“Why does this not sound like a good thing?” I ask him.
He sips his coffee, delaying his answer, then looks up. “Because I just don’t think you can live by yourself anymore.”
“And if you didn’t love me?”
“I just wouldn’t bother you about it.”
I let go a sigh. Being stuck in this aching aging body is the worst. Put this body in a home, and I know I’d have to kill myself to escape. I just can’t hold out to see what crazy new ride Eli will put me on.
“Hear me out. Since your heart attack, every time the phone rings, Sheryl and I look at each other and freeze.”
I frown and make up my mind to quiz Susan on this whole heart attack thing. “And you and Sheryl looking at each other, freezing, will help me in what way?”
He holds his forehead with his hand. “When you came late the other day, we worried you had fallen down somewhere. We don’t want to go on holidays in case something happens to you. Sheryl is sick of staying home all the time.”
“If something happens to me, it will happen whether you go away or not. You can look at each other and freeze in another country, for all I care.”
“You’re being selfish, Mom,” he snaps. “If you lived at Sunnyside Terrace, we wouldn’t have to worry all the time.”
“You could forget about me.”
“Yes … no. Well, maybe a little.”
“Then pretend I’m in a home and forget me now,” I tell Ron. “That way, I can just live my life.”
“Sheryl can’t just leave it alone.” He sighs. “Work keeps me so busy I hardly have time to go on holidays, anyway.” He pats my hand. “Don’t forget to take your pills.”
I close my eyes for a moment. I would have forgotten them. Then I open them again. “Thanks for reminding me.” I take the vial out and swallow them with the coffee. Ugh. So many of them, and twice a day. “About Saji Motors,” I say.
“That again?”
“Well, it’s very important. You need to take this seriously and be very careful when you drive.”
“I’m always careful. And I know how to drive in an emergency situation.”
“Bully for you. Who’s being selfish now?” I stare directly into his eyes. He has to look away. “What if a few people step forward and say they’ve had problems with their gas pedal?”
“You’re going to dig up some drivers who’ve had trouble, right?”
I nod.
“Nobody’s really going to pay much attention. Unless …”
“Unless what?”
“Unless someone has a major accident and you can prove it was the accelerator.”
That Hurricane jacked up on the tow truck, the one the stupid dog-God made us notice. I whip out the El-Q and tap my way into photos and the picture I took of it. I hold the device in front of Ron’s face. “The mechanic told us that the driver was in the hospital, in critical condition, by the sounds of it.”
“And you know for a fact the accelerator caused the accident?”
Hmm. Why else would Eli force us to pick him up in the middle of the road and then leap in front of a truck to cross the street to an auto-body shop. He wanted to draw our attention to the crushed Hurricane, that’s why. “Yes, I do.”
“Can I ask what proof you have? Did the driver tell you this?”
My proof is a Chinese Crested dog who is really God. You could see where this wouldn’t stand up well in a court of law.
“No, but she will when I find her.” That is, of course, if I can find her and if she is still alive.
CHAPTER 22
Susan
THE El-Q MAKES A STRANGE RINGING noise reminiscent of those black telephones of my youth — the ones with the long, curly wires. I have no idea what to do. How can I appease it?
Hardeep nudges me. “That’s your El-Q, aren’t you going to answer?”
“Oh, oh sure! Hello?” I hold the El-Q up to my ear like one of those receivers from my childhood.
“You’re a riot, you know.” Hardeep laughs. “Click the Hangout icon.”
Icon, hmm. From Hallie’s demonstration of the device in the IQ store, I know not to look for, say, Alice Munro’s face. Instead, I scan the screen and notice a little green phone shaking; it has to be the icon. I tap it. Hallie’s blue-haired friend, Abby, appears, grinning a glittery brace-toothed smile and waving. “Hey, foxy girl!” she squeals. “Can’t believe hunky Chael kissed you! What was it like?”
“I can’t talk about that now.” I turn the El-Q so that Abby can see Hardeep. He pretends to be studying the computer screen. “I’m doing some research with Hardeep.”
“Ohhhhh!” Abby takes a moment, then recovers. “Well, that sounds nerdy. For school?”
“No. It’s a favour for Susan. We’re trying to prove her car is defective.”
“Susan? That old lady who knocked you down with her car? Why?”
“Because if she can’t prove her gas pedal sticks, she’ll lose her licence.”
“I’d say that might be a good thing. Why does a hundred-year-old lady need to drive, anyway?”
“Well, she can’t fly on her broomstick like you.” A hundred years old, harrumph. I happen to know my other body looks in better shape than some of the seventy-year-olds hobbling around out there.
“We take the bus,” says Abby. “So do lots of old folks, as you know. Isn’t it dangerous when elderly ladies drive?”
“Not if they’re good drivers. Research says seniors may have slower reflexes but they’re still more cautious and that prevents accidents.” I know I’m lecturing and that this wouldn’t be like Hallie at all, but I don’t care. I’m sick of everyone trying to yank away my last piece of independence.
“Okay. Well …” She switches gears. “I’m going to take Charlie to the dog park. I thought you might want to come.” The screen suddenly changes angles and the head of a panting golden retriever fills the view. “High-five, Charlie!” Abby’s voice calls from off-screen and a massive paw appears.
Hardeep looks over and smiles. “May as well go. Once you email Applegirl, there’s not much else we can do … except wait.”
“Right, certainly,” I answer the dog paw on the screen, tapping my hand lightly against it.
Charlie gives a little yip.
The laptop switches angles again and Abby grins. “Great. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
Abby’s image instantly disappears. I’m left with a tiny thumbnail photo of my young Hallie-self in the corner.
“Hang up,” Hardeep suggests, then shuts down the internet on the home computer and stands up.
I click on the phone icon again, feeling like I’m conquering technology one keystroke at a time. Then I click contact on Applegirl’s blog. Hardeep watches over my shoulder as I type on the blank, white form that appears.
Dear Applegirl,
You don’t know me but my name is Hallie and my grandmother drives a Hurricane. Yesterday, the accelerator stuck on the QEW and we barely made it to the side of the road. She also got a ticket for speeding. We’re looking for another driver who called herself Applegirl on the Saji message board. Her car’s gas pedal sticks too. Are you that Applegirl?
Yours truly,
Hallie
“‘Dear Applegirl’? ‘Yours truly’? That sounds so snail mail,” Hardeep says.
“I like snail mail — it’s retro.” With him, it’s easy to bluff through my lapses in computer culture. I click send.
“I like everything you do,” Hardeep says and leans close.
Then closer. I feel his warm breath on my skin and my young heart performs a double beat. I enjoy the sensation of his lips against mine, gentle and so sweet. But the doorbell rings and I force myself to pull away. Just as well — we can’t fall in love. Surely to Eli, Hallie will return to her body at some point and will continue crushing on Chael. Hardeep and I both jump up at the same time and awkwardly head for the stairs together.
Ground floor again, in more ways than one. I let Abb
y and Charlie in as Hardeep and I get our coats.
Charlie wags patiently, his thick golden tail flapping against my legs. Hardeep holds Hallie’s jacket up for me, something Ron Senior never did for me. Then we’re both ready and out the door with Abby and the dog.
Hardeep reaches to hold my hand, but I swing my arm to avoid him. I don’t want Abby to see these displays of affection; she doesn’t seem like a great secret keeper. Luckily, Charlie takes up too much room on the sidewalk for the three of us to walk together so I allow Abby to lead the way.
Because, of course, I don’t know where the dog park is. Around the next block, Hardeep begs off. “I’m expected home for dinner now,” he says. “Let me know if Applegirl answers.”
There’s another awkward moment where we would’ve surely kissed if we were alone. Instead, he smiles and his eyes hold onto mine as he chucks me on the shoulder.
Now I move up alongside Abby. Charlie pulls hard ahead of us because he certainly knows and likes where we’re heading. We duck through a catwalk, an ironic name for a path that leads to a dog park.
The park itself turns out to be a long, wide strip of field between two rows of houses. To one side, a few dog owners stand at a picnic table under a lamppost, sipping from paper coffee cups, steam rising white against the near dark. One woman flips through a newspaper, and I find myself longing to snatch it from her. I miss my morning reading habit so much. Instead, I check the row of cars parked nearby for a Saji Hurricane. Three different sport-utes but no Saji cars.
Abby unsnaps Charlie’s leash and he breaks into a joyful gallop. A pack of four border collies chase a flying ball toward Charlie — the man throwing it must be a dog walker. Can we be that lucky? Really, what are the odds? Still, Eli enjoys playing tricks on us, so I try. “Excuse me. What kind of car do you drive?”
“Why?” The man grabs a drool-covered yellow tennis ball from one of the black-and-white dog’s jaws and places it in a cup on the end of a blue plastic stick. “Did I leave my lights on?”
“No. I’m just looking for Dogwalker.”
The man flicks the stick high in the air and the dogs hurl themselves after the ball again, Charlie joining in the fun. “Well, here, let me give you my card.” He hands me a small rectangle of cardboard that reads Noble Dog Walking along with an email address and phone number.
“No, no. I don’t own an animal. But I wanted to talk to someone who drives a Saji and calls themselves Dogwalker on message boards.”
“Well, a bunch of us call ourselves that. And those cars are pretty popular, too.”
“Yes.” Darn. I knew finding the right Dogwalker couldn’t be this easy. On the other side of the picnic table, Abby chats up a young handsome owner of a black standard poodle. My gaze drops to the woman sitting reading the newspaper. Just as she finishes, I can’t help myself. “Do you mind?” I ask the woman, rushing to scoop it up.
“Knock yourself out.”
An old habit, I flip to the obituaries, skimming them for any friends who may have died recently. I have outlived so many and often attend funerals where I reacquaint myself with some of the remaining few. That’s when I see it.
Suddenly, December 19. Sarah Ann Davidson, at age 19. Sarah leaves behind her mother Janet Grant and father Hugh Donald Davidson along with a brother Caleb and a sister Kiera. She will be sadly missed by the employees of Davidson Apple Orchards, where she worked in the marketing department. A life celebration will be held …
A cold icicle runs down my spine. In obituaries, certain code words cue the reader as to the nature of the death. Peacefully is usually reserved for people who die of old age in a hospital or hospice bed. After a long illness or a valiant battle with indicates the obvious. Donations to whatever organization the family chooses usually tells you what disease their loved one died of. Suddenly usually signals some kind of accident, especially in a person so young. Did Sarah die in a car crash? The December 19 death date is a couple of days ago, a little early for that wreck on the tow truck. But maybe the body-shop mechanic didn’t know she’d died. Sarah also worked for Davidson Apple Orchards.
So Eli didn’t hand me Dogwalker but he probably led me to Applegirl, in which case I wouldn’t be receiving an email back from her any time soon.
CHAPTER 23
Hallie
AFTER SUPPER MY BOSSY NEW SON makes me grocery shop with him. “You need to eat dairy, vegetables, and protein,” he tells me as he loads up the cart with milk, bread, eggs, and some specialty cheese-and-spinach sausages. Wow, he really treats his mom like she’s a baby. The sausage is his idea of a vegetable. “It will help keep you healthy. So you can live longer.”
Does Susan even want to live longer? I grab a frozen pizza, a box of Frosted Flakes, and a strudel on the last leg toward the cashier, and Ron gets lots of eyebrow exercise from these choices. “This is so I will be happy while I’m alive,” I explain, which you wouldn’t think I would need to do, given that I, or at least Susan’s credit card, will pay for these groceries.
Ron carries the bags back to my new condo, and before leaving, he gives me one more shot. “So we’re agreed? I’m only going to approach the judge if you can find someone who has suffered an accident and can confirm it is as a result of a sticky gas pedal. I’m not going to fight for your licence over some imaginary problem that you can’t prove is happening.”
“You think this is all about me keeping my licence. Shouldn’t Saji Motors be forced to repair car defects?”
He opens his hands wide. “Come to me with real facts and we can fight them on it.”
“Fine, I will.”
“And Sunnyside Terrace. You’ll think about it?”
“I’ll try …” not to, I finish in my own head.
He sighs. “For me, this is all about keeping you safe. You’re the one I care about.”
It sounds like stuff my parents tell me when they say I can’t go to late-night concerts or parties without parental supervision. (“I don’t care about what all the other kids do. All I care about is you.”) But Susan is eighty-two. Why does she need this? I can’t help feeling bitter for her. “You want me safe, tucked in some home, away from heavy machinery and vehicles.”
“Is that what it seems like to you?” He looks straight into my eyes, then looks away and shrugs. “You will be safer in Sunnyside.”
“Yes, but will I be happy?”
He frowns. “You used to tell me all the time that wherever you go, whatever you do, you make your own happiness.”
Really? Susan said this? “Yeah, well, Sunnyside would be a real challenge to that theory.”
He smiles at that.
“Good night, Ron.”
“Good night, Mom.” He kisses my lips, a dry-lipped quick son-and-mother peck. Still. Blah!
If I don’t get another chance to live my life in my own body, his lips will be the only male ones to kiss mine besides my father’s. I give him a grandmotherly hug — not too hard, don’t want to hurt myself. “Goodbye, dear.”
Then I go in, shut the door, and, as I look around, take a deep breath.
I better clean this condo — continued slobbiness may score me or Susan a bed at Sunnyside. First I put the groceries in the fridge and cupboard. Then I collect the coffee shop cups from the table and pitch them in the garbage pail under the sink. From there, I drift to Susan’s bedroom, and even though it’s almost time to go to bed again, I pull the sheets tight and tuck them in, smoothing the duvet over neatly. Finally, I pick up all the flowered blouses I threw around this morning in an attempt to dress non-florally and hang them back up in the cupboard.
By that time, I’m breathing hard and sweating from this light housework. When the El-Q goes off, I think, Yay, saved by the burp, and I’m happy to flop down on the couch and read Susan’s text.
Applegirl may have been the driver of that Saji car on the tow truck.
I type back: Really? Why do you think that?
She answers: A sudden death listed in the obits today. S
arah Davidson.
How do you know Sarah’s death was from that car accident? I answer.
Don’t know for sure. Good date, mostly. No other cause of death listed, Sarah’s young age. Obits would usually list heart attacks or cancer.
It sinks in suddenly. Oh my God, someone died because of the gas pedal defect! Someone else, that is. Although technically I haven’t died because of the accelerator, at least not yet. Who knows what Eli will decide?
Why do you think Sarah is Applegirl? I text.
Obit says Sarah worked for Davidson Apple Orchards.
We have to find out for sure if it’s her. We need proof, I answer.
We could go to the funeral. Tomorrow at 10. Smiths on Brant.
Ew, I think, then type: First let me check what’s on the internet about the accident.
Susan replies, OK Keep in touch.
Immediately, I enter the words car accident along with the date in the search window. A bunch of articles pop up — people really should drive more carefully. So I take a leap and add the word Hurricane to narrow it down.
And there it is.
FATAL CRASH AT
FAIRVIEW INTERSECTION
Police continue to investigate the fatal crash that occurred Saturday at the intersection of Fairview and Guelph and are asking for any witnesses to step forward.
Nineteen-year-old driver Sarah Davidson succumbed to injuries after her Hurricane ran a red light and collided with a tractor-trailer. The driver of the truck escaped with only minor injuries. Witnesses claim the Hurricane was travelling at high speed through the intersection and did not appear to brake.
Alcohol is not considered a factor. The popular marketing director of Davidson Apple Orchards had just finished delivering Christmas presents for the Santa Run and was headed to the mall to complete her shopping.
This could be the proof Ron needs! I text him the link.
It doesn’t take long for him to answer. A nineteen-year-old speeder dies running a red light. How does that prove the gas pedal stuck?
I think about it for a moment — the way he mentions Sarah’s age. Susan is too old and Sarah is too young, apparently, to be considered reliable drivers. Then I type. Because she’s the one who complained about her accelerator on the Saji message board.
Body Swap Page 13
