“Kel, what’s going on?” William re-entered the bathroom that was beginning to feel like a prison. A cruel, although seemingly sanitary prison with no towels and weird mirrors that made me look old.
All I could do was shake my head in disbelief, my body soon following suit. My hands trembled and my breath came in short gasps. “Where am I? Why do I look so old?” William touched his hand to my shoulder and I flinched, although his touch seemed strangely comforting. “I don’t understand. Yesterday I was young and happy and now I’m an old shuddering mess!”
“C’mon honey, you look great for your age. And you’re only fifty, don’t be so hard on yourself,” William said, rubbing my shoulder.
“Fifty?” I blurted, almost choking as the word launched from the slingshot of my voice box. “I’m not fifty! I’m supposed to be twenty five!” I shook his hand away from my shoulder and he dropped it to his side. “Why aren’t I twenty five?”
“Honey, it’s natural to feel emotional on a day like today. I mean who wouldn’t love to be twenty five again?” William smiled. “But you’re still beautiful and today’s going to be great, especially tonight’s party. Come seven o’clock our house will fill with all the important people in your life. You must be looking forward to that?” He lifted my chin with his finger and I reluctantly met his gaze.
Looking forward? I wanted to go backward! Back to my real life and my real self, where I was only twenty five and my stomach didn’t resemble my father’s beer belly. Soon they’d be calling me Kelli Jelly Belly McSmelly. Oh, how on Earth did this happen? What the hell was going on? I can’t take this anymore!
“Where’s Grant? I need Grant!” I said, shoving his hand away.
“Grant? Who’s … oh, surely you don’t mean Grant, your ex?”
“Yes. No! I mean, he’s not my ex!”
“Honey, you haven’t had anything to do with him since we started dating twenty five years ago.” William’s expression changed to a frown. “Or, have you?”
“Twenty five years ago? But Grant and I … we … he was supposed to propose to me on my birthday.”
“Kelli, you broke off your relationship with him, remember?”
“I did?” It’s quite possible I’d gone mad.
William nodded. “But I proposed and you said yes. And here we are, still happily married after almost a quarter of a century.”
Okay Kelli, just breathe. In … and … out. There had to be some explanation for all of this. Think! Maybe I’d had a bump to the head and have amnesia. That could be it. I’d simply lost all memories from the last twenty five years. Yes, I could have fallen in the bathroom and sustained a head injury. I did remember falling, although that was after I noticed I’d become old. Maybe it happened yesterday, as in my forty-nine-year-old yesterday and now I’d lost my memory. But my head didn’t hurt or anything.
I walked over to the dreaded mirror again, but failed to see any suspicious bruise or lump. It must have happened before. Maybe I woke up as my normal twenty-five-year-old self on my birthday and had some sort of accident then. And maybe William was the paramedic or doctor who treated me, and I fell in love with him because he looked after me. But Grant would have looked after me, wouldn’t he? Time I pulled myself together and asked some questions.
“Um, William?”
“Yes?”
“Have I ever had any sort of accident, perhaps a head injury of some kind?” I asked feebly.
“No,” he replied, confusion and concern meshed together on his face. “Why, do you feel sick or something? Are you having a bad headache, is that it?”
“No, my head’s fine, I just …” Geez, I felt like Drew Barrymore’s character in Fifty First Dates and William was Adam Sandler, humouring me in my unfortunate condition so I didn’t lose the plot. Hmm, a bit too late for that … but anyway. “I just feel like time has caught up with me, that’s all. Life seems to have gone by so fast.” If I played along and kept it together, maybe this terrible morning would somehow go away and I’d be transported back to my normal life.
I needed a shower. I’d close my eyes and focus on the water and my fifty-year-old self would wash away and when I opened my eyes I’d be twenty five again. Worth a shot.
Except the shower had no faucets and I didn’t have any idea how to turn the bloody thing on. “I think I’ll feel better after a shower. William, er … honey, can you take a look at the shower thingy? I think it needs fixing.”
This seemed to please William, as he rolled up his sleeves and walked over to the contraption on the wall. “Let’s have a look.” He pressed a few buttons and waved his hand under the diamond-shaped showerhead, and the second time he did so, water streamed from the tiny holes. “Works fine,” he said.
“Could you try turning it off for me too, just to test it?”
He pressed a button on the top side of the contraption and the water flow came to an abrupt halt. “That works fine too.” He smiled and turned towards the door. “See you in the kitchen for breakfast.”
“Wait!” I lunged at him. “Could you turn it on again, you know, to save you having to come back in, just in case it plays up again?”
“Anything for the birthday girl.” William repeated his earlier process and this time I watched him like a hawk. He pressed one button on each of the three rows and a red button in the middle, then waved his hand twice under the shower head.
Got it. I think. Well, hopefully I’d be out of here soon and wouldn’t have to use this thing again.
When William closed the bathroom door behind him, I took my rather confused nightgown off again and stepped under the stream of water. The pressure and warmth soothed my skin and for a while I felt like my old self. I mean my young self. I imagined being in my own shower in my own apartment, looking forward to my twenty-fifth birthday party at the hippest restaurant in the city, followed by a beautiful speech from Grant and culminating in his proposal by which I’d look completely surprised, and accept the DSJ engagement ring with a resounding yes!
Pleased with my visualisation attempt, I opened my eyes and prepared to say a silent thank you to the universe upon seeing my familiar bathroom and youthful face in the mirror. Instead, I said a few not-so-silent profanities upon seeing the same unfamiliar bathroom that was fast becoming my least favourite place in the world.
I thumped my fist on the button on top of the shower contraption, stopping the water flow and stepped out of the shower. Clamping my lips tightly together to stop from screaming, I crept towards the mirror, knowing all too well what would greet me.
The same crow’s feet I’d seen before that framed my eyes like a broken fence around a dilapidated old house. Damn!
The same laughter lines formed an arc around my mouth, looking more like remnants of inconsolable sobbing. Bugger!
Lip wrinkles, a saggy neck and forehead furrows that have turned my face into a landscape rivalling The Andes mountain ranges. Crap!
And of course, the piece de resistance; Kelli’s jelly belly. Yep, despite my impressive visualisation, I’m still fifty!
Damn. Bugger. Crap. Multiplied by ten.
Desperate to dry off and cover my hideous body, I automatically reached for a non-existent towel. Having run out of expletives, I simply said, “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”
Standing with my hands on my hips, I examined the giant hand-dryer thingamajig and tilted my head to the side, furrowing my already furrowed brows. It must be used in place of towels, there’s no other possible explanation. I prodded and poked the machine tentatively but nothing happened, so I inched myself between the two parts of the machine, hoping it wasn’t some kind of vice that would squish my body into oblivion. Although, on second thoughts …
“How do I turn it on?” I asked myself out aloud and at that moment, jets of warm air pushed against my front and back. Reflexively I shut my eyes and mouth. After a few seconds it stopped, my body completely dry. Maybe this bathroom wasn’t so bad after all.
Anxious to finally get
some clothes on, I opened the door a fraction, checking to see if the coast was clear. I tip-toed into the unfamiliar bedroom and pulled back a sliding door. The good news was an array of clothing hung from a rack, so I’d be able to put a long overdue end to my nakedness. The bad news was I wouldn’t be caught dead in most of the outfits. Who would wear such things? Well, me obviously. But surely my fifty-year-old taste couldn’t be that bad? I was a fashion model for Christ’s sake! I knew what’s hot and what’s not, and this stuff wasn’t even lukewarm.
So I had three choices:
1. Remain naked.
2. Put my nightgown back on.
3. Suck it up and wear one of the outfits.
As my stomach grumbled for food and my nose detected a faint smell of something good cooking, I stepped into a coral-coloured starched skirt in which the hem ended halfway down my calves before turning upwards into a revolting curved abomination and looking like a baby catch-all bib. The matching top was just as bad, its hem curving upwards too, but if the need arose at least I’d have a place to store snacks. Or Valium.
Now desperately hungry and looking like a middle-aged Oompa-Loompa, I followed the smell out of the bedroom, down a hallway and into a kitchen, where William sat at the bench sipping from a mug. If he was there, then who was cooking?
I looked towards the source of the delicious aroma and nearly threw up into my curved hems. A young man stood there in a pink apron. He was tall, with various pieces of metal jewellery adorning his pierced skin and his hair was jet black despite one hot pink streak falling loose from his mullet/Mohawk/ponytail thingy.
“Happy birthday, Mum!” he said and for the second time that day I wilted to the floor.
Chapter 2
Breakfast at McSnelly’s
“Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what happened.”
– Jennifer Yane
“Mum! Are you alright?”
Warm hands patted my cheeks as I opened my eyes to the concerned faces of two men hovering above me, one apparently my husband, the other apparently my …
No way! I had a son?
“No, I’m not alright! Yesterday I was young, unmarried and … firm, and now I’m old, married and … saggy,” I said with a quivering lip, as the men each hooked an arm under my armpits and lifted me up, leading me towards a chair at the dining table.
“Your mother’s just having a few issues around turning fifty, Ryan,” William said to his son in hushed tones, before looking at me with a hopeful smile. “But you’ll be right, won’t you, honey? Once you’ve had breakfast you’ll feel better and then you can get started on the birthday of your dreams!”
Birthday of my dreams? Not in this body.
My stomach grumbled as I buried my face in my hands and the young man, Ryan—my son—placed a plate of food next to me on the table. A warm, buttery aroma wafted into my nostrils and I lifted my head from my hands. Ryan quickly shoved the plate in front of me.
“Eat up, Mum.”
Two boiled eggs, shiny curls of smoked salmon, toast and grilled tomatoes. My stomach grumbled again at the sight and without thinking I slid a curl of salmon into my mouth. Yum. Maybe I was just experiencing a severe bout of low blood sugar. It wouldn’t be the first time. Once, a swimwear photo shoot had taken three hours longer than planned, due to unforseen weather changes and faulty equipment, and I’d collapsed on the beach not having eaten anything since the bowl of blueberries I’d had for breakfast. The last thing you wanted when you’re modelling swimwear was a bloated stomach from a hearty breakfast.
But could my low blood sugar really be severe enough to cause a realistic hallucination like this? Unless I’d collapsed and was in a coma, having some sort of coma-dream. That might be what’s going on. Soon I’d begin hearing the caring voices of hospital staff around me as I slowly woke up and Grant would be there holding my hand.
“Buuurrrrp!”
My fork dropped to the table with a clang as the loud, revolting sound escaped Ryan’s mouth.
“Ryan!” William scolded.
“Sorry, those eggs do it to me every time,” he said, sitting down opposite me and scooping the rest of the boiled egg into his mouth, swallowing it in one gulp.
“If you took smaller bites and chewed more thoroughly, they might not give you any problems,” William suggested.
Ryan shrugged, tipping his head back and dropping a sliver of smoked salmon down his throat, before releasing an encore performance of even greater intensity.
“Sorry, Mum. I really can’t help it.”
Strangely, it didn’t bother me. I was preoccupied with my breakfast and couldn’t believe how hungry I was. I picked up a slice of toast but then hesitated. Normally I’d never eat this much, maybe I should go easy on the carbs. Then again, this wasn’t really my body and if it was just a dream then I’m sure calories didn’t count in dreams, right? I tore off a corner with my teeth and chewed the crusty bread till it disappeared down my throat. I then tapped the side of the egg and peeled off the shell, before digging my spoon into the smooth white flesh. Hopefully the burping problem wasn’t hereditary. I dug the spoon in a second time and then paused, my eyebrows drawing together.
“There’s no yolk in my egg,” I remarked.
“So?”
“So? Eggs have yolks. Why doesn’t this one?”
“You always prefer to have the yolkless eggs, Mum,” Ryan said.
Yolkless eggs? If I wasn’t so confused and distraught at my predicament I’d jump for joy at the brilliance of it. “Oh, um, of course. I just thought with it being my birthday and all …”
“Oh, you wanted a treat. I should have thought, sorry,” Ryan said.
I shuddered at the mention of the word…Mum. I wasn’t a mum. I’d never been pregnant, or been through childbirth and yet here I was having breakfast in the McSnelly residence with the young man who was apparently my son.
I wolfed down the rest of my breakfast, hoping somehow the rising blood sugar would reach a magical point and turn me back into my normal self. I clenched my eyes shut and opened them several times, hoping for the best, but without any luck. Swallowing hard to quench a developing burp (yep, hereditary!), I pushed my chair back with a grating screech and stood up, glancing around the open-plan house. Coffee-coloured walls merged with coffee-coloured carpet on the living room floor, on which sat a semi-circular couch of muted aubergine. An odd-shaped lamp stood in the corner and multiple tiny light fittings hung like stars from the ceiling. A variety of ornaments, vases and candles decorated the room, and a bulky multi-coloured blanket hung heavily on the couch. The room was subtly stylish in one way and irritatingly homely in another. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not, but either way, it wasn’t the sort of decor I’d choose.
“Dad, while you’re up, do you mind making me another egg?” Ryan asked, as William took his mug and put it into some sort of chute on the kitchen bench. A moment later it popped out of another chute and William put it away in a cupboard.
“You’ve got to be kidding, right?” he replied.
“I’m still hungry. You wouldn’t deny your growing twenty-one-year-old son adequate sustenance, would you?” He raised his eyebrows.
William sighed and put an egg into a large machine, pressed a couple of buttons, and held an egg cup against an opening from which the now boiled egg emerged. He placed it on the table in front of Ryan, who began peeling off the shell.
“We really should upgrade the Kitchen Assistant,” Ryan said. “That one’s ancient. The new version not only boils the egg in five seconds but peels the eggshell for you too.”
There was no doubt about it; I was definitely in the future. Twenty five years into the future. Genetically modified yolkless eggs and Kitchen Assistant machines that boiled them in five seconds. Maybe there were flying cars as well. Curious, I walked over to the window and peered outside. The street was quiet, except for a dog that appeared to be walking its owner and a little girl walking … rolling down
the street with her mother. She must have those shoes with the inbuilt wheels. Nothing new, I’d seen them before. No one was on hover-boards and no cars were airborne, although the few vehicles parked nearby certainly looked different. More square-shaped—and taller—and not at all what I’d imagined cars to look like in the future.
“What are you looking at, Kel?” William asked, as I peered up, down, around and around, trying to spot anything outside that looked different.
“Um, nothing.” I said, stepping back and smoothing out my clothes with my hands, a gesture I always did whenever I felt uncomfortable. Which wasn’t often. Until today.
“Do you feel better now, having eaten?” he asked, slipping his arms into a suit jacket and shrugging it into place.
Translation: ‘Do you now accept that you’re really fifty and not twenty five and have you finished with your mid-life-crisis freak-out episode?’
No.
“Yes, of course.” I reassured him. He was obviously anxious to get going somewhere. Some husband—rushing out the door on my birthday and leaving me alone with my egg-addicted, burping punk son.
“Good.” He leaned into me with lips puckered and I turned my face sideways so his kiss landed on my cheek. “I have to go, but I’ll see you at the office this afternoon for the meeting.”
“Ah … meeting?” I asked. “But it’s my birthday. I think I’d better, um … cancel the meeting.”
William laughed. “I don’t think so, honey. After waiting over a year for this opportunity we’re not going to let it go. Mr Turrow’s heading back to the UK tonight, remember? Today’s the only chance we’ll get and there’s more likelihood of success if we meet face to face than via e-pad.”
What was he talking about? What opportunity? Who was Mr Turrow? And what in the name of Dior was an e-pad? And I couldn’t work in an office, it just wasn’t possible. What happened to my modelling career? Unanswered questions swung from one side of my brain to the other like a trapeze, picking up others on the way and throwing them all over the place.
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