Body Swap

by Sylvia McNicoll

“Well, my joints ache, but other than that, for an eighty-two-year-old, I’m doing okay. Why?”

  “You didn’t make your bed. There are clothes all over the floor.” He walks to the living room via the galley kitchen and dining room. Checking on me? “You didn’t clear the table.” He squints at me, sprawled on the couch, and frowns. “Aren’t you making us coffee?”

  Gahhh! I don’t know how to make coffee. “I’m off caffeine if you must know. Ron, please sit down for a minute. I have to show you something.”

  “What is it, Mom?” He stands there, arms folded across his chest. “Oh, your new toy. That’s a little weird, too. You go from no cellphone to the most expensive El-Q model.”

  “I thought top-of-the-line would be more user-friendly.” I smile at him apologetically. I hate that he puts me in a position where I feel like I’m guilty of something.

  “User-friendly?” Ron tilts his head.

  “Hallie’s teaching me a whole new vocab. Great, right?” I pat the couch space beside me. “Here, sit.”

  Finally, he plunks down heavily.

  I press and hold the button on the El-Q so I can use Genie. “Call up Saji Happy Motoring Club website,” I tell her, concentrating on the screen for a moment. Once the site comes up, I check the message board. “It’s about your car. Just a second. Here we are. There are all these people complaining about accelerator problems … Well, that’s odd.”

  “What’s odd, Mom? The fact that you talk to your phone now?” He’s shaking his head.

  “No, they’re not here anymore.” I scroll up and then back down. Sport’s and Crazypants’s complaints are still up.

  “Who’s not there anymore?” Ron doesn’t even look at my screen.

  “Hotrod, Songbird, Dogwalker, Applegirl … all of them are gone.” I move the El-Q so he’s forced to look at it.

  He glances down, and then back up at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “The people who complained about their accelerator sticking.”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “What does that matter?”

  “Don’t you understand? Saji Motors has a big problem with their gas pedals. And it’s not just in the Hurricane. Hotrod said his Blizzard’s accelerator still sticks.”

  “Well, I’ve never experienced any problems.”

  “Not yet, you haven’t. The comments have all been taken down. Don’t you think that’s weird? It’s like Saji Motors is deliberately hiding the problem.”

  “Mom, I’m starting to think a lot of things are weird.”

  “What, because I’m a slob — um — a little untidy today?”

  “No. There’s something else we need to discuss. Can you put that thing away for a second?”

  I close the window and place the El-Q on the coffee table.

  “Thank you. I called the police station today over your speeding ticket. But Officer Wilson had already forwarded it to the traffic prosecutor.”

  “So?”

  “I spoke to the prosecutor, and there’s a recommen­d­a­tion for you to have your driving skills reassessed. Officer Wilson reported that you seemed to be highly confused. That you relied on your granddaughter to find your driver’s licence.”

  “Oh crap!”

  Ron pulls back. “Oh crap? Mom!” He shakes his head. “Seriously, you are eighty-two years old. You’re entitled to be confused. You should also be able to put your feet up and have other people shop and cook and clean for you.”

  “You want me to move into that home with bland food and unclean seniors.”

  “They have baths twice a week, they’re not ‘unclean.’ Besides, it doesn’t have to be that one.”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  “Of course not” — he reaches around my shoulders and hugs me — “nobody wants that.”

  “But living in Sunshine Terrace is just slow dying.” I lean away.

  “You don’t know that till you try. They have lots of activities. They would bus you to Aquafit.”

  “I want to do things for myself. I want to live until I die. Do you understand me?” I’m sputtering, I’m so angry for Susan.

  “Yes, Mom, I do. But do you understand me? With a reckless driving charge and possible licence suspension, no one’s going to buy your Saji Motors conspiracy theory. Once you go to court, you won’t be driving yourself again.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Susan

  I LOVE BEING YOUNG AGAIN! I step out of the condo building, inhale the cold air, and let it out in a slow, smoky cloud. I love the way Hardeep looks at me.

  “Can I ask you something?” he says.

  “Certainly.” Diamonds twinkle in the sky behind his head.

  Hardeep tentatively takes my hand. “I like you.” He pauses.

  “I like you too,” I answer. “But that’s not a question.” Can I afford to forget that I am really eighty-two years old? Just for a moment can I enjoy the sensation of his warm fingers curled around mine?

  He grins. “I’d like to go out with you … only, how do you feel about Chael? I mean, he kissed you …”

  He isn’t worth the time of day. That’s what my mother said about Ron Senior when I first brought him home, and Mom was right. Some small part inside me knew it even then, but it didn’t stop me. And it won’t stop the real Hallie from falling in love with the boy less worthy, either. I don’t want to play coy with Hardeep, but I can’t hurt his feelings. “I’m not sure,” I answer finally. “Can we keep it friendly for a while and see?”

  His smile drops.

  This kind of answer would have made Ron Senior rage and sulk. It will be a true test of Hardeep.

  “Sure.” His mouth straightens back up as he brightens again. “Do friends kiss?”

  “Why not?” I ask, more of the universe than in answer to Hardeep — but this may be my last chance to be young and alive, after all.

  Hardeep leans in and touches his lips to mine. So gentle, so sweet. He presses in for more, but I break away. A second kiss from someone less than a quarter of my soul’s age. These are impossible feelings I’m having. Falling for this young boy.

  “I don’t want to go to the mall again, do you?” he asks.

  “No. Do you want to just catch the bus?” The number four, I remember. But does Hardeep take the same one? Does Hardeep even live in the same neighbourhood?

  “Yes, I should head home.”

  We stroll toward the bus shelter still holding hands. Suddenly, music burbles from my coat pocket.

  “Sorry, my El-Q,” I explain, taking it out. When we arrive and stop at the small Plexiglas hut, I thumb my way to the message.

  It’s Hallie, and her text reads, Connecting from the bathroom. Complaints on Saji message board disappeared.

  “How can that happen?” I wonder out loud. Just to make sure, I visit the Saji Motors message board, but of course, Hallie’s right. “All the gas pedal posts are missing.” I turn to Hardeep.

  He looks over my shoulder. “That’s crazy. Usually someone approves comments before they go up. Why would someone take them down after?”

  The El-Q burbles again. I flip to the messages. Ron says police recommended court take away your driving licence.

  “Oh no!” I cry out. “We need to contact those people on that message board. Susan’s going to lose her licence.”

  “Well, she is eighty-two, after all,” Hardeep says.

  “And you’re a male teenager. They don’t like you driving, either. Susan doesn’t deserve this. The speeding wasn’t her fault.”

  “You’re right. Susan does seem like a super-careful driver.” He knits his brows for a moment. “Maybe we can find the people who complained on Twitter or Tumblr.”

  “How? They use nicknames.”

  “I dunno. Some people use the same aliases for all their social media.”

  “Hotrod, Songbird, Dogwalker, and Applegirl,” I recite, amazed again at my teen brain’s excellent memory.

  The bus rumbles in the distance.

  “I ca
n search for them if you like when I get home,” Hardeep suggests.

  The bus rolls alongside of us now and squeals to a halt.

  I have to think quickly. I want to look for those people myself, but who knows if my newly acquired technology skills are up to it. “Why don’t you come to my house? We’ll do it together.”

  “Sure.” He smiles.

  A sish and a gust of warm diesel air, and the bus door opens for us. I slip the El-Q in my coat pocket and board, with Hardeep following.

  I select a double seat in the middle of the bus and slide to the window. Hardeep sits down beside me, close enough so that our upper arms brush against each other. With our heavy coat sleeves between us, I can’t feel his warmth. Still, the closeness feels comfortable, protective even. How can the real Hallie not fall for this young man, so sweet and considerate. I smile as I imagine a whole new do-over life where I choose the right person to be with instead of the “bad boy.”

  The bus takes us slowly through an industrial park. For a few minutes, the window acts as a framed piece of darkness, but I turn toward Hardeep and ignore the inky square. It’s like turning away from death and paying attention to youth and energy and maybe even love. What if I stay in this body till it grows old? Can I live one more life? Have a relationship with this attractive young man? I can’t believe I’m even considering it.

  The bus veers into a housing development and Christmas lights pulse. I find myself leaning back on Hardeep and marvelling: coloured teardrops and white icicles alike. Gold and silver reindeer graze on the snow.

  In the daylight, I hadn’t paid much attention to all these decorations, but the darkness showcases the display.

  A panicky thought suddenly bubbles up through the glow. What kind of lights hang from Hallie’s eavestroughs? I feel too hot. The smell of wet wool tickles my nose and the back of my throat. Everything looks so different at night, I won’t recognize what’s supposed to be my home.

  But Hardeep solves that problem by leaping up and yanking at the signal rope. “Your stop, my lady.” He sweeps his hand out to guide me.

  My hero. “You know where I live.” Thank goodness, since I don’t. I sigh with relief and stand up.

  He grins openly. “I saw you walking with Abby one day and followed you. I’ve liked you for a long time.”

  Some might consider such behaviour to be stalking — if it were someone repellent to them especially. But I think his dedication is romantic. I shuffle behind Hardeep, down the aisle, and step off the bus through the accordion-pleat door.

  Hardeep continues to lead the way. I wonder if he hasn’t come by Hallie’s house again to pine over her. In her front yard, there’s a little inflated carousel where a snowman, a reindeer, and a candy cane circle to the tune of “Frosty the Snowman.” How could I have missed that? I will have to train myself to be more observant.

  I catch myself reaching for the doorbell and just in time drop my hand to the doorknob. Turns out the door is unlocked. We walk in and hang up our coats in the closet. “Mom!” I call. “Aria?” No answer. “Dad?”

  “If you have a computer, we can divide the list and search faster,” Hardeep says.

  “Yes. A computer. In the basement, I think. Sorry, my dad has been moving furniture around,” I lie. “I’m going to the bathroom. You go on ahead.” I open the door to the stairs for him and then rush around the ground floor, looking in rooms for computers, just in case.

  Nothing. It has to be downstairs. I head toward the basement myself.

  “What’s your password?” Hardeep calls.

  I freeze. I don’t know all the family birth dates, which is how I made up my own bank pin number. I’ve heard people use pet names, but the Princes don’t own an animal. Quickly, I message Hallie. Urgent, need computer password. Hurry. I call back to Hardeep, “I don’t know. It’s usually already on when I use it.”

  The El-Q burbles and I read Hallie’s answer. Prince123. I call it out as I continue down the stairs.

  “Turns out Songbird is a recording studio and a singer,” Hardeep says as I approach.

  “Well, you can be a singer and still drive a Hurricane. Why don’t you email her?” I make it to the little alcove where Hardeep’s voice is coming from and pull up a chair beside him. Close to him like this, I want to trace my fingers over his lips.

  “What should I say?”

  Can I live this life? I wonder again. “Ask if she drives a Saji car and whether she’s ever had problems with the accelerator.”

  “Okay. I’ll sign it with your name since this is your account.”

  “Certainly.” I want to pull his cap from his head and run my fingers through his hair. Instead, I take out my El-Q. “I’ll look for Applegirl.” I type the word in the search window, and moments later, I’m overwhelmed with what Hardeep calls “hits.”

  “Better try quotation marks around the whole word,” Hardeep says. “Dogwalker has too many matches even with them.”

  I lean in closer to Hardeep, then pull back. I add quotation marks around Applegirl and search again.

  “I’m going to add Burlington to Dogwalker to cut down on some of the hits.” He types at the computer for a bit, and I find I just want to sit back and watch him.

  “But the person who complained could have been from anywhere in North America, really.” I lean closer again.

  “No, I think the Saji site is the local dealer’s.” Hardeep frowns. “Still, there are a lot of dog walkers in Burlington, too. I mean, do we really want to email all of them?” He turns to look at me. His lips turn up, his eyes catch fire.

  I feel my cheeks heat up, and I quickly glance down at the screen. “Wait a minute. I’ve got something here. On this blog, Applegirl talks about buying a Hurricane.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Hallie

  GUESS I SHOULD BE HAPPY HE hasn’t brought Sheryl along, but man, this son of Susan is annoying. He’s standing in front of what’s supposed to be my fridge and browsing inside.

  “You don’t seem to have any groceries, Mom. What are you planning to eat tonight?”

  None of your beeswax, I want to tell him. Seems like everything poor Susan does or doesn’t do is open to Ron’s prying eyes. Instead I think fast. I don’t want to be the reason he forces Susan into a home. “We had a big potluck lunch at the community centre. I thought maybe I would skip supper.”

  “Aw, Mom, how will you take your medications then?”

  “Maybe with a piece of toast?” I’m winging it here. Does Eli have any idea how hard this body switch is to manage?

  “Listen, why don’t I take you to Denninger’s and buy you a schnitzel sandwich?”

  Denninger’s is the deli next door. I’ve seen it but never been. Not exactly a hot spot for anyone under forty but what can I say? “Okay, sure.” The El-Q belches and Ron squints at me.

  “Excuse me. Just let me go to the bathroom first.” I dash to the can and sit on the john to check my message. Susan says she needs our computer password. I text it to her, then flush, wash my hands, and try to fix my makeup. What can I possibly do with this apple-doll face? I add a layer of liquid cover-up, which evens out the skin colour to a super-pale beige. Every wrinkle turns into a ridge. How do people deal with skin like this, anyway? I brush some blush on my cheeks and end up looking like an old lady with a fever. Then I roll on some of Susan’s favourite bright red lipstick. I grin. Scary! These teeth have seen brighter days. I step out.

  “Did you remember to bring your pills?” Ron asks.

  “I would have in a minute,” I grumble, turning back to the washroom. I reach into the medicine cabinet for the rectangle of weekday boxes and pop Tuesday PM, dumping the pills in my hand. What to put them in till we eat? Maybe a zip-lock bag? I go to the kitchen and open and close drawers.

  “What are you looking for?” Ron calls.

  “A baggie for my pills.”

  He tromps into the kitchen, opens up a top cupboard, and pulls out a small empty vial. “Reduce, reuse, recycle.
” He frowns as he hands it to me. “And avoid plastic, it causes cancer.”

  “Indeed.” That’s what older people say, right? Instead of “whatever”? Am I blushing? I dump the pills in the vial and stick it in Susan’s purse. “But I have to die of something.”

  Ron gives me a quick, sharp look.

  Whoops! Said the wrong thing again. I grin and wink to soften the words and also to show him I’m not suicidal.

  He chuckles. “True enough.” He picks up my coat from the couch and holds it up by the shoulders to help me slide my arms in.

  Coats on, we step out of the condo, and I lock the door behind us. We take the long walk to the end of the hall, ride the elevator to the lobby, and head outside. I can see Ron’s Blizzard parked in one of the nearby visitor spots. “Should we walk?” he asks. “It’s only a block, and by the time we find parking there …”

  “Yes, let’s.” Really, I hate using these creaky skinny legs, but what if the accelerator sticks while we’re driving?

  Ron guides me by the elbow, and it takes about a half hour. In my regular body, I could have sprinted it in five minutes.

  Everything in the deli is strange to me, and I know every move I make causes more eye-narrowing on Ron’s part. Dining is cafeteria-style, so I slide a tray along and make stumbly slow decisions on questions the servers ask. Does Susan usually have sauerkraut with her schnitzel or not? Does she like fried onions on top or maybe some ketchup or mustard? In the end, I ask for them to hold everything and get it plain, ordering a decaf coffee to go with the sandwich. I dump in tons of milk and sugar.

  “I just don’t know what’s come over you,” Ron says as we sit down. “Everything you do seems so different. Maybe you had a stroke. Did you have a sudden strange headache, slurred words, blurred vision?”

  I pat his hand, acting like some kind of television granny. “Changin’ it up a little, sonny. At eighty-two years, I should be able to do that — you said so yourself.” I take a bite of my schnitzel sandwich. “Mmm, this is good.”

  He chews at a piece himself, then swallows. “Mom, I love you.” He shakes his head as though he can’t believe this line himself.