Body Swap

by Sylvia McNicoll

  Aria chatters away, instead.

  When everyone seems done, I clear the dishes to the sink, rinse them, and begin to load them into the dishwasher. Over the clatter, I don’t notice the silence these actions cause till Aria shouts.

  “You’re not Hallie! What have you done with my sister?”

  The hair at the back of my neck prickles. I’ve been found out.

  “Stop that!” Mrs. Prince answers. “Hallie is working on a project. Now why don’t you develop some empathy, too, by wiping the table.”

  For the rest of the evening, I hide in Hallie’s room and text invites to the 60s swim event at the pool. Everyone says yes. The real Hallie will be so pleased that Chael is coming.

  The real Hallie. Hmm. I try calling her on the El-Q, but she never answers. So I text. I know I’m supposed to be brief; this isn’t like snail mail so I keep it to four sentences. Four sentences when I have so many more things to say.

  You need to go to Aquafit at noon tomorrow at Tansley Woods. Bathing suit and towel is in bathroom closet at the condo. Afterwards hang around. I’m going to try to get you that boyfriend.

  CHAPTER 13

  Hallie

  “NAH! I DON’T WANT TO COME IN. Thanks anyway.” Last thing I need after the tour of Sunnyside Terrace and a silent drive toward their house is to go in and visit with Sheryl and Ron to discuss the residence.

  Sheryl raises an eyebrow at Ron, a pointy, judgemental eyebrow. I can almost guess that she’s awarding me ten points on the senior-unreasonable-dementia scale.

  “I’m tired,” I explain. “I need my beauty rest.” That’s something Mom tells me all the time so it’s as close to senior-speak as I can get.

  “But we need to make a decision quickly,” Sheryl insists. “Once the family cleans out that poor woman’s belongings from the room overlooking the ravine, there’ll be a lineup for it.”

  Poor woman? Dead poor woman? I think about the see-through people that were at the carnival. Is she one of them? Someone riding that teacup ride or merry-go-round?

  “It’s a lot to take in.” Ron seems to be on my side. He helps me out of the back seat of their Blizzard and into the driver’s seat of my own car. “But Mom, we can’t delay this forever.” He kisses me on the cheek and I give him a little wave. Then I shut the door.

  Huh! I will never treat my mother like that. Tricking her into visiting a residence with a fake dinner invitation.

  As I switch on the El-Q to use the GPS, a text from Susan flashes up. Something about Aquafit … and Chael. How she thinks she’s going to land him, I don’t know. I just hope I’m back in my own body to enjoy her success. The Hurricane drives smoothly as I navigate the turns to get to Susan’s condo. When I arrive, I park right in the front without using the assist feature. I could probably pass my driving test today if they allowed me to take it. Then I head slowly for the door so as not to strain my old knees and ankles. Just inside are a couple of grey-haired ladies sitting on a bench. One wears a red jacket and clashing fuchsia slacks with large, white sneakers that look like moon boots. She smiles as I come in. “Good evening, Susan, did you have a nice dinner?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I lie. None of their business, anyways.

  The other lady smirks like she knows the secret to the world as she holds on to a cane propped between her knees. Underneath an open camel-haired coat, she wears a blue floral top that ends at the knees of her denim pants. Those pants stop just short of a pair of ugly, black lace-up boots. Kind of mismatched and style free — things Abby might buy at a thrift shop and look creative and funky in. Not these ladies, though.

  “You know you’re not allowed to park in the front. Those spots are reserved for visitors,” the cane lady says.

  I sooo hope I am just visiting, I think and sigh. “Where am I supposed to park?” It’s hard pretending to be another person, especially when every joint aches and I’m bone tired.

  “In your spot in the underground lot, of course.”

  How will I know where the spot is? I fumble for my El-Q to try to Q-Time Susan but she doesn’t seem to be online. “I’m having a hard day, can you just …”

  “Rules are for everybody. You can’t just park willy-nilly wherever you like.”

  “But that indoor garage can be a nuisance,” the lady in red and fuchsia argues. “Susan’s driving out tomorrow morning, anyway.”

  How does she know that?

  “That doesn’t matter. What if my son wants to visit me and there are no spots left?”

  “Wouldn’t he call first? And doesn’t he just pick you up at the front door?”

  “Shut up!”

  Both of them look at me, shocked.

  I hold my fist to my forehead. “I have a terrible headache.” Scrambling through Susan’s purse, I find keys and they’re marked Unit 909.

  I turn from the women on the bench. They continue talking as I walk away.

  “Really, Margret, maybe you shouldn’t have bothered her about the car. She seems so upset.”

  “Linda. I simply do not care. Someone has to keep people on track around here.”

  Do they just assume everyone’s deaf? I leave the building and get back in the Hurricane. Then I drive it to what I now see is the garage door — if only I knew how to open it.

  A silver pickup truck with oversized tires pulls up behind me and honks, twice.

  “Is there some problem, Mrs. MacMillan?” A disembodied voice comes from a speaker on a short pole to the left of the entrance.

  “Yes. I can’t open the garage.”

  “Your key fob not working?” the voice asks.

  Ah! That’s it. I wave my key at the unit underneath the speaker and the door lifts.

  “Seems to be working now,” I tell the speaker and slowly drive ahead. The truck follows on my bumper as I inch forward, hoping for some clue as to where to pull in.

  Painted in large red numbers on the cement wall is 909. Phew! This time I switch on the park assist and throw the Hurricane in neutral. Eerily, the computer takes over, lining up the car with the others, backing in, and finally beeping its success and turning itself off. The truck, meanwhile, swerves around and screeches to its own parking spot. Everyone’s in a hurry, I think.

  I follow a heavyset man with rust-coloured hair and sideburns from the truck to the elevator.

  “Ever thought of changing the battery in your key fob, Mrs. MacMillan?” he says.

  “Have you ever thought of trying chair yoga?” I snap back. He needs to take some kind of chill pill.

  “Like I’ve got time between shifts.” He punches the seventh and ninth floor buttons. “Less than an hour to eat and change before I start delivering pizza.” The door slides open on the seventh and he sprints out.

  “Have a nice evening!” I call after him. The elevator stops on the ninth floor and I walk to the end of the hall, counting numbers. My first apartment ever. I expected to be sharing it with Abby or Megan, to have parties every night or at least stay out late and not have to answer to my parents.

  And here it is, 909 — I unlock and open the door, sighing — in spectacular beige and cream with big red roses all over the couches. What is it with old people and flowers? A dark brown wooden floor leads through to the galley kitchen, which has matching dark oak cabinets. A bit coffin-like, if you ask me. The windows look out over twinkling lights. They end in inky blackness that might be the lake. Different than how I’d planned but still a place all for myself! Maybe better than Susan’s credit card or car.

  I check out the bathroom. Oh yeah, a Jacuzzi tub! No wonder Susan doesn’t like to shower. The walls are the shade of masking tape, and on top of a dark wooden cabi­net sits one of those bowl sinks. The mirror slides open to a medicine cabinet. A glass on the counter reminds me of my Uncle Bill, who keeps his teeth in one back at the farm. Panicking, I slam the mirror shut and lean close, opening my mouth wide to see if Susan’s teeth are real. They don’t look perfectly straight or white. I dig a finger­nail into the gum
and feel it. Just to make sure, I slide open the mirror and check the shelves. No denture cream there. But there are vials of pills with Susan’s name on them and instructions on how to take them. Just how sick is she? I’ll have to ask her about that.

  Next door, the spare room has a large desk surrounded on three walls by shelves — some hold books, others knick-knacks. A tall giraffe sits on one, a large elephant on another. Did Susan bring these home from Africa? She has this whole life I have to fake but know nothing about.

  Then the bedroom. It’s huge and still beige with thick, coffee-coloured carpeting that springs back beneath my sneakers. I want to sink my bare feet into it, so I unlace Susan’s sneakers, kick them off, and pull down her ankle socks.

  Oh my god! Skeleton feet! These toes are long and bumpy, with thick, yellow nails, too. Quickly, I roll the socks back up, fling myself on the bed, and hyperventilate for a few moments. When my breath evens out, I realize this bed is gigantic, and across from me, there’s a second bathroom. Two bathrooms just for me. I won’t have to share with Aria or anyone. When one’s dirty, I can just switch to the other.

  Next to the bathroom door sits a dresser, and on it, a huge TV. My own bathrooms, my own personal viewing station! I pick up the remote and turn it on. I can watch all night if I like, which is why Mom doesn’t allow us to have TVs in our rooms. Today, my eyes feel heavy and it’s only nine thirty. Better see if I can get hold of Susan and find out about those pills in the bathroom medicine cabinet. I touch the El-Q face button and then touch Susan’s profile shot. A couple of warbles later, I see my former self on the screen, smiling. I miss my unwrinkled young skin, never mind my plump feet. There’s a smaller image of Susan in the corner. The Susan I’m stuck inside.

  “Hi there. Just want to say your place is amazing!”

  “Glad you like it,” Susan answers. “I cleaned your room so I hope you keep my condo tidy.”

  “Um, sure.” I look around. So far, just a purse and shoes are flung across the floor; the condo could still be described as neat. “Listen, I saw a lot of pills in your medicine cabinet. Can you give me the lowdown on what to take?”

  “Certainly. For now, there’s a pillbox labelled with the days of the week. When we’re done on the El-Q, you need to take Monday PM. Have a glass of milk with it. Tomorrow, you need to take both Tuesday AM and PM. The AM with breakfast. The PM with dinner.”

  “Okay. What’s this about Aquafit?”

  “Well, tomorrow is a special holiday potluck for the regulars. Margret and Linda will want a lift.”

  “You’re kidding. Those busybodies that sit at the entrance?”

  She grins. “Oh, they’re not as bad as all that. Margret’s husband passed just last year and she’s taking it hard. We play rummy cube on Wednesday nights together. They’re pretty big gamblers.”

  “And what’s this about you and Chael? How do you know if he’s even going to be there?”

  “I invited him and he said yes.”

  “He did!” I squeal in an old lady’s voice. “That has to mean he likes me … don’t you think?”

  “Of course he does, dear. Sometimes you just need to let a person know that you’re interested. So don’t forget those pills. Is there anything you want me to know about?”

  So much, I don’t know where to begin. I look around her huge bedroom and suddenly remember Andrea’s claustrophobic room at the residence. “You know how Ron and Sheryl invited you to dinner? Well, they actually surprised me with a tour and a meal at Sunnyside Terrace.”

  “How dreadful. They really are pushing this home on me. What was it like?”

  I purse my thin pale lips but in the end can’t stop the thought from going vocal. “You’d probably rather die.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Susan

  LYING IN BED, TRYING NOT TO wake up, I can’t help noticing that my condo is very noisy this morning. Traffic news blares from a radio somewhere. “Eastbound QEW is backed up from Trafalgar, where a tractor-trailer has overturned. Westbound …” A door slams.

  My eyes flutter. Things look different.

  “Where are my gym shorts?” someone yells.

  What is going on? I open my eyes wide and sit up in an unfamiliar bed. Where am I?

  I yawn and stretch wide. Despite the strange surroundings, last night’s sleep was the best I have had in a long time, no waking up to go to the bathroom and no tossing and turning till dawn. I roll out of bed and feel no aches and pains. That’s when I remember. This is Hallie’s room.

  A whole household bustles around me.

  I rush to the bathroom and knock hard on the door because, at this point, I desperately need to use the toilet.

  A man’s voice calls out, “Give me a second, honey … Okay, come on in.”

  Clearly, I’m expected to do my business while Hallie’s father showers. I step in and quickly sit down on the toilet, nearly falling because the lid is up. After shutting it, I re-seat myself, all the while trying not to look at the profile of a man outlined on the shower curtain. The steamy room smells of some kind of spiced citrus aftershave. I shudder; toilet lids up and aftershave all remind me of my former husband, Ron Senior, who ran off when the children were toddlers. When I’m done, I flush.

  Mr. Prince hollers out in dismay.

  “Ah! Sorry. I forgot.” I hope I haven’t scalded him.

  Hallie’s father peaks his head around the curtain, his skin looking almost as red as his hair.

  “Sorry!” I repeat and he ducks his head back in. How can I brush my teeth and not scald him again? I’ll have to wait, I suppose. This is why I like living alone back in my real life, why I don’t move in with my children. Too much happening.

  I wipe a spot of steam from the mirror and notice a dark spot in the middle of my forehead. Touching it, I realize it’s hard and tender at the same time. A pimple! I can’t remember the last time I’ve had one of those. Things have changed so much, there must be something I can do for this. Is there not an app on the El-Q that zaps them? I pull a few strands of hair forward. Better already. That’s the ticket! I will pull down some strands of Hallie’s hair into bangs. Maybe a hairband will help and add that certain 60s touch to my do. I can fashion one out of a scarf if I can find one.

  “See you!” I call to the profile on the shower curtain and then return to my room.

  It seems that all of Hallie’s clothes are stored on the floor, as there is no underwear in any of her bureau drawers. I sigh and decide I will dress straight from the dryer. That’s what teens do, I expect. Fuzzy teeth, scrambling for clothes … I miss the quiet routine of my condo, a newspaper in my hands, a cup of coffee. On the way past the kitchen, I spy a Brewmaster and feel relieved that I won’t have to miss this vestige of civilization. I reach for a cup, pour myself some, and sip. Ahhh!

  “You’re drinking coffee this morning?” Mrs. Prince sneaks up on me from out of nowhere.

  I jump and nearly spill the rest. That’s right. Hallie didn’t order coffee at lunch yesterday. I fumble to cover for myself. “Is it okay, Mom? I feel a bit dopey and thought it would wake me up.”

  “Are you all right, Hallie?” Mrs. Prince asks, frowning. “Abby’s mom called this morning. She says a car knocked you down yesterday.”

  I take a moment and a breath. Last thing I want is to be taken to the doctor for any kind of checkup; I might end up in the psychiatric ward. “It barely nudged me.” I head for the fridge and remove the egg carton. “I was texting and fell down from the shock is all.”

  “But you didn’t go to the hospital to have yourself looked at.” Mrs. Prince squints as I place a couple of eggs in a saucepan and fill it with water. “What are you doing?”

  “Making myself a boiled egg. Would you like one?” I set the pot on the stove and turn the element on. The moment I turn around, I realize that I’ve made another blunder.

  “You never eat eggs!” Mrs. Prince walks over to me and cups my chin in her hand. “You must have knocked your head.”

/>   For just one moment, I find myself leaning into her hand, smiling. It’s nice to have a mother’s touch; I haven’t had that for thirty years. “I’m fine, Mom. Honestly. Would you just set the timer for five minutes? I really want my eggs soft boiled.”

  “No Frosted Flakes?” She snaps her head back, furrows her brow. “Fine. Go get dressed.”

  I pick up my coffee cup again and continue down to the laundry room. There, I search through the dryer, flinging clothes to the counter. What if Hallie only wears thongs? While I long to brush my teeth all by myself in the bathroom, I don’t want to floss my derriere anywhere.

  I gulp at the coffee in between flings. Ah-ha! What’s this? A nice pair of cotton spandex Wonder Woman briefs. And a tiny bra, so cute! I pull on some blue spandex leggings and a long-sleeved red top. Huh. Now, what about a bathing suit?

  I hum as I fold Hallie’s clothing and hunt for one. In my head, I hear the words, “She wore an itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny yellow polka-dot bikini …” I was in my twenties when the song came out, and Ron Senior, my husband at the time, wouldn’t let me wear one. But today, if I find a yellow polka-dotted bikini, I know it will work with the retro theme at the pool as well as accentuate my great complexion. Another swallow, and I finish both the coffee and the folding. Despite a tower of tops and pants, still no bikini. I hook my cup handle over my fingers as I carry the tower in a basket back up the stairs.

  “Eggs are done when you’re ready,” Mrs. Prince calls. “What, you folded your clothes?” she says as I walk past her.

  I pull out another teenaged move I remember from my kids. “Duh. How else am I gonna put my clothes away?” I roll my eyes.

  Mrs. Prince’s eyebrows raise.

  I shrug and continue to Hallie’s room.

  When I spot myself in the mirror above the bureau, I cringe. Why does Hallie own these unflattering tight things; no wonder she thinks her thighs are heavy. I hunt and find a faded, torn pair of jeans and throw them overtop. The last time I was fifteen, blue denim was considered farming wear. Now, it seems, the more worn out the better. It screams I don’t really care what I wear. So much more freedom nowadays, fashion and otherwise.