Body Swap

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “I don’t need your lecture,” I snap.

  Whoa! There’s a moment of silence where Sheryl and Ron give each other quick looks.

  “I did take the Hurricane in this morning. The technician thought it was a crooked car mat. Turns out he was wrong. I took it back this afternoon, and they installed a reinforcement bar.”

  “Why would you need one of those? The Hurricane’s brand new, for heaven’s sake,” Ron says. “I swear, they just see a senior coming and they invent things …”

  “The Hurricane sped off on me, even though I had my foot on the brake. No one invented that problem.”

  Sheryl gives Ron a quick look, and I can see the eye-roll thing happening with the daughter-in-law.

  Okay, in my other body, I am the queen of the eye roll. It’s my favourite form of self-expression. Now that I’m an old biddy, I don’t find it so cute.

  “So now Ron’s supposed to take off work to fight your speeding ticket …”

  “I can go alone. Give the judge the Saji invoice.”

  “Never mind. I don’t have to take any time off. Just give me the ticket. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Okay. Here, Sheryl, you take it so we don’t forget,” I hand it over the seat to her.

  “Oh, we don’t forget things,” she answers, grabbing it.

  Really? They’re that perfect? Do only teens and eighty-two-year-olds experience brain farts? “And here’s the invoice, too. Show Officer Wilson I had the car fixed now.”

  Ron nods. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll contact the station. For now, let’s forget all about it. Have a pleasant evening.”

  At an old-age home? He’s got to be kidding.

  Ron pulls up at the circular driveway and Sheryl helps me out. Susan’s knees don’t want to hold me, not straight up from a sitting position.

  An older man hooked to an IV and bundled in a wheelchair sits in a gazebo just across the driveway. A cigarette hangs from his frown. Surrounding the gazebo are small fir trees decorated with red-and-blue lights and mounds of snow.

  Sheryl waves in his direction. “Nice park!” She smiles.

  He throws his cigarette to the snow and ignores her.

  Real friendly.

  “Imagine sitting there and reading a book in the warmer weather,” Ron says, as though it’s the most beautiful area in the western hemisphere.

  The geezer reaches for a packet in his shirt pocket and bangs out another cigarette. Judging by the butts on the snow, it wasn’t his first smoke.

  “Shall we continue?” Sheryl asks brightly.

  We follow her as she leads the march toward the doors, which automatically slide open into a large, bright entrance.

  The doors shut behind us, silent and final.

  To our right is a cosy sitting area with a little fake fireplace against one wall, complete with Christmas stockings hanging from the mantle. Two ceramic bulldogs with Santa hats on their heads curl up near some overstuffed chairs. A long coffee table stretches in front of a couch. A black globe with silver continents sits in the middle of it. All the places the residents will never get to. A beefy smell wafts through the air, mixed with an undertone of something overly sweet — lilies of the valley, like that lady on the bus. The combo is not a plus.

  A lady with large, light brown hair greets us. “Ron, Sheryl … and you must be Susan!” She reaches out to shake my hand. “I’m Elizabeth. Would you like to tour first or are you hungry?”

  “Tour,” I answer before my new son and daughter-in-law can.

  “Wonderful, I’ll just let the kitchen staff know.” She pulls out her cellphone and keys something in. “So the grounds aren’t much to look at right now, but in the summer we have roses, tulips, lilies, and even some orchids. One of the residents loves gardening so she helps take care of it. Do you like to garden, Susan?”

  Oh puke! I don’t know. No time to text the real Susan to see. I give a quick look at my nails. They’re long and painted a glossy red to match Susan’s bright lipstick. “Um, I don’t like to get my hands dirty.”

  “Mother lives on the ninth floor. She doesn’t even have a balcony,” Sheryl adds, like this place is a big step up.

  “So no to gardening then. Don’t worry, we have plenty of activities to choose from.”

  A short bus pulls up at the front now, and the driver jumps out to put a ramp in place.

  “Today, some of the residents went to the bank.” Elizabeth waves at one of the seniors rolling in with her walker.

  The bank, I think. Most boring outing, ever. “Do residents get their own parking spots?”

  Elizabeth gives Sheryl a quick look. “As you see, we have buses to take residents out. No one really needs a car.”

  Double puke! “Out” is a trip to an ATM.

  “Some people don’t even want to leave. We have a supper club, Bingo, current events, chair yoga, movie night, and a crafts group.” She keys a code onto a number pad, which opens the door to another hallway. “If you forget the code, it’s written in the box here. That’s to keep our wanderers in.”

  If no one wants to leave, why do they have to know a code to get out?

  “This is the Kent Wing. Here’s the nursing station.” She waves and a lady in white smiles at us. “A full-time nurse makes sure you take all your medications.”

  That doesn’t sound good. I picture some gorilla-sized person stuffing pills down my throat.

  “And here is our lounge, where we hold many of our events. Karaoke night, for example.” The lounge is a big room where a large-screen TV plays loudly. A few grey-haired people doze on the sofa near it.

  “Fun, fun, fun,” I say.

  She doesn’t catch my sarcasm. “You like singing? I always say singing is the soul’s way of laughing out loud.”

  What’s laughing then, I wonder. Singing for the brain? I shake my head. Neither metaphor really works for me.

  We keep walking and she stops to knock on a door. “One of our residents, Andrea, volunteered to show you her room. Andrea? Andrea?” She knocks again and shouts a little louder. “Andrea!” Then she gives up, pulls a key ring from her pocket, and unlocks the door.

  For one panicky moment, I imagine Andrea lying dead on the floor. She has to be pretty old to live here, after all.

  The door opens and … no one there. Lucky.

  The room looks bigger than my bedroom at home but smaller than our family room. Still, a couch, a media shelf, two bureaus, and a bed are crammed in. My breathing gets faster. Is the furniture closing in on us? And why are there fake flowers in vases everywhere?

  “Oh, look at the kitty!” I walk over to a bookshelf where an orange tabby lies curled up. I touch the lifelike fur and the little back rises against my fingers. I jump back. “It’s breathing!”

  Elizabeth grins. “Battery operated. Isn’t that a hoot? No animals are allowed unless they’re therapy dogs.” She waits while Sheryl admires the robot cat and then continues. “We paint, but of course you are free to decorate your area the way you like.”

  Decorate? I look around at all the mismatched furniture. Is that what she calls what happened to this room? More like memories of a bigger home.

  I open a door that leads to a small washroom with a sink and an industrial-looking toilet, complete with scaffolding around it and a shelf above. A doll in a crocheted pink dress sits over a roll of toilet paper.

  “Where’s the bathtub and shower?” I ask.

  “The shower room is at the end of the hall. You’re entitled to two baths or showers a week.”

  “What!”

  “That’s by mandate,” Elizabeth says. “But of course if you have a family member who wants to help you, you’re welcome to have more.”

  “I shower every day.” I look at Sheryl.

  “I’ve heard that North Americans bathe too often. It’s not good for us,” Sheryl says. “We wash away our pheromones.”

  “Whatever.”

  The ladies both stare now.

  Uh-oh, I said t
hat outside my head.

  Ron tilts his head as though he didn’t hear me correctly. “Mom?”

  “I don’t need pheromones at my age. I want to take a shower whenever I feel like it.”

  “But you never shower, anyway — you like to take baths.” Sheryl raises a concerned eyebrow and aims it at Ron.

  “I like showers, now!” I snap. “A person can change her mind.”

  There’s a moment of silence and then Elizabeth changes the subject.

  “The room that’s coming up for availability has a lovely view of the ravine.” She smiles at me.

  At this point, I know that if I have to stay in this body at this residence, I will jump into that ravine. I can’t smile back.

  “This way, please.”

  She parts a path through a gathering of old people. “Supper hour just ended. Everyone’s leaving the dining room.” She pushes open one of the doors to a huge area full of tables and chairs. “There’s assigned seating, but if you find you don’t get along with someone, we can always seat you somewhere else.”

  The room looks cheery enough. Vases of yellow flowers sit at every table. I rub my fingers over a petal. Thick dusty material; fake, of course. Framed prints of gardens hang from the bandage-coloured walls. As if the pictures can help convince you that all these flowers are real. “Can I eat in my room if I want to?”

  “We don’t encourage that. If you’re sick and have a doctor’s letter, we’ll deliver your meals for a few days.”

  And after that, you starve.

  Elizabeth leads us to a smaller kitchen where you can volunteer to chop vegetables.

  As if.

  “Would you like to eat now?” she asks.

  Ron nods for all of us and Elizabeth leads us to a private dining room. She tells us we can book this room whenever the family wants to eat with me. I wonder how often that would be. I sure wouldn’t want to come here to dine.

  A young dude with stiff, glossed curls serves each of us a plate with a breaded cutlet, a pile of mashed potatoes, and carrots. “Gravy with that?” he asks, and when Ron nods again, he ladles it on.

  Who needs gravy on a breaded piece of meat? Ron, apparently.

  The server smiles down at me. He has these crazy blue eyes and terrific dimples, a dent in his chin as big as a thumbprint.

  My heart does a double thump. I shield my food with my hand but I wink at him to show I’m friendly. I smile, too big and wide.

  The dude winks back.

  Too late, I see Sheryl’s horrified look. She nudges Ron.

  I’m an eighty-two-year-old flirting with a twenty-something-old server. A perv.

  I focus on the meal and sample a little of each. I’m not all that hungry, and it’s wall paste, all of it. Bland, bland, bland. I’ll have to give Susan a jar of Dad’s hot jerk spice. What am I thinking? Susan can’t sign up to live in a place like this. Two baths a week, no car. She is an independent lady. I’m going to have to stand firm on this point for her.

  CHAPTER 12

  Susan

  MRS. PRINCE HAS THE SAME WARM skin tone and beautiful lips as Hallie, but it’s the moment her arms surround and squeeze me to her that I know the tall woman in the kitchen to be Hallie’s mother.

  It’s love I feel so strongly I can hardly swallow.

  My head only reaches her bosom, but Hallie may still grow. If she gets the chance. A warm curry smell wafts around us, and Mariah Carey sings about all that she wants for Christmas over the radio. A bushy over-decorated fir tree sits in the front sitting area, and a long ribbon full of greeting cards hangs in the hall along with four advent calendars. The towels draped over the stove handle are red and green, and there’s an evergreen centrepiece on the kitchen table.

  “Who was that who drove you home?” Mrs. Prince asks, with a slight edge of suspicion.

  “Susan. She’s my adopted grandmother. An empathy project for school,” I answer. The lie feels like truth by now, anyway. “I’m supposed to learn what it’s like to be old and help her with technology.” And maybe it is all an empathy project, only it belongs to Eli. He’s the one who will decide if we pass or fail it all.

  I don’t want to answer a lot of questions until I’m more comfortable with Hallie’s identity. Otherwise, Mrs. Prince will catch on that her daughter has changed. So I head out of the kitchen again. “Uh, I’m going to go tidy my room now.”

  “Say what?” Hallie’s mother asks. Already, her eyes narrow. “Did you say ‘tidy’?”

  “You want me to clean my bedroom, don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah! But I haven’t even nagged you about it yet.”

  “Okay, well … I’m maturing, I guess.” I grin at my little inside joke. If only Mrs. Prince knew just how much more mature her daughter has become since this morning.

  I leave the kitchen. Now, which way is Hallie’s room? I wonder and start back to the front, where I noticed stairs earlier. Second floor, I’m guessing, and climb up. With no one around, it’s safe for me to explore and open each door. When I hit the bathroom, I use it. Then right next to it is a linen closet and after that a bedroom that looks like a hurricane hit it, and not the Saji Motors kind. To make absolutely certain the room belongs to Hallie, I step inside and lift a pair of jeans from the unmade bed, holding them close to my hips. Yes siree, a fit. I begin to gather and pile all the dirty clothes in one corner. Beneath some underwear on a bureau, I discover a framed photo of Abby and Hallie, so I must have the right room.

  There are some pizza crusts under the bed, along with some crumpled potato chip bags. Using the little waste bin I found in the bathroom, I dispose of all that. Then I gather the clothes pile in my arms. “Mom! Where do we keep the laundry detergent?”

  “In the basement with the washer and dryer, like always!” Hallie’s mother calls back.

  I stagger down the two flights of stairs with the mountain of Hallie’s dirty clothes. In the basement family room, I see a young girl on a couch, perhaps seven or eight, with paler skin than Hallie, ginger pompom pigtails, and green eyes like her mom’s and sister’s. “You’re blocking the tele­vision,” she complains to me.

  “So-rree!” I stagger on through a passage to a small cinder-block alcove, the laundry room. There I stuff the washer with Hallie’s clothes, adding the detergent from the shelf just above it, press numerous buttons, and listen to an electronic melody signalling the start. A broom with a dustpan attached to the stick and a box of garbage bags sits next to the dryer. Technology that I understand.

  I climb up the stairs again with this cleaning equipment, barely feeling my knees at all. I should be breathless and exhausted but instead I feel invigorated. Ah, to be young! To stay young forever! This different ending to my life is wonderful.

  Back upstairs, I sweep out the dustballs in Hallie’s room and empty the bathroom garbage. Some magazines get shelved, the shoes get lined up. I decide to change the bed. Down the stairs again, I’m in time to put the wash in the dryer and then toss in the sheets.

  “Hallie! Come and set the table!” Mrs. Prince calls down to me.

  I stomp up to the kitchen, still breathing easy and grinning.

  At that moment, the El-Q plays music from my bag. It’s a text from Abby.

  What cha doin?

  Laundry, I answer.

  No really? Abby texts back.

  Cleaning my room and laundry. Setting the table.

  You’re such a kidder. Wanna hang out tomorrow?

  Sure.

  Doing what?

  Tomorrow is my Aquafit class, which usually helps make my hips and knees work more smoothly. But my joints are in premium shape in this body. I don’t need to water jog. Still, this week is a special Christmas coffee and brunch afterward and all my friends will be there; I will miss celebrating with people my own age. Wait a minute! After Aquafit is a 60s Swing and Swim for teens, free because of the holiday. I remember Linda telling me she wished she were young enough to go.

  Why don’t we go swimming at Tansley
Woods? Free tomorrow.

  Who else is going? Abby asks.

  I’ll text Chael and Hardeep.

  Really?

  Too forward? But I need to act fast. How long can I possibly stay fifteen?

  And Megan, I add, remembering that contact name on my El-Q.

  OK. What time?

  One o’clock.

  “Hallie? The table please! Put down your toy.”

  “Sorry, Mom.” I put the El-Q back in my bag. “Smells wonderful.” I select the wrong drawer to find cutlery but cover up by handing Mrs. Prince the ladle she will need in a minute to serve up. From the next drawer over, I pull out the knives and forks. “Do we have napkins?”

  “Napkins?” Mrs. Prince squints at me. “Just put the paper towel roll on the table.”

  When I’m finished laying out the forks and knives at every chair, I stand waiting for Hallie’s mother to hand me the plates full of food.

  “My, my. You are helpful today. What big-ticket item are you wanting for Christmas?” Mrs. Prince hands me two plates full of rice and curried chicken. “Call your sister up from the basement.”

  I don’t need notes on how to do this; my mind is so sharp, I remember how kids do this from my own two. I just open the door to the basement and yell loudly and obnoxiously, “Aria! Come up for dinner.”

  Mrs. Prince rolls her eyes. “I could have done that myself.”

  Truer words have never been spoken.

  I sit down at the setting farthest from the cooking area. The close one has to be Mrs. Prince’s seat. Mothers usually do all the jumping up and serving.

  Hallie’s little sister finally bounces in. She sits at the setting next to mine, but the moment she sees what’s on the plates, she whines about the food. “Why can’t we have fried or barbecued chicken? I hate curry.”

  I scoop up a mouthful. “Mmm.” I can’t help myself. “I love it.”

  Both Aria and her mother give me a stare.

  “Well, it’s especially delicious today, you have to admit. Come on, Aria, just try it!”

  “You’re being weird,” Aria answers but takes a spoonful.

  Teenagers eat quickly and don’t answer a lot of questions, as I remember it. “How’s your day?” “How is your room coming?” What’s new?” can all be answered with two words. Okay and nothing.