Magnolia, a sleepy neighborhood on a hill where we never went. Where there was no reason to go.

“What are you doing?” asked Timby.

I zoomed in. A residential neighborhood. Not good.

“Get in,” I said. “Seat belt on.”

We screeched up the parking-garage spiral and into traffic. I couldn’t resist a peek. In the lobby, Sydney Madsen had her back to us, talking with flapping arms to poor Ajay. His eyes widened when he realized it was me and Timby smoking up Third Avenue.

“You know how I said your subconscious is a deep-down part of you that sometimes has bad ideas?” I said to Timby. “This isn’t that. This is me, your mom, doing something I know full well is a bad idea.”