“No, that’s not what I said,” my brother replies, raising his voice during our blue-toothed conversation. “The hospital didn’t think she was covered.”
“How could they possibly think that?” I protest from the driver’s seat of my car. “We’ve only filled out dozens of forms in the past year with all that information.”
I hear Chuck’s groan, hundreds of miles away. He’s in Maryland driving home from work. I’m racing in my car in New England on the way to teach an evening class.
“Toll Booth in ½ mile,”
an alien-sounding female voice intones loudly from Chuck’s car, just as he says, “…called (garble garble) insurance (garble garble) card!”
“What?!” I shout. “What did you say?”
“Easy pass, right side,”
Exasperated, I stay silent. Chuck must hear my sigh, though, because he apologizes. “Sorry, it’s my GPS lady, Miranda.”
“MIRANDA?” I repeat, rather stupefied. But instead of asking about his choice of name for his GPS, I say: “You still don’t know how to find your way home without GPS help?” I know I sound like an older sister now, giving her brother a hard time.
“Continue on your right,”
Chuck grumbles. “I can’t get Miranda to stop giving directions.”
“Why not?” I approach a traffic light and pat on the brakes. In five minutes I’ll arrive at my destination. This conversation, though, is going nowhere.
Like Chuck and Miranda.
“Exit 32 in 3 miles.”
“Turn Miranda off,” I suggest more loudly (and sensibly?) than intended.
“I can’t!” Chuck says in exasperation.
“I’ve owned this car for a year and since I pulled it off the lot, Miranda has told me where to go. We can’t figure out how to turn her off.”
I begin to chuckle as my foot hits the accelerator and I race toward the school and my class.
“Brother, you have a Master’s in Finance, you own a successful business, you’re almost as smart as me, and you can’t figure out how to turn off Miranda??!!”
By now, Chuck and I are laughing in our respective cars, in our respective states.
We needed that.
Silently, I thank Miranda as I pull into the parking lot.