Thankfully, the tow truck arrives quickly, before she freezes to her pride.
“So we lose the car and get a ticket?” Hallie complains as she struggles out of the Hurricane.
“No. We’ll fight the ticket in court once the Saji mechanic fixes it and writes up the bill.”
The tow truck driver is a burly man with long hair flowing from under his Blue Jays cap, and thick fingers that constantly adjust it. “This is a new car and it won’t start? Do you want me to try?”
“She is not to drive it anymore.” The officer joins us now. “It is an unsafe vehicle.”
“Oh, ohhh!” the driver answers, as though there is a secret message being conveyed between them: the client is a confused old lady who is dangerous behind the wheel. He busies himself, hitching the Hurricane to his truck, raising the front half off the ground.
“Do you want a lift home?” Officer Wilson asks.
“No, we want to go to the garage and talk to the mechanic,” Hallie answers.
“All right. Have a good day. Drive safely,” the officer calls to the tow truck driver, who waves back.
When he’s satisfied the Hurricane is secure, the driver opens the door on the passenger side and I grab Hallie’s elbow to help her up into the truck.
She shrugs me off the moment she’s seated. I don’t blame her. It’s what I do, too, when I’m saddled with that creaking old body. Refuse help, act crotchety when it’s forced on me. I slide in beside Hallie.
“Looks like the snow’s all going to melt this afternoon,” the driver prattles cheerily as he starts up his truck. “You have all your Christmas shopping done?”
“No!” Hallie answers in the one curt word.
Her old body has to be weary to the bone so I try to cover for her rudeness by changing the subject. “It’s so warm out someone was riding their motorcycle!”
“Diehards!” The driver shakes his head.
“He nearly died hard. We hit him when the accelerator stuck,” Hallie grumbles.
“Did the gas pedal really stick down? ’Cause it’s the electronic throttle plate opening that causes a car to speed up.”
“I don’t know,” Hallie answers.
He’s raised an interesting point. I try to remember the sensation of my foot against the accelerator but, of course, whenever the Hurricane sped out of control, I quickly switched and stomped the brake. Who knows whether the gas pedal actually stayed down or not.
“I towed a guy the other day who swore his car’s computer went crazy when he couldn’t slow his car down. Your gas pedal just sends a signal to the car’s computer to open that throttle plate.”
“What kind of car?” I ask. “Do you have his name?”
“Um … I can’t remember. Just that he didn’t want to drive his either.”
Does he really not remember? Or does he need to keep the other owner’s information secret for some reason, a privacy act or an agreement with Saji Motors. I raise an eyebrow and nod to Hallie to signal her.
If we can find someone else who has the same problem, say a man, not too young but not too old, either — someone willing to testify for us — maybe the judge will believe him when we fight our speeding ticket.
I help Hallie out at the service entrance and the driver tows the Hurricane through the open garage door. There are three podium desks in the large car hangar, each decorated with a little bit of artificial evergreen and a big red bow. Season’s Greetings to us all as we charge you an enormous fat bill for fixing your vehicle.
I point to the farthest podium. “That’s the man who served me last time.” The technician standing there is tall and bald with shaggy white eyebrows.
“Mr. Clean?” Hallie asks.
I nod. Not quite the fellow on the cleaner bottle, but almost.
As we stroll up to him, he grips the top of the podium like a preacher about to deliver a sermon. “Well, good afternoon, Susan, back so soon? How are you?”
“Fine, thanks, James, how are you?” Hallie answers, addressing the technician by the name on his tag.
Neither really cares how the other one actually feels, it’s all just condescending politeness, if you ask me. Like James addressing an eighty-two-year-old by her first name, and Hallie addressing him the same way.
Of course, service people never give out surnames in case customers try to track them down after work hours. Makes every transaction start on too personal a note. If you’re kind and friendly to the old fool, she’ll go away and stop bothering you.
“We were on the highway, my granddaughter and I, when the accelerator stuck,” Hallie explains.
I like that she continues to refer to me as her granddaughter; it makes me more comfortable with our odd attachment. I feel closer to her than to my own grandkids; we’re almost like two halves of the same soul rather than just two bodies with each other’s souls.
“The gas pedal gave you problems again?” the technician says. “I thought we tacked that mat down nicely.” He steps away from his tall desk and scrutinizes her shoes. “And you’re wearing proper footwear.”
“Same as this morning,” Hallie answers.
She’s wearing the expensive Zikees I bought when my friend Linda convinced me we could start jogging.
“So that’s not it, either. Are you sure you stepped on the brake when you wanted to slow down? You didn’t confuse the gas pedal with the brake, did you? It’s easy enough to do.”
I shake my head, picturing the kind of senile idiot who would stomp on the accelerator over and over to stop an out-of-control vehicle. “My grandma’s foot was on the brake. I saw it!” I tell him.
“Did you, by any chance, try hooking your foot under the pedal to unstick it?”
“No,” Hallie answers. “I was busy braking — and steering. We nearly creamed a busload of kids on the expressway.”
His eyebrows reach for the sky. “All right, then. Well, we’ll run another diagnostic on your Hurricane. See if we come up with something else this time. Do you need a lift home?”
“We prefer to wait for the repair,” Hallie insists.
“But there are cars ahead of you. You don’t have an appointment,” James tells her.
“Sure we do. Remember, it was scheduled for this morning. You just extended it to this afternoon by not solving the problem.”
James stares at her an extra moment, unblinking.
Good for Hallie. How many people would stand up to this bureaucratic bully, let alone someone under twenty?
“Okay.” He lifts his fingers from the desk and drops them helplessly. “You know where the waiting room is. I’ve got your keys here. We’ll call you when it’s ready.”
We walk out of the garage area into the main building. I lead the way to the chairs and magazines and the single-serve coffee maker. “Do you want me to make you a hot chocolate?” I ask. Hallie probably needs something sweet as well as hot to recover from the shock and cold of that drive and the wait along the highway.
Hallie nods and takes out her El-Q.
“Candy cane, white chocolate, or regular chocolate?” I ask as I read the flavours on the lids.
“Candy cane,” Hallie answers.
I choose and arrange a little pod in the machine and place a cup under the spout. The waiting area is just an extension of the showroom, where three of the walls are glass. In one corner, a large artificial tree stands decorated with red bows, gold-sprayed pinecones, and construction paper cars with names written on them. Through that side, we can see the gleaming new Saji models: two subcompacts (an electric blue Tsunami sedan and a black hatchback), their sports car (a fire-engine-red Volcano), a midsize luxury (a champagne-coloured Blizzard), and the SUV (a white Hurricane). All named after natural disasters, which should have been my first warning. I originally wanted the Tsunami hatchback, but my son had insisted I needed the larger Hurricane to keep me protected. As if I were going to play bumper cars with the vehicle and needed the additional armour.
Through the other two gla
ss walls, we can see the outside, watch rush hour traffic stream by as the sun sinks and the sky darkens. A gurgle and hiss signals that the hot chocolate is ready, and I remove the cup and hand it to Hallie. “Should I text your mom about where you are?”
“Yeah. What time is your son expecting you?”
“Five. You’re going to get a lecture about keeping track of time and being late.”
“Wow. Sounds like you have less freedom than I do.”
“Sometimes it feels like I’m their child instead of the other way around.” I insert another pod to make a hot chocolate for myself. “So you’re going to help with this car issue, are you?”
“Absolutely. I don’t understand why no one ever believes you.”
“Did you, until you experienced it yourself?”
Hallie bunches up her mouth awkwardly.
So many wrinkles around that mouth, I should have used a moisturizer when I was a young woman. “Does anyone ever admit they were speeding just for the heck of it?” I shrug. “Or because they are too decrepit to drive and therefore don’t pay attention to the speedometer at all?”
“You knew exactly what to do to bring the Hurricane to a safe stop,” Hallie tells me.
“Experience. You’re a pretty good driver, too, especially for your age. Calm in a disaster.” I take my own hot chocolate to the chair beside Hallie and sit down.
She stares in the direction of the Christmas tree. “I didn’t buy anyone’s gifts.”
“I’ve already given the children all their cheques. Money is all they ever want. I wish I knew them well enough to give them something more personal. More meaningful.”
“My cousins come over on Christmas Eve and we play charades.”
“Ron and Sheryl and I go out for brunch.” She sighs. “Nice to have family traditions.” We both sip now and watch a young woman and man embrace near the tree. There’s mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. He moves her underneath and she laughs as he bends over to kiss her.
Hallie sighs.
“You can still shop for your family, you live across from the mall now. And you can use my credit card.”
“Will I be able to give the presents to them myself, though?” She holds out her hands, palms up, fingers spread. In question and frustration.
“Hopefully.”
The couple pull apart and walk away hand in hand. Another sigh from Hallie.
“But you’ve never been kissed by a boy. Do you want me to use my experience to get you that boyfriend?”
“Ew, you’re going to go after Chael? But you’re ancient.”
“On good days, I still feel like a teenager inside, though.”
“Still. It’s not like I’m going to feel his lips through you.”
“True.” My turn to sigh. “But you just have to believe that Eli’s going to give your body back by Christmas. Just as soon as you achieve whatever he wants for you.”
She shakes her head. “He’s always annoyed with me. I can’t see him giving me what I want.” Hallie drinks her hot chocolate quietly for a bit. Thinking things over, perhaps? Finally, she finishes the beverage, crumples her cup, and tosses it into the bin. “You know what? Sure. See if you can get Chael to really like me. And we’ll both just have to hope for the best with this body swap.”
CHAPTER 11
Hallie
WHEN MR. CLEAN FINALLY CALLS us to say the Hurricane is ready, he hands me a bill of six-hundred dollars.
Susan leans over and looks at it. “Are you kidding?” She throws open her arms and raises her voice. “The car is still under warranty!”
Mr. Clean squints at the angry teenager, then ignores her and speaks to me. “I had to charge for the computer diagnosis since it’s the second one today and the mechanic still didn’t find any error codes.”
“Well, that shows his incompetence. I don’t see that it’s something we should pay for,” Susan says.
I nudge her with my elbow — she’s breaking our cover — but then add, “My granddaughter has a point. We just bought an El-Q for that price. And it has a genie in it.”
“My mechanic spent an hour cleaning the electronic throttle plate to make sure no carbon buildup was keeping it open. We also installed a steel reinforcement bar to modify excess friction” — blah, blah, blah, blah — “None of these are warranty items.”
Whatever. I give him my hardest stare. Would the bill be enough to convince the judge to drop the speeding charge? Hopefully. I’m glad they did something so that I can drive this SUV again — driving being one of the few pluses of growing up, I think.
I pay the cashier using Susan’s credit card, the other plus.
“Would you like to donate five dollars to our Coins for Cars Christmas fund?” the perky ponytailed girl asks.
“Sure, add it to my bill.”
“Five dollars is not coin,” Susan mutters under her breath.
“So? It’s good karma,” I tell her. “I need it to get my Christmas back.”
“Here you go.” The cashier gives us two red construction paper cars and a marker. “Do you want to write your names on?”
“Yup.” I print Hallie in all caps and Susan writes her name in cursive. The cashier doesn’t even look at what we wrote. Could have been “Saji cars kill!”
“I can hang these on the tree for you. Would you like to become a member of our Saji Happy Motoring Club?”
Susan snorts, flaring her nostrils like a horse. She looks like she wants to jump the counter and kick the girl.
“How much will that cost?” I ask.
“It’s complimentary. You can book appointments online. Earn valuable bonus points. Enter contests. Chat with other happy customers.”
“What about unhappy customers?” Susan grumbles.
“Come again?” the girl asks.
“Maybe later,” I answer.
Susan scowls as we make our way to the car and drive off.
“Look, I don’t know what you wanted me to do about that bill. Leave the car?”
She snorts again.
“Can you just look for the GPS app and punch in my address, so I know how to drive you home?”
She struggles with the El-Q, and I take her through, step by step, giving her the street and house number. Then I tell her to do the same with my device but to key in her home address and her son’s. Keeps her busy and she seems to be getting more comfortable with the phone. “By the way, Mom’s on my case about my room. You may want to clean it when you get to my house. And clear the dishes after supper, that’s my job.”
“Well, you’re supposed to be at Ron’s by now and Sheryl’s a real stickler about time.”
I shrug. “What can they do to an adult who’s late, ground you?”
Susan doesn’t answer, just gives a grumpy look and a shrug.
Finally, we get to my house and stop. Susan springs out.
“Keep the El-Q on and stay in touch!” I call after her. “I can help you through stuff that way.”
I watch her as she waits on the porch for a moment, then opens the door. I should rush off now, since I’m so late. But I end up staring at the picture window. The glow from the inside of the house turns the living room window into a giant viewing screen with Susan as the star of the show. She heads down the hall to the bright light of the kitchen. My favourite room of the house. There’s Mom. She hugs Susan. I swallow hard. I want to be the star of the show playing at my home. I want that hug.
I wipe my eyes and finally drive off, following the GPS instructions to get to Susan’s son’s house. “Turn left on Spruce,” the clipped British computer-voice says. “Turn right on Poplar.” It isn’t that far, but still the time on the El-Q reads 5:45 by the time I roll into his driveway. Not that late. Who eats supper at five, anyways?
Ringing the doorbell, I hear a shrill female voice. “Your mother’s here, finally! Better get your coat on.” I’m guessing it’s Sheryl.
Why do they need their coats if I’m coming for dinner? The door opens.
“Hi, Mom.” Ron kisses my cheek quickly and then tugs me along.
I hate this. Why can’t I walk at my own pace?
“Good, you didn’t block us,” Sheryl says as she jumps in the beige-coloured Blizzard, the luxury midsize Saji.
“What’s the rush, where are we going?” I shrug him off once I’m seated in the back.
Ron’s cheeks flush pink. “We have an appointment at Sunnyside Terrace.”
“The chef is making us dinner.” Sheryl looks down at her cellphone. “They’re wondering where we are!”
“No one told me we were going there.”
“It’s a surprise,” Sheryl says. “A nice free meal and a quick tour. I’m sure you’ll like it. It’s such a pretty building.”
They’ve obviously seen it before and want me to like it.
The Blizzard lurches forward and Ron boots it. Pretty sure the speed limit is much lower on this street.
“I had an incident on the QEW.”
“What? You didn’t have an accident, did you?” Sheryl asks. “Are you okay?” She twists her neck. “Your car looks fine.”
“No accident, although it was close. The —”
“I don’t know why you don’t give up your licence and leave the driving to us,” Sheryl interrupts. “Statistics show that a cab would be cheaper than all the gasoline and insurance.”
“Why do you drive a car, then?” I ask.
“Well, Ron and I need one for work, obviously.”
“I like driving,” I say on Susan’s behalf, but it’s true for me, too. “It makes me feel free. Anyway, the gas pedal stuck again. And a police officer wrote me a speeding ticket.”
“But you were supposed to have the accelerator looked at,” Sheryl says.
“That’s all part of owning a car — looking after it, too,” Ron adds, keeping his hands on the steering wheel and looking straight ahead. “You used to tell us that all the time.”
Body Swap Page 6
