Body Swap

by Sylvia McNicoll

  She steps on my hands, holding on to my shoulder. Up, up. She’s going to make it. She falls against the side of the Hurricane and I feel it shake.

  But I can’t worry about that now. I reach around the seat to check Susan. No matter where my fingers touch her, there’s no answering beat. I put my face close to her mouth; there’s no breath.

  I happen to see the El-Q lying on the floor and I squeeze between the two seats, crawling and reaching to pick it up. I tap the button to summon Genie and shout to her. “Find me CPR Instructions!” Then I manoeuvre myself to stand on the door nearest Susan and hit the lever at the side of her seat to fold it down flat.

  The computer voice answers almost immediately, Here’s what I found on the web for CPR instructions.

  I check the screen and tap on the video. Then I tap up the volume.

  As it plays and the instructions are given, I open Susan’s coat.

  Find the breastbone in the centre of the victim’s chest.

  I follow along, placing my hands the way the instructor says, interlacing my fingers. Then I pump. Hard enough? Did I break a rib? Was that two inches? It’s her only chance, so who cares, I do it again. And again.

  Thirty times. “She’s not going to die,” I shout as I push down. Eli has to hear me, wherever he is. “That wasn’t the agreement.”

  The SUV wobbles as Margret’s head appears in the window. “You have to get out now. The engine’s on fire.”

  From somewhere in the distance, I hear the mosquito whine of a siren.

  “I can’t leave her.” I shake my head. A cold realization hits me as I watch the El-Q video. What was it that Eli told me when we first met? That my cellphone would kill me. Genie found these website instructions and they’re what keeps me in this SUV attempting to restart Susan’s heart.

  I keep pumping, understanding what he means to do. “Really, Eli? This is the new ending you want to give us? Bring it on!”

  The mosquito whine grows louder now and is joined by another and another. Sirens suddenly howl from all directions.

  Then just as suddenly, the loudest stops. The SUV rocks wildly and a face appears in that door in the air. A hand reaches down to me. “Time to go!” a voice calls.

  I lean my head to Susan’s chest but can’t make out whether it’s an answering pulse I feel or the thrum from the sirens. I shake my head. “I can’t tell if I have a heartbeat yet.”

  “We’ll take over now.”

  I reach toward the hand and grab hold. Up and over I scramble.

  There’s a lightning flash and a scream of white pain in my head. I fall to the ground and have to concentrate on just breathing through it all for a moment.

  “Move her out of here. Now!”

  Someone lifts my arm and tucks himself under, lifting me, dragging me, roughly.

  Ow, ow, ow! Every footstep reverberates through my bones and brain. Finally, I slide from the bulky shoulder, hit the dirt hard.

  In that moment, the ground shudders. I feel a blast of heat and hear a roar.

  Everything goes dark.

  CHAPTER 32

  Hallie

  THIS PLACE ISN’T HALF BAD. The sunlight streaming through the skylights warms my face and feels heavenly, the promise of spring in January and all that. Windows everywhere make the open space bright. A hint of cinnamon hangs in the air; someone must be baking, maybe in the crafts room.

  A soft ding signals an elevator arrival. From my seat in this foyer, I look over toward it and see the door slide open. A wheelchair rolls forward and I know she has arrived.

  Susan smiles and waves, then pushes Ron in the chair toward us.

  I wave back.

  Ron’s right hand lifts from the arm rest, a bit of a finger wave. No cast on his wrist today, which fractured when the airbag blew his hand against the window. He still has casts on both of his legs. When the Hurricane hit the concrete guardrail, his side at the front took the brunt of it.

  Susan looks way better than he does. No major injury from the accident, just a continued failing heart. On our last El-Q Hangout, she told me if she were just a few years younger, she would sign up for a transplant.

  Sitting at my side, Hardeep raises his eyebrows. He’s brought a large ball of pale green wool with a couple of metal needles poking through. He’s planning to make a scarf for his new baby niece.

  Seated next to him, Abby holds a ball of indigo-coloured wool that picks up the colour of her hair. She’s hoping to knit a beret.

  They’re both pretty ambitious. I have leftovers from Mom’s crocheting days. Candy-apple red and magenta yarn, which I’m aiming to make a square with, maybe to use as a potholder, probably just to keep as a practice souvenir — remembering your first project kind-of-thing.

  As Susan and Ron draw nearer, I can see a floral-patterned knitting bag resting in Ron’s lap. This will be good therapy for his hand. That’s what Susan says, anyway. She bought the wool to make Leah the mittens she asked for, and she’s hoping for Ron’s help.

  He’s expected to make a full recovery, only slower than Mr. Impatience wants. Plenty of time to make one half of the pair, Susan thinks. Meantime, he doesn’t want Sheryl giving him personal care. Well, Susan suspects it really was the other way around. Ron told her they were having difficulties even before the accident.

  So Ron became Susan’s excuse. She moved into Elmwood Village to keep him company. Still Ron won’t be in Elmwood forever, just till he can look after himself.

  “Hi, how are you?” I ask them both.

  Before they can answer, Gord runs in with a tray of buns. The cinnamon smell grows stronger. Too funny, he’s the baker. He grins. “You need something to eat when you work!”

  Knitting is work? For Gordon, maybe. I’m pretty sure he only does it so he can hang around Susan.

  She smiles. “I’ve gained ten pounds this month. You have to stop!” She takes a bun, inhales, and bites in. “Mmmm!”

  Gord’s ploy seems to be working. He’s definitely winning Susan over, and it’s another reason for her to hate the move to the residence a little less.

  I take a cinnamon bun, too. Still warm, slightly gooey, with soft white icing that sticks to everything. That’ll delay our start for sure; we’ll have to wash our fingers. Very fattening, too, but who cares. I sink my teeth in. “Mmmm.”

  It’s been a long month. I missed Christmas day, at least the actual date, but my family saved unwrapping all the presents for when I got out of the hospital a week later. Christmas and New Year’s all rolled into one. We ate Chinese food. It was the best ever, even though I had some whopper headaches. A concussion. Bouncing my skull off a car window will do that.

  Every ornament shone brighter than before, the colours of the tree and ribbons and presents pulsed at me, they were so vivid. Mom and Dad bought me some sneakers I had been begging for and gave me money. Maybe I could put it toward driving lessons. I don’t know anymore. I didn’t care about the presents. I was just happy to be there with my family. We all sat around watching The Sound of Music together. We sang “Edelweiss.” I cried.

  I smile now, remembering it all.

  “This is delicious,” Hardeep says about his cinnamon bun as he digs in.

  Somehow he manages to get a dab of white icing on his cheek, and when he grins, it’s so little kid, I can’t help grinning, too. I also can’t resist touching his face. Then I gently wipe the icing away with a napkin. I can count on Hardeep to help me with whatever I’m doing. Research on Saji Motors, knitting with the golden oldies, practicing a goal kick. And under that Union Jack cap of his, he has this great glossy black hair.

  “Thanks. Glad you’re enjoying it,” Gord answers.

  For a while the only sounds are more moans over how tasty the fresh baked treats are.

  Then Ron straightens in his chair. “I have good news.”

  For a moment I almost expect him to get up and walk. That would probably be the best news. I put my cinnamon bun down.

  “Saji Motors has
offered us a settlement.”

  “Yay!” I cheer and clap. The others join in, too.

  “So we don’t have to collect more names for a class-action suit?” Hardeep asks. “’Cause a tow truck driver from Saji Motors just stepped forward. He has a bunch of possible names for us.”

  “Oh no. You keep up that website and message board. They want to pay us a hundred thousand dollars so we will sign off and leave them alone.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Susan says. “Are we really going to turn that down?”

  “Small potatoes! We need big figures to attract the public’s attention. No corporation should ever want to risk our safety for profit again.” He bites into his cinnamon bun and Susan wipes the icing from his mouth with a napkin.

  “Mom, really, I can do it myself.”

  “Of course you can, darling.”

  I can’t help smiling. Nice to see the mom treating her son like a kid instead of the other way around.

  Suddenly, Margret bustles in. “Stupid bus system. Takes forever to get here on public transit.”

  “You know the answer to that one. Just move here, too,” Susan says.

  “I put my name on the waiting list!” Linda says, following on her heels. She looks great in her red coat and fuchsia pants. Bright and colourful, no after-effects at all from the accident.

  Margret sets down her large bag and hangs up her coat. Then she spies the cinnamon buns and grabs one. “You’re all going to have to wash your hands before you touch your knitting needles!”

  “No problem,” I say. My El-Q burps. Megan texting? I reach for it and then pull back. My fingers are too sticky. And anyhow, Eli’s wrong, I’m not addicted. Watch how I leave the El-Q alone. We’ll be meeting Megan later at the library for the Teen-Senior Technology session, anyway. It’s the new program we developed with Burlington Public Library. Fully booked for this first session. Chael and Kendra signed up, too. Everyone needs those volunteer hours, after all.

  Too bad Eli doesn’t come. He could see that cellphones don’t have to kill anyone; they can connect all these seniors to their families around the world. And they can video a bad car accident and prove that a gas pedal is sticky. I lick my fingers clean and reach forward again. Maybe I better check that text anyway, just in case Megan has to cancel for some reason.

  It’s not from any number I recognize. But the message is familiar. Get off the phone. Carpe Diem.

  Eli.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  THANK YOU TO THE ONTARIO ARTS COUNCIL for the financial support.

  It takes a lot of experts to make things go wrong enough for a story to happen.

  A huge thank you to Todd Sarson, Service Manager at Stop N Go Automotive, for assisting me with the faulty accelerator issues. Another big thank you to Constable Chantelle Wilson for helping me navigate police procedure for the best story outcome. Mistakes that happened despite their assistance, I embrace (and celebrate!) as my own.

  Thank you to Burlington Public Library for all their support and their special Teen/Senior Tech meet-up. For camaraderie and support, CANSCAIP and the Writers’ Union of Canada are always there for me.

  To all the writers who listened and contributed their thoughts, friendship, and cookies: Gisela Sherman, Lynda Simmons, Rachael Preston, Rebecca Bender, Lana Button, Gillian Chan, Vicki Grant, Jennifer Maruno, Jennifer Mook-Sang, Mahtab Narsimhan, Judith Robinson, Susanne Del Rizzo, Claudia White, Rory D’Eon, Janice D’Eon, Chelsea Rainford, Steve Donnelly, Jim Bennett, Judy Glen, and Amy Corbin — my sincerest gratitude.

  Thank you to my agent David Bennett who loves my writing even more than my mother did.

  Finally, cheers and hugs to the outstanding team at Dundurn for their hard work in getting this book into your hands.

  Book Credits

  Acquiring Editor: Carrie Gleason

  Project Editor: Kathryn Lane

  Editor: Catherine Dorton

  Proofreader: Elena Radic

  Cover Designer: Laura Boyle

  Interior Designer: Jennifer Gallinger

  Publicist: Michelle Melski

  Dundurn

  Publisher: J. Kirk Howard

  Vice-President: Carl A. Brand

  Editorial Director: Kathryn Lane

  Artistic Director: Laura Boyle

  Director of Sales and Marketing: Synora Van Drine

  Publicity Manager: Michelle Melski

  Editorial: Allison Hirst, Dominic Farrell, Jenny McWha, Rachel Spence, Elena Radic

  Marketing and Publicity: Kendra Martin, Kathryn Bassett, Elham Ali