Body Swap

by Sylvia McNicoll

  I sigh, happy to have this extra chance to enjoy it. As I tuck the laundry away in the drawers, I hunt again for that bikini. Nowhere. In desperation, I check the closet and find something underneath some flip-flops on the floor, of all places. It’s an orange tankini with unfortunate boy-cut shorts that would turn any pair of legs into barrel staves. The top dips down daringly in the front, but Hallie’s body doesn’t have much cleavage. Rather, her breasts are small and perky — I never had such stand-up little soldiers, not even when I was twelve. The top works, though. I stuff them in the backpack along with a towel from the linen closet. Then I grab my El-Q and head to the kitchen again.

  Mrs. Prince has set the eggs in little chicken holders.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say. “Any coffee left?”

  “You already had one cup. Have orange juice this time. You don’t want to be stunting your growth.”

  “Okay.” Of course, in my older body, the doctor routinely makes me swear off caffeine for the sake of my heart. Maybe there are only twenty good years in your life when you can eat and drink as you like, and even then, if you’re pregnant or nursing, you have to deny yourself certain foods and alcohol. I remember now, too, that I can’t drive myself around in this young body. I must text Hallie for the bus route numbers the next chance I get. For now I ask Mrs. Prince. “Uh … Mom” — the word feels warm and soothing on my tongue — “can you take me to Tansley Woods Pool for one o’clock?”

  “If you don’t mind being early, I can drop you off. I have an appointment at a salon nearby at twelve thirty. ”

  “Sure. My adoptive grandmother will be in Aquafit then. Maybe I can visit with her.” I look around for a newspaper to read while I eat my egg. Nothing.

  A soft ding from my El-Q signals an email coming in. Who could that be? I wonder as I touch the little envelope picture. Turns out it’s a note from Hallie telling me she’s joined the Saji Happy Motoring Club. The username is Gran and the password Naturaldisasters. I should test it out and have a look around.

  Immediately, I visit the site, logging in with the information Hallie gave me.

  I notice that if I had booked a winter tire change back in November when my body still belonged to that of an eighty-two-year-old, I could have had a free scraper and brush. Too late — besides, I have all-season tires; those should be good enough. In the corner of the screen is a button I can click on to download a Saji Motoring magazine PDF. Maybe later. Then, a red bar pops up across the middle of the page, inviting me to hit enter so I can win a trip for two to Japan. I can do that. Of course, I don’t know if I’ll be around to enjoy that prize, but I fill out the entry anyway, picturing Hallie and me perhaps travelling together. My pretend granddaughter is starting to become very real to me. I pause and smile for a moment.

  Then I go to something called the “Community Forum” and search the message board.

  Do any other drivers have problems? I wonder.

  Someone called Sport comments on the moon roof sticking halfway.

  Crazypants complains of a fishy smell in his late-model Tornado.

  Blah, blah, blah. Then I spot another message that makes my heart double beat.

  Yesterday, the accelerator stuck. Just for a minute but way scary. Anyone else have that happen? HOTROD

  I want to wave and shout, “I did!” The harrowing drive along the QEW flashes through my mind: poor inexperienced Hallie steering madly to avoid the school bus, the children innocently waving from the back window all the while. Hallie inadvertently cutting off the minivan, throwing the dog hanging from the window to the back when the driver swerved. Hallie finally pulling to the shoulder, only to face a motorcyclist, Santa-biker no less. I had been sure we were going to hit him and send him flying.

  Yes, I type. I take a breath. My Hurricane’s gas pedal stuck. But it’s been fixed. GRAN.

  The Hurricanes have that problem too? I drive a Blizzard. HOTROD

  I shiver, suddenly cold. Could it be? I have to warn Ron. He has never complained about unintended acceleration, but he does drive a Blizzard. That horror scene on the QEW could still happen to him. Only perhaps with a worse ending, this time.

  CHAPTER 15

  Hallie

  BLAM, BLAM, BLAM!  I MASH A PILLOW over my head. Why is someone hammering so early in the morning? Christmas holidays, after all. I’m allowed sleeping in, especially since I’m eighty-two now. Someone’s calling in the distance. “Susan, Susan!”

  I ignore it. The clock on the bedside table reads 10:00. Plenty of time before Aquafit. I drift off again, dreaming I’m on a carousel, riding in some kind of open car. Suddenly, it moves too fast, swirling, everything a blur.

  Blam, blam, blam! The hammering forces me to leave the carousel. My eyelids unstick and stay open this time. The noise sounds louder and closer now.

  “Susan, Susan. Open up!”

  I sit up. What can anyone want from a senior at this hour in the morning?

  Then I hear a key rattling in my door.

  Luckily, I’m still in yesterday’s clothes because, before I can grab a bathrobe, three people rush into my bedroom, one of them a tall man.

  “What are you doing still in bed?” that bossy lady from the front bench says, shaking a rolled newspaper at me. “Why are you wearing clothes?”

  Margret, that’s her name, I think as my brain slowly awakens.

  “Um, I was too tired to change.”

  Linda, the clashing-colours woman, gives me a frownie face. “We thought you had a heart attack!”

  I stare open-mouthed at the three of them. Linda wears sky-blue sweat pants with a kiwi-coloured winter jacket. She’s carrying a tray of coffee in one hand and one of those house-shaped boxes of doughnut bits in the other. Both Linda and Margret wear clear plastic bonnets over their heads, the kind I’ve only seen folded up accordion-style before.

  The tall dude looks sheepishly at me from beneath long bangs. He holds a ring of keys in his hand, a long flashlight hanging from some kind of leather tool belt around his waist. “They were awful worried about you, Mrs. MacMillan. Glad you’re okay.” He backs out of the room. “I’ll leave you all to it.”

  “Are you not feeling well?” Linda says, handing me a coffee.

  “No, I’m exhausted. I had to get up to go to the bathroom a million times in the night. Then I woke up at five and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

  Linda’s head tilts. “So why didn’t you do your word search? When we walked the hall at six, we saw you hadn’t even taken the paper in.”

  “You always take it in by the time we pass,” Margret says.

  How does she know this? Do they parade the halls that early every morning? I shudder. “I just wanted to stay in bed!”

  “In the middle of the week? Get up now,” Margret barks. “We brought sour cream bits.”

  “You’re still driving us to the pool, aren’t you?” Linda asks. “We want to get there early for the potluck.”

  “Get out!” I wave with my arms and then add, “So I can get dressed!”

  They shuffle into the hall and I try to jump out of bed. Ow, ow! Feels like someone took a baseball bat to my knees and ankles. I sit back down and rub my legs. When I finally make it up, I walk tin-man style to the bedroom door and slam it after them.

  Then I strip and accidentally catch sight of my Susan body in the mirror. Gah! Bony feet, blue-veined legs, ripples of white belly flesh, flappy arms, and awful pancake boobs. I never had the chance to appreciate my young ones, and now I’m stuck with these saggy ones.

  And if I don’t figure out what Eli wants from me, I may be stuck in this body forever. Or worse.

  It takes me a long time to coordinate a pair of beige pants with a non-flowered shirt. I hate flowers and polka-dots in all sizes and that’s all Susan seems to own. Finally, I find a leopard print and wear that. I pull on some see-through nylon sock things and hunt for Susan’s sneakers. One’s under the bed, the other behind the door. I sip at the black coffee Linda left me. Pills. Mu
st take the Tuesday AM pills, I think, and head for the bathroom. There’s some “sensitive” toothpaste. I brush and then grab the long rectangle of little windows labelled Monday AM through to Sunday PM.

  I touch the Saturday box — Christmas falls on Saturday this year. Only four days away now. My favourite time of the year.

  Christmas Eve, Dad will brine the turkey with chili powder and garlic.

  Mom will make a wild rice stuffing and a mashed sweet potato casserole.

  Christmas morning we’ll open presents before a cinnamon French toast breakfast. The house will be filled with delicious smells. Aunt Claire, Uncle Bill, and my cousins Layla, Kae, and Raene will come and bring some awful fruit cake. We’ll eat and then sing “Silent Night,” “Away in a Manger,” and all the classics, to Dad’s accor­d­ion. Having my family around me always feels like a day-long hug.

  Only I won’t make it if I’m stuck in this body.

  I shake my head. There’s nothing I can do except hope for the best so I pop open Tuesday AM and dump the bunch of pills into my other hand. Then I head to the dining area.

  They’re sitting there waiting, coats over their chairs.

  “You certainly took your sweet time,” Margret says. “Have some breakfast.” She pushes the doughnut box toward me. “You know how you get when you don’t eat with those pills.”

  I grab a couple of the doughnut bits and chow down. Mmm, way better than my usual Frosted Flakes. Then I take another swig of my coffee and swallow the pills. They stick in my throat till I take a few more gulps of caffeine and throw my head back.

  “How is the Hurricane? Any more episodes?” Linda asks.

  She knows, I think. How much more should I tell her? “The problem’s been fixed,” I finally say.

  “Did you make anything for the potluck?” Margret asks.

  “Were we supposed to?”

  “You said you were going to make your Confetti Salad. You always make it for potlucks.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Linda pats my hand. “There’s probably way too much food.”

  “We’ll bring the rest of these, then.” Margret tucks the corners of the doughnut box closed, then unrolls the newspaper, dividing it up, handing me the word search. The theme is Remembering.

  She clicks a ballpoint pen and attacks the crossword. “What’s a six-letter word for imperfection?”

  “Do you have a clue for us?” Linda asks.

  “Down is ‘A calamitous event,’ eight letters.”

  “That’s a toughie,” Linda says.

  In the meantime, I find and circle the word automobile and manufacturer. Can’t think what that has to do with the memory theme except it makes me remember the Hurricane speeding out of control yesterday. “Defect,” I suddenly say out loud. “For across, I mean. An imperfection is a defect.”

  “That could be it,” Linda nods. “It’s six letters.”

  “What’s the calamitous event then?” Margret asks. “It would have to start with a D.”

  “Disaster!” All the Saji cars are named after disasters.

  We complete the whole crossword together and I finish the word search. The letters left uncircled in the puzzle spell recall. When you remember something, I suppose you do “recall” it. But the word makes me think more about the Hurricane. Does anyone else have a gas pedal that sticks? Should Saji Motors be charging for extra repairs to fix the problem or should there be a recall?

  By now the ladies want to pack up and head over to the community centre. Apparently, Linda has a large-print book version of the latest award winner on reserve. “Only one available in all the branches.”

  “You could just get yourself an e-reader and make every book a large print. They even loan them out,” I tell her. “Just a minute. Let me show you my new El-Q.” I head for the bedroom, grab my device from the night table, and bring it to the dining room. “Here, look.” I touch open the sample book that came with it. Then I press the plus sign for the font.

  Linda gasps. “That is wonderful. How did you find out about this?”

  “I have a new project: an empathy granddaughter. She teaches me all about technology.”

  “How much did you pay for that?” Margret asks.

  “The El-Q was six hundred and change. The techie grandchild is free. Maybe we should get you one.” I stand up. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Do you have your bag? Your lock? Your medication?” Margret barks as she and Linda put on their coats.

  While her questions annoy me, they also happen to be helpful. Susan’s Aquafit bag is in the bathroom closet — that was in her El-Q message. I rummage through it and find a lock, some flip-flops, a gigantic black one-piece, but no towel. I grab one from the rack, then get Susan’s purse from the bedroom. “Ready.”

  Linda picks up Susan’s coat from the couch, where I threw it last night.

  “Careless,” Margret grumbles and clicks her tongue.

  Linda holds it up for me to put my arms through. With their eyes on me, I shuffle through Susan’s keys to get the correct one to lock the door.

  And we’re off  ! I know the way to Tansley Woods and I don’t use the expressway. I’m careful to stop at red lights and stop signs, check both ways. When the El-Q burps, I ignore it, even though Margret offers to check for me.

  At the last intersection, when my foot pushes down a little harder, I feel a sudden surge. After the push rather than during. Delayed, unconnected? Defect, disaster, recall. Am I just feeling paranoid after working on those puzzles? I take my foot off the gas, press the brake. The car jerks to a stop.

  Margret, beside me, snaps forward and frowns at me.

  Did the accelerator stick again? I wonder. The voice in my head screams yes, but I ignore both it and Margret, move my foot from the brake to the accelerator, easy, easy, and we move slowly forward.

  I honk when I see Chael and Hardeep crossing the street. Then I see their puzzled looks when I wave.

  “Do you know those young men?” Linda asks.

  Whoops. “Um, I thought I did. Mixed them up with someone else.”

  We turn into the Tansley Woods parking lot. Linda immediately heads to the library for her book on hold. Margret and I go to the party room and put the little house of doughnut bits on the long table in the centre of it.

  It’s a sad room with windowless pale-green walls and metal folding chairs arranged along all of them. Not much party to it except for the reindeer paper tablecloth and a cheery senior who dashes in with a Santa hat, singing “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus.” He’s carrying a large metal bowl.

  Someone in black spandex sets up a pile of red paper dishes and opens a bag of plastic cutlery. These she arranges in Styrofoam cups along the edge of the table. The moment she’s done, she snatches up one of our sour cream bits. The cheerful Santa man sets down his bowl, which contains a spinach salad.

  “Good afternoon, girls,” he calls. “Ho-ho-ho. Have you been naughty or nice?” He winks, and if I were still in a fifteen-year-old body, it might be creepy.

  Instead, I chuckle nervously and answer, “N-nice.”

  Another person sets a plate of shaped shortbread down. Reindeer, bells, Christmas trees, and stars, all iced and sprinkled. I grab a bell.

  “You think your gall bladder can take that?” Margret asks. “After those doughnut bits?”

  I’m chewing by the time I hear her warning, so I finish the bell anyway and sneak a few stars and trees into my bag for later, seeing as I don’t really know how to cook. What does a gall bladder even do? I wonder.

  We join Linda in the changing room and I see a lot of pale-skinned ladies changing into their suits out in the open. They seem happy with their floppy bits hanging out for all to see. Not me. I hide in a cubicle so I can re-shock myself with my old body in private. Happily, there’s no mirror, and I rush to put on the black bathing suit that doesn’t hide nearly enough of the sags and wrinkles. Back outside, I shower and head for the pool.

  I have
n’t been to Tansley Woods pool since last summer. It’s large, divided by a double-loop waterslide and an island with three tired-looking artificial palm trees. Tall floor-to-ceiling windows separate the pool from an indoor playground on one side and bright winter sunshine on the other. Along another wall, the windows offer spectator viewing from the community centre.

  The grey-haired exercise gang and I get into the pool and face toward those windows — and a high-wattage lady with a wide hairband and a booming voice. The music pumps out nice and loud. Elvis sings about being “all shook up,” and I sure know how he feels. The Santa senior who put out the spinach salad belts out the words as he wiggles to the lady’s moves.

  Watching him makes me laugh out loud, and he winks at me.

  Ew! Flirting with a geezer.

  We water jog, ski, do some crunches, noodle weightlifting — none of it very aerobic but still I’m exhausted. It’s hard work being old. Through the windows I see some familiar faces, and this time I remember to hold myself back from waving. Chael points to the Santa man and laughs.

  I want to shield the flirty, funny, old guy — and kick Chael.

  Hardeep shrugs.

  Beside him I see myself, at least my old self. I look amazing! I’m wearing an orange hairband over bangs and I’m smiling — and so happy … er … Susan looks so happy. Her eyes shine, her smile stretches wide.

  After class finishes, Susan walks onto the deck in my tankini. She’s pinned the shorts up so that they angle into a point along the sides, showing more of my legs. They don’t look bad at all.

  I head over to her.

  “Did you get my message?” Susan asks me.

  “No. I was driving. What did you say?”

  “It’s about the message board on Saji Happy Motoring. There’s a person who calls himself Hotrod. His Blizzard races away on him, too.”

  “Really? So it’s not just the Hurricane.”