Body Swap

by Sylvia McNicoll

  The alleged complaint that disappeared? he answers.

  Yes, I type. If only I had kept a screenshot. This whole thing gets more depressing by the minute. I think for a moment. I don’t want to go to Sarah’s funeral, but somehow I need to get more information. Finally, I answer Ron: I will get you your proof.

  Then I text Susan back. All right, you win. We’ll go to the funeral. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 9:30.

  CHAPTER 24

  Susan

  NEXT MORNING I SEARCH HALLIE’S cupboard for something suitable to wear to a funeral. It seems hopeless. Just how many pairs of jeans can one person own? And leggings, black leggings. Finally, I find a flowered black dress hidden at the back, with tags still on it. A bit summery, but paired with leggings and a sweater, it will have to do. Of course, for footwear, Hallie has nothing but sneakers scattered around the floor of her bedroom, and five pairs of flip-flops.

  In my stocking feet, I grip the railing as I climb down the steps to the kitchen. Without shoes on, stairs can be so slippery. Hallie’s mother sits at the table already, with an almost empty cup of coffee. I pour myself a cup and top off Mrs. Prince’s. She actually startles and gasps.

  “Sorry, uh, Mom, did I frighten you?”

  Mrs. Prince squints. “Frighten? Um no, but you’re in that dress Grandma got you. Let me take a picture to send her.” She dashes out of the room and returns, raising her phone in front of her face. “Smile!” she calls.

  And I do.

  Click!

  “One more!” And click again. Then, grinning as she looks at the tiny screen, Hallie’s mother sits down again to her coffee.

  In an attempt to be more Hallie-like, I grab the box of Frosted Flakes from the cupboard and pour myself a bowl. It’s not as hideous as you might imagine. Crunchy, sweet, with that chaser of cold milk. I turn to Mrs. Prince. “Would you have any shoes I could borrow? To wear with this dress?”

  “Hmm, maybe. But why don’t you just wear the winter boots I bought you? There’s snow on the ground and the boots are black. They’ll go with your dress.”

  “Okay.” I sigh. Pretending to be someone else is especially difficult in the morning. “I don’t remember where they are.”

  “In the hall closet. Where else would they be? You haven’t worn them once yet.”

  A clue! The boots are new and black. Hopefully, I can pick them out of the lineup. I sip at my coffee. Ahhh. Something warm to welcome the morning.

  “So what’s the big occasion? Doing something exciting today?” Mrs. Prince asks.

  “Oh, just spending time with my project grandmother. Going to a funeral.”

  “What?” Hallie’s mother sputters. “Really? Will you be all right?”

  “What do you mean?” It’s been so long since I had a mother, I forgot how concerned they can get.

  “You’ve never been to a funeral before.”

  I shrug. I think that’s a teenager thing to do. “But it isn’t someone close.” She has me worrying about Hallie now, though, because in reality, I’ve been to many funerals. My parents’ and my sister’s were the most difficult, but apart from the loss of the particular person who died, they can be quite pleasant. Relatives and old acquaintances you rarely see attend, there are usually photos or a video, memories revisited, and often a lovely reception or at least coffee and cookies afterward. Still, Hallie’s never been to one and she’s young. How will she take it? I wonder.

  “Who died?” Mrs. Prince asks.

  “Sarah Davidson. She worked at the apple orchard …”

  “Oh my goodness.” Mrs. Prince covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes large and suddenly shining. “She gave your sister’s class the apple-picking tour last fall. But Sarah is so young.”

  “It was a car accident. Susan thinks it might be a faulty gas pedal. She has trouble with hers from time to time.”

  “Susan? Your school grandma?” Mrs. Prince asks.

  I nod.

  “She should tell the police. That’s important info­r­­mation.”

  “Whatever,” I say, again trying out my teen. Have I used the expression correctly? I admire Mrs. Prince and her strong beliefs and confidence, but I wonder what an older person, or a younger teen, for that matter, can ever say to the authorities that they might believe.

  Mrs. Prince gets up and loads the dishwasher with the breakfast dishes.

  The El-Q burbles its little musical note.

  “You should teach that thing a better song.” Mrs. Prince smiles.

  “You’re right,” I answer, as I scan Hardeep’s text wanting to know what I’m doing. Back and forth, thumbs flying, we arrange for him to come to the funeral, too. That boy will do anything to spend time with Hallie. He has less than twenty minutes to get ready.

  I brush my teeth again, find the right boots in the hall closet, and before they are even on, Hardeep shows up at the door with frozen comb marks through his hair. He is wearing a navy pea coat over a shirt and tie and dress pants, and looks incredibly handsome — “hot” I suppose the younger generation would say.

  “Is it okay to say you look really pretty today?” Hardeep asks.

  I shrug my shoulders. “Why not?”

  “Well, I dunno. You always look great. And it’s a funeral …” he stumbles.

  “Thank you,” I answer. “You look nice, too.”

  We wait near the door together and I lean toward him, inhaling his spearmint breath. A loud honk causes us to jump apart as the Hurricane pulls up in the driveway.

  “Bye, Mom!”

  Hallie’s mother rushes after me and I awkwardly kiss the cheek of a woman I barely know. Then I make a dash for the car, Hardeep at my side. The last thing I need is for Mrs. Prince to meet her real daughter in eighty-two-year-old form. The potential to recognize the personality of her child, even in an older body, is too great.

  “Hi,” I call out to Hallie and Linda and Margret as we squeeze into the back.

  “You’re wearing a dress?” Hallie, twisting around, asks me.

  “Of course. It’s a funeral,” Margret grumbles from the front beside her. “Why wouldn’t she dress up?”

  “And you brought Hardeep?” Hallie squints at me.

  “He wanted to come to support me,” I answer.

  “I hope that’s all right,” he says.

  “Why not,” she answers as though it’s the most outlandish idea in the world.

  I, on the other hand, am not surprised that my two friends are tagging along. I know Margret takes great comfort in funerals since her husband died. It’s as though she needs an excuse to openly express her own grief. She likes to pretend to cry for others when she’s still grieving for him. Linda will go out anywhere Margret or I go.

  “It’s at St. Gabriel’s,” says Hallie. But she doesn’t put the car in gear. Instead, she stares for a long time at her house. Missing her family?

  “Are you going to be okay?” I ask Hallie.

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “A Catholic funeral. They’ll have communion,” I say, trying to prepare her. “It will be long.”

  Linda nods. “But the Ladies’ Auxiliary there makes the best egg salad sandwiches.”

  “Better hurry up and go,” Margret barks. “Parking will be tricky.”

  Hallie finally pulls away.

  The drive proves quick and easy. The main streets are dry and clear with snowbanks neatly piled against the sidewalk. The parking lot and the church look full though — even the spots on the street are taken. The long black hearse sits in the front, waiting. We have to park on a side street and walk a block before entering the church.

  Hallie looks out of place and confused so I hook my arm in hers and lead her to a back pew, Margret, Linda, and Hardeep following us. As we file in, I try to stay beside her but Margret and Linda shuffle around me so the seniors can all sit together. Hardeep ends up standing between Hallie and me.

  While we are still arranging ourselves, a voice calls out a number and a title, “Be Not
Afraid,” and the organ starts. Margret quickly opens the hymnal and begins singing, her voice strong and melodic. The words of the song are uplifting: apparently even in a desert, we will never die of thirst. But they are sung so slow that it’s still sad.

  A young man in a white robe leads a procession with a golden crucifix held high in his hands. An older man, also in white, the priest, I suppose, walks slowly in front of a coffin. Draped in white like a banquet table, it is clearly on wheels, but eight people crowd around it, guiding it by the handles on all sides.

  At the back, a young dark-haired girl pushes, tears streaked down her cheeks. Her sister? Kiera is her name, I recall from the obituary.

  At the front, a tall glassy-eyed young man with clenched jaws pulls. Strongly resembling her, he must be her brother, Caleb. An older woman and a man follow, their hands clutching together tightly as they weep.

  The pain is so raw.

  The priest reads and then there is a prayer.

  Hallie glances at Margret, who, even though she is not Catholic, kneels and crosses herself. But Margret has better knees than Linda and I ever did, so I stop Hallie as she begins her descent. Reach over Hardeep and grab her hand and hold it, squeezing. Willing her to feel my strength.

  The service plods forward somberly with readings and prayers and hymns and then communion. Lineups of mourners shuffle to the steps of the altar, where they hold out their hands like beggars. Each is awarded a wafer, which they quickly swallow as they bow their heads.

  Finally, the priest speaks about all the work Sarah did for the church community, including the Christmas drive delivering presents to children. The last drive Sarah made. The drive that is so crucial to us.

  He calls up the young woman from the procession to say a few words. She begins, “My sister, Sarah, was the best sister a girl could have. If I needed to talk, or wanted help picking out clothes, she was always there for me. After she bought her new car last September, she drove me and my friends everywhere …” She falters and begins to cry.

  Perhaps it is remembering that driving killed her sister that causes the young woman to break down. Instantly, the young man rushes to her side and hugs her. The two of them stand cocooned together in their grief, unable to move away.

  The older woman walks up and takes the paper from her daughter’s hand. Eyes streaming, she reads a poem the girl wrote about her sister. Something about leaving an empty bedroom in the house and an empty place in their hearts. It is an utterly sad moment and both Margret and Linda cry. But Hallie’s sobs bubble up uncontrollably.

  I can’t reach her but Hardeep does, immediately throwing his arms around this eighty-two-year-old senior. She cries on his shoulder.

  Does Hallie now understand just how wonderful this young man is?

  The priest leads a last liturgy as he shakes what looks like a golden lamp over the coffin. Here, there, over the feet, over the head. Only the lamp sheds no light; instead, it releases a choking sweet incense. When the pallbearers finally approach the coffin again, Sarah’s father breaks down, his head and hands on the coffin, unable to let go.

  Mrs. Davidson, weeping, gently tugs him up and they follow as it leaves. Rows upon rows of people file out. Besides learning that Sarah definitely drove a new car, none of this ceremony has given us the answers we need to mount a case against Saji Motors. All of it, the needless loss and sorrow, makes me want to scream at those car people. We have to pursue this to the end. I follow the crowd down into the basement reception area.

  CHAPTER 25

  Hallie

  WHEN THE COFFIN LEAVES THE church, most people head downstairs directly for the reception. But I can’t. Instead, I hobble outside, my Susan-legs stiff from the long sit, and take big breaths of air.

  It was the part when Sarah’s sister spoke that got to me. My sister, Aria, would have been sad like that if I had taken that ride on the roller coaster. I keep breathing deeply, hoping my chest will loosen up again.

  Then I see her standing on the sidewalk: long, black, silky hair. She waves and I can almost make out the blue letters on her wrist. I know what they say. Carpe Diem. Eli in waitress form again.

  “You are such a jerk!” I rush at her. “How can you let someone so young die? Why don’t you bring her back? Let her have a full life. Look what you’ve done to her family!”

  “Me?” Eli’s eyebrows raise and she shakes her head. “I’m not the one who drove through a red light. I like to take the bus when I can. Keeps me in touch with people. Less of a carbon footprint.”

  “You know what I mean. Is this all some kind of joke to you?”

  “Free will,” Eli says, tapping her nose. “Doesn’t work all that well for some people. So what are you going to do about this?”

  “I’m just a kid. Well, an old lady right now. No one listens to either of us. What can I do?”

  “I’m not going to give you step-by-step instructions.”

  “Really?” I’m sputtering I’m so mad. “You should have stayed a dog for all you’re worth.”

  But Eli just tilts her head, calmly considering me. “Don’t you like dogs? I could have done a cat.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Listen,” she smiles and pats my shoulder, “you can keep trying. That’s what it’s all about. You never know when you can make a difference.”

  “But why can’t you just tell me what to do? This is my free will asking you here.”

  “Listen to your inner voice.” She winks and taps her nose again, turns and walks away.

  Even though I want to grab her and shake her till she tells me more, I let her go. This person can make lightning come down and strike me, after all. She’s annoyingly patient. Still angry, I head back into the church.

  While I want to pound down the stairs and call out my questions before I lose my nerve, my knees and ankles creak as I slowly take each step to the reception area. I grip the railing for support and I think about my purpose here. Sarah Davidson bought a new Hurricane in the fall, we know that for certain. If she is Applegirl, we have to find proof. Eli isn’t really to blame — she’s right. Imagine, all this pain is caused by some flaw in their cars that Saji Motors refuses to admit. They can’t be allowed to keep killing people with their faulty gas pedals.

  Finally, I make it to the basement.

  What to do? I look around. Margret and Linda sit at a table with some other older people, eating and chatting. Susan and Hardeep stand in line near Sarah’s brother. Teens talking to another teen — that just makes sense. Except, will Susan’s soul just spill old-lady-isms, using my tongue and mouth? Who knows. Maybe it won’t make a difference. It shouldn’t, anyway.

  Eli said it’s the effort that counts and she’s trying.

  Sarah’s brother is good-looking. I wish I could be in my own body and talk to him.

  But instead I make my way to Mr. and Mrs. Davidson, who have people lined up in front of them, too. One by one, they shake hands with them or hug them.

  “So sorry for your loss.”

  “She’s in a better place.”

  “Such a terrible thing. Parents should never outlive their children.”

  “God needed an angel.”

  The things people say.

  I doubt if Eli really needs Sarah in angel form at this particular moment in time. Finally, I am up, directly in front of Sarah’s mother. I take a breath. “Um, your daughter Sarah gave my sister the apple-picking tour at the orchard. She’s in grade two.”

  Mrs. Davidson’s eyes narrow, her brow furrows. I instantly understand my mistake. How can someone so old have a seven-year-old sister?

  I quickly correct myself. “Did I say sister ? Silly me. Sarah gave my granddaughter the tour. Sarah was wonderful.” I pause, I just said was and I can see Mrs. Davidson’s eyes filling.

  “Well, she’s still wonderful,” I correct myself again. I imagine Sarah on a ride somewhere at that carnival where Susan and I met. “Just not here on earth with us.”

  Now Mrs. Davi
dson totally breaks down and cries onto my shoulder. I don’t know what to do. I pat her back.

  “You really think there’s another place after …?” Mrs. Davidson asks when she lifts her head again.

  “Oh, I know so,” I tell her. Maybe, for once, looking old carries an advantage; it makes me seem wise.

  She tries to smile while she blows her nose into a tissue.

  I can’t ask the poor lady questions about her dead daughter’s car. Instead, I back away to let another friend of hers try to comfort her.

  Nearby, Susan seems to be having a good conversation with Sarah’s brother. I join her.

  “Caleb, this is my adoptive grandmother, Susan. She drives a Hurricane just like your sister …” did. She doesn’t finish the sentence but I’m sure, just like me, Caleb does it in his head.

  “Grandma, Caleb here tells me that his sister did have problems with her car. I’m sure she’s the Applegirl you chatted with on the Saji Happy Motoring site.”

  “Did you tell the police about it?” I ask him.

  “No. I never talked to the police. Should I?”

  Next to us there’s a lull in the conversation that suddenly makes Hardeep’s next line sound out as clear and loud as a gong.

  “Why would your sister run a red light?” He doesn’t mean it as a challenge, but with the new-found volume, it maybe sounds like that, at least to Sarah’s dad.

  He turns and grabs Hardeep by the lapels, shaking him. “My daughter was a great driver. I don’t care what anyone says.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Susan

  GENTLY, I LAY MY HANDS ON the grieving man’s arms. “Come now,” I say softly, trying to reason with him and soothe at the same time. My young voice fails on him; he raises Hardeep up on his toes.

  “Hardeep didn’t mean that the way you think,” Hallie says from behind me. Coming from those eighty-two-year-old lips, the words sound calming and wise; even I want to listen.