Body Swap

by Sylvia McNicoll

  Hallie’s brow furrows, her eyes narrow. She purses her thin blue lips. She’s getting good at that.

  I pick up the El-Q. “It’s Abby.” I read out loud from the screen. Are you okay? Are you still with the old biddy? I raise an eyebrow at Hallie and smile. She’s the old biddy now. How does that feel? Then I read out loud as I type back: “Actually, yes. She’s quite nice. She bought me a really expensive phone and a nice lunch.”

  “Don’t press send. That’s not the way I talk. Here.” Hallie snatches the El-Q and types. Everything’s cool. Got the El-Q :-) Eating lunch. See you. She shows me, then her thumb hits send. “My friends text a lot … I don’t know how this is going to work.” She frowns.

  “I can write shorter. In the old days, it cost money to use an envelope and stamp. We had to make it count.”

  Hallie stares down at the El-Q. “I just wish I could talk to Abby myself.”

  “One way or another, this will only be for a few days. That’s how Eli made it sound.” I smile at the “old biddy” and pat her gnarled, wrinkly hand with my smooth, soft one.

  Her eyes fill.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, you should be.” Hallie pulls her hand from under mine. “This is all your fault.”

  I sigh. I can see why she annoys Eli. “You’ve made up your mind about me.” I shake my head at her. “But I’ve been driving since I was your age.”

  “And your reflexes suck. You didn’t hit the brake fast enough, or we wouldn’t be here.”

  “Oh yes I did!” I slam my hands on the table. “The gas pedal locked.”

  “Well, excuse me if I don’t want to believe something till I see it for myself.”

  It’s no use losing my temper at her. I take another deep breath and lower my voice again. “That’s fine. You heard Eli. You need to find your own goal. In the meantime, just to let you know, with your new pale colouring and dry skin, it helps to keep applying lipstick. Otherwise your lips disappear.”

  At that moment, Eli swoops in front of me and sets down a gigantic dish full of melted and solid chunks of chocolate topped with white clouds of whipped cream. “Mmm. Lovely. Thank you!” I tell him.

  He sets a small parfait glass full of pink ice cream in front of Hallie. She groans.

  “Will there be anything else for you ladies today?” Eli waits, grinning, hands curled into his hips.

  “Just the bill,” Hallie says and stabs into her strawberry ice cream.

  I savour my first mouthful. Warm and sweet, fluffy and smooth, all the textures and tastes of heaven in a dessert called Death.

  Hallie shovels her ice cream into her mouth.

  “You know, you didn’t have to order off the seniors’ menu. That was just Eli’s little joke on you.”

  “Now you tell me!”

  “Yes, well it’s cheaper this way. I don’t want you spending all my retirement money.”

  Hallie continues to stab at the pink melting lump and then spoons it in. “Ow, ow, ow!” Hallie’s hands suddenly shoot up to her jaws. “You can’t even eat ice cream with these teeth!” she shrieks.

  “Of course you can,” I explain. “Only slowly. You mustn’t let the cold part hit your molars. Keep the ice cream on your tongue instead and let it melt there.”

  Eli swoops around again, this time with the bill. “Everything okay, ladies?” he asks brightly.

  “Perfect,” I tell him as Hallie glowers. It’s remarkable to me that an eighty-two-year-old face can look so much like that of a sullen teen’s. What can I do to try to cheer her up? It’s been so long since I was actually a young person myself, it’s hard to think. I do remember looking forward to getting freedom and independence, especially my driver’s licence, the very thing I’m most reluctant to give up now. I pat Hallie’s hand again. “Pay the bill, dear.”

  Hallie slaps down my Visa like it’s the winning card at a poker game. A poker game that she may, in fact, be losing.

  “You know, I was a single mom. My whole life I scrimped and saved so my kids could have the best,” I tell Hallie, hoping it will make her more conservative in her future spending.

  “Don’t worry,” Hallie answers when Eli returns with the credit card machine. “I’m not going to leave the waitress any tip.”

  Eli rolls his eyes as he tears the receipt from the machine and hands it back. “Have a nice day.”

  “You, too!” Hallie says.

  From the table we head to the washroom and I watch as Hallie finds my brightest lipstick and applies it.

  “Allow me.” I remove a small brush from our blue purse and arrange Hallie’s pale blond hair to its greatest volume. Hallie, in turn, sticks her fingers through my hair expertly, fingering a few sections into curls.

  “May I?” I ask and then borrow back my own bright red lipstick. “This body comes with such luscious lips.”

  “Hmm. That’s a nice look.” Hallie nods.

  “Good, something I’ve taught you then.” I turn to her and touch her shoulder. “Listen, it’s only four days to Christmas Eve. I’m sure you’ll get your body back by then. And in the meantime, you get to drive the Hurricane and take us home.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Hallie

  THE HURRICANE FEELS NOTHING like my Uncle Bill’s truck, which rides rumbly and rough. Instead of smelling like hay and manure, there’s a vinyl, gluey, new-car aroma to it. I love it. I turn the key, glide the transmission into drive, and off we go. Hey, Abby, look at me go! But then I notice my knobby knuckles on the steering wheel, the bulgy blue veins and brown spots on my hands. Scratch that, better she doesn’t see.

  Still, I’m a great driver and the engine runs smooth, like it’s not even on. Violins play some classical version of “Good King Wenceslas,” a great soundtrack to my drive, relaxing me. When I take my foot off the gas pedal, the Hurricane instantly slows down. So much for Susan’s stupid excuse for backing up over me.

  We stop at the intersection leading out of the mall parking lot. Snowbanks line the road but they’re turning slushy in the afternoon sun.

  “Hey, over there.” I point for Susan’s sake. “That’s Chael and Hardeep walking! Smile, you know them. Wave back!”

  “Which one is which?” Susan asks.

  “The one smiling is Chael. He’s the guy I like. The short guy with the Union Jack cap, that’s Hardeep.”

  “Oh, my, but his eyes are interesting. Who’s that girl walking away from them?” She points to Kendra, who has miles of legs and smooth, dark brown hair. Chael grins.

  “Just some fungus from school. Kendra’s all over Chael.”

  “He seems to like her.”

  A car honks behind us. I roll my eyes. “Which way?” I ask.

  “Turn left. Follow Guelph Road.”

  Sunlight sparkles off the melting snow so that I have to squint when I check for other cars. As I turn my head, my neck cricks. I turn the other way, and it cricks again. Ow! I flip the indicator.

  All clear.

  The driver behind us leans on the horn.

  “Oh, hold your horses!” Susan yells as we slowly inch out onto Guelph and approach the overpass. The light turns red.

  “Where to?” I ask.

  “We need to go back to the Saji dealership. They should look at the gas pedal.”

  “Right.” My eyes roll — I can’t even help it — and I sigh. “Is that anywhere close?”

  “Ten-minute ride on the expressway. ”

  “What? I drive dirt roads on farms. I’ve never been on an expressway before.”

  “Better than navigating all the streets and stoplights. Should be easier than driving a truck on a farm road.” She pats my shoulder. “You’ll do fine.”

  “And what am I going to tell the mechanics?” I ask. “That I backed up over you?”

  “Tell them they haven’t fixed the problem. By the way, you’re going to dinner at my son Ron’s tonight. He and his wife, Sheryl, want to talk about Sunnyside Terrace.” She grins at me. “Trust me, drivin
g the expressway and visiting the garage will be more fun.”

  “What is Sunnyside? Some kind of home?”

  “A retirement residence with full-time nurses. They think you need that now.”

  “You have to come with!” I tell her.

  “Why? You’ll do better without me. Just agree with everything they say.”

  “Good, I’ll sign you up.”

  “You assume it will be me who ends up at Sunnyside. What if Eli decides it will be you?”

  I shudder. “That won’t happen, will it? Do you honestly think Eli would do that to me?”

  “I don’t know.” Susan raises her eyebrows. “He only said he’d make something happen by Christmas Eve. He didn’t say what.” She nods to the intersection. “Green light.”

  I ease the Hurricane forward.

  Susan points to the entrance ramp. “Over there!”

  “All right, expressway, here I come.” I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles grow knobbier.

  “You’ll like it. Go, go! You can’t just stop, there are cars behind us.”

  Gently, I push down on the gas pedal and steer onto the ramp, veer around the curves till I get on the highway.

  “Faster. You’ll cause an accident. Most people drive at least the speed limit.”

  I press down harder. A sign at the side of the road posts that limit at 100 kilometres per hour. The road looks dry and clear but I’ve never driven that fast. The needle on the speedometer hits 70. Ahhh! What a rush. I smile.

  “You enjoy driving, don’t you?”

  “What’s not to like? I’m in control of a new car.”

  I throw a glance into the side mirror. A minivan with a large dog hanging out the side passes us. Then a school bus full of kids. Suddenly, a horn honks loud and long. An eighteen-wheel truck barrels past and the Hurricane shudders from its wind.

  “Maybe just a little faster,” Susan suggests.

  I push the pedal harder and the Hurricane surges forward. The needle on the speedometer leans forward to the 100 mark. I can do this. Just keep the wheel steady and press that gas. Like Susan says, it’s way easier than driving an old truck on a bumpy dirt road. I shiver as I watch the needle lean toward 110.

  “The police often set up just past that overpass. I know I told you to drive faster, but now slow down for this next bit.”

  I ease my foot up but nothing much happens. Instead, the Hurricane surges ahead.

  Susan grabs my arm. “You need to slow down!”

  I switch my foot to the brake and press down. Nothing happens. My stomach lurches. So much for control. The needle hits 120, passes it, and leans into 130. I pump the brake now.

  “Hallie!”

  “I can’t stop!” The needle points at 140. I steer like mad around the eighteen-wheeler, then drive around the minivan in the centre lane. We fly into the passing lane. Ahead, the school bus chugs along.

  “Why is it in the passing lane?” I hit the horn and some little kids wave at us from the back of the bus.

  In the passenger mirror, I spot the minivan catching up to us in the centre lane.

  I can feel adrenalin snapping through my chest and brain. My heart actually hurts. Instead of braking, I slam my foot back on the accelerator and steer hard to the right. We cut ahead of the minivan, which also steers right to get out of our way. The driver leans on his horn.

  “Nicely done,” Susan says.

  From somewhere behind, a siren warbles. Oh perfect!

  She shrugs. “Don’t worry. Just hit the brake again and keep your foot there.”

  I stomp down on the left pedal and Susan pulls the gear leaver into neutral. “See if you can steer to the shoulder.”

  I pull the wheel to the right, forcing the Hurricane to cut in front of the minivan a second time. The driver waves his fist at me. Too bad. We have bigger problems.

  In the mirror I spot the squad car, tiny like a toy car. Not like he can help us at all. I have to figure how to get out of this myself.

  I swing hard to the right and steer onto the shoulder. It’s plenty wide enough for a car. We crunch along the icy snow. Safe.

  Susan reaches over and turns the key, switching the ignition off. “That should do it.”

  Only it doesn’t. The Hurricane continues.

  My blood runs cold when I spot him — a man on a motorcycle in our path up ahead. Seriously, in the winter? He’s wearing a red leather jacket with furry white cuffs and he has a white beard. “Oh my God! It’s Santa on a Harley.”

  “Why doesn’t he just go!” Susan yanks up the emergency brake.

  He kicks off his stand and balances on his seat, fiddling with something on his boot.

  We’re starting to slow down now. The speedometer clocks us at 60 now. But we’ll still never stop in time. I swing the steering wheel to the left. “It’s not turning!” I scream.

  “Power steering! It won’t work now that I’ve shut the engine.” She hits the horn and waves frantically at him.

  The motorcyclist doesn’t even look back at us. Still picking at his boot.

  Fifty kilometres, 40. We’re going to kill Santa.

  I lean on the horn, and Susan and I both scream at him. “Move!”

  Finally, he turns to us and his mouth drops. He guns it.

  The Hurricane hits the side of his saddlebag. The motorcycle wobbles but manages to pull away.

  The Hurricane drives on but the speedometer needle now drops steadily: 30 … 20 … 10.

  The siren grows louder. The squad looms larger in the mirror and then pulls in behind us as we roll to a stop.

  The police officer gets out and approaches slowly.

  “Oh great!” I bury my head in my arms.

  “Stay calm.”

  A heavyset blond woman with a tight French braid tucked under the back of her Cossack cap squints at the car from different angles.

  Susan nudges me. “Roll down your window.”

  I hit the button over and over. “It’s not working!”

  “Right, the engine’s off.” Susan sighs. “Just open the door.”

  I fumble for the handle and finally get it open. A blast of cold air hits me.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Officer Meryl Wilson. How are you this afternoon?” Her mirrored sunglasses reflect back my wrinkled-apple-doll face.

  I gasp, shocked again by the pale skin and wrinkles.

  Officer Wilson’s brow furrows. “Are you feeling all right?” She sticks her head in so close to mine I can smell her cinnamon gum. She pauses and sniffs at me.

  What, do I smell like old lady, too? “I’m fine. It’s just that —”

  She cuts me off. “Have you been taking any meds today?”

  “Grandma takes baby aspirin for her heart. Nitrogly­cerine when she has an episode. Blood pressure medication. Nothing else,” Susan answers for me.

  Maybe I should pop a nitro around now.

  One eyebrow raises above those sunglasses. “May I see your licence, registration, and insurance, please?”

  Susan opens the glove compartment and hands me some papers, which I pass to her. “The licence is in your wallet,” she says quietly.

  “Is there any reason your granddaughter is helping you so much today?” Officer Wilson’s eyes shift constantly, checking out the back of the car, my passenger, and then back to my face. “Are you feeling confused?”

  Oh, you have no idea, I think. Out loud, I scramble to lie. “No, no. Nervous is all.” I fumble with cold, stiff fingers through Susan’s wallet, find the licence, and pass it to Officer Wilson.

  “So tell me, were you having an episode back there?” she asks.

  “No. Really, I’m fine.”

  “Anything to drink this afternoon?” she asks.

  “Just a coffee and a glass of water,” I answer. “Oh, you mean like alcohol? No, nothing.”

  “You were driving erratically. Any idea how fast you were going?”

  “I can explain.”

  “Save it.”
The officer walks back to her car and I shut the door to keep in some warmth.

  “She’s running your plate and licence,” Susan explains.

  “Get a lot of tickets, do you?” I snap.

  “No. I watch LA Cops.”

  In the rear-view mirror, I can see the officer probably doing exactly what Susan said. Her head seems down a long time. I see a clipboard. Finally, she returns. I open the door again and she hands me back Susan’s papers and licence, as well as a ticket.

  “I’m going easy on you. You were driving 40 kilometres over the speed limit — weaving in and out of traffic …”

  “Officer, honestly, I had to …”

  Susan touches my arm and shakes her head.

  “But I’m lowering your speed by 10 kilometres and only giving you a ticket for speeding. You’ll get demerit points but nothing like if I charged you with stunt driving.”

  Stunt driving at eighty-two? “But my accelerator stuck. I’ve had the car in the garage for the problem. In fact, we’re just going back to the Saji dealership now to have the mechanic look at it again.”

  “Really? Well, in that case, ma’am, I don’t feel this vehicle is safe. I’m going to have to impound it.”

  Susan elbows me hard now and points to the dealership, which is just off the next exit. So close we could walk.

  “Officer, please, we would like our mechanic to deal with this problem. He looked at it this morning and he’s just over there. The Saji tow truck could be here in seconds.”

  She looks up to where Susan is pointing and frowns. “All right. Go ahead and call him. I’ll just stay in the car and wait.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Susan

  WHILE IDLING IS AGAINST THE law for the rest of Halton, the police officer stays nice and warm in her squad car, engine running. Meanwhile, she makes Hallie and I sit in the cold Hurricane. Hallie’s teeth are chattering and I offer her my ski jacket.

  She refuses it. Proud little thing, I like that about her. She reminds me of me in more ways than just the body.