Page 10 of Betting on the Brainiac

I unlock my car and toss in my bag, and I’m already pressing the ignition before my butt is fully in my seat. I need the A/C. The blessed, divine, arctic A/C.

The second the air hits me, I rest my head on the steering wheel, letting it blow over me even though it’s still warm. I close my eyes, half smiling as I wait for it to cool. My phone rings, and I crack an eye open at the dash screen. It’s my mom.

I ignore it and go back to waiting for the air. By the time the phone sends her to voicemail, the cooler air is blowing. I hit the recirculation button to help it along.

Ah yes. Now I can function. I turn on my summer playlist, put the car in gear, and drive toward home.

Halfway there, my mom calls again. I send it straight to voicemail.

I’m turning into our condo complex, belting out the last verse of a Dua Lipa song when it’s rudely interrupted by my mom calling again. I pull into a parking space and stab “Decline” on the dash screen and let the end of my song play.

When Dua Lipa is done and only when Dua Lipa is done, I check voicemail.

My mom’s voice fills the car, her accent softened and reshaped to sound genteel but still recognizably Texan.

“Madison, honey, I miss your gorgeous face. Come home for a visit. I’ll have Marta fix us some summer salad and this fabulous detoxifying tea Steph Burke told me about, and we can catch up.”

I’m only halfway through her breezy message when the dash screen tells me she’s left another voicemail.

“Madison, really, honey.” There’s a trace of annoyance in her voice. “I hope you aren’t pouting over that last silly fight we had. It wasn’t even a fight. Just an argument. I worry you’re toosensitive sometimes. Let’s both let it go. Call me back so we can make plans.”

I don’t even know what fight she means. Half the time, we can’t agree on whether we’re even having a fight. Things that drive me crazy don’t faze her at all, which only drives me crazier. And she’d say the same thing about me, that I don’t treat things she finds urgent with enough seriousness.

I don’t even have time to figure out which blowup she might mean before a third voicemail starts.

“Madison Leigh, this is ridiculous. It is unbecoming. Unbecoming.” The repetition is forceful. “I cannot believe you would ignore me like this. Your own mother. And with me being so unwell too. I raised you better than to turn your back on your own ill mother. This is unbecoming.”

Glad she said it the third time in case I missed it the first two. The message ends.

None of this is surprising. Not the quickly escalating texts and calls when she doesn’t get an answer immediately. Not the intensity of moving from a sweet invitation to an angry command. Not even her jumping all over me for not visiting her on her sickbed even though she didn’t mention she was sick.

That part, to be fair, should always be assumed. Not that doctors ever find anything wrong with her. That’s because my mother is Mrs. Bennet inPride and Prejudice. Her hypochondria is directly connected to her mood. My mother doesn’t get into bad moods because she feels sick; she feels sick only when she gets into bad moods. And her bad moods start the minute things don’t go her way. I’ve called her out on it. The result was sobbing and an escalation in “symptoms.”

The bottom line is that my mom has no chill. And she’s not even faking. That’s how hypochondria works; she’s convinced she’s as sick as she says she is, which is why calling her out is pointless.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I had some of Elizabeth Bennet’s perks, because of course I’d be the Elizabeth in this scenario. (Doesn’t everyone think she’s Elizabeth?) But I don’t have a gentle Jane or a doting Papa to balance things out. I have a sister who is basically Mr. Collins, and my dad is more like Caroline Bingley than anyone else. Oooh, no,Lady Catherine. My dad is Lady Catherine. Fabulously wealthy with a lousy disposition.

So blessed.

Another call from my mom lights up my dash screen. Better get it over with.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Madison.” Her voice is tight, and my shoulders creep up. “Are you done punishing me?”

“I wasn’t punishing you, Mom. I was working out.”

“Forthreehours?”

Classic. “Your first text came in less than an hour ago.”

“If you know that, then why didn’t you answer it?”

I drop my head against the seat and stare at the ceiling. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to need an answer as she barrels ahead.

“You’ll come over now that you’re done?”

“It’s a busy day, Mom.”It’s not, so don’t ask me why.

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