Body Swap

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “I will hit the brake pedal hard, then switch back to the gas, then hit the brake again. One driver thought this pattern would cause the sticking.”

  Without further warning, the Hurricane stops abruptly. Hardeep’s head snaps forward in perfect synchronicity with mine. Before either of our heads flop back again, the Hurricane shoots away.

  “Is it stuck?” Panic edges Margret’s words. “Can you make it slow down?” She ducks her head and covers it with her hands, the El-Q still in one of them. “You’re going to drive into the store!”

  “I’m switching from the gas pedal to the brake again. It’s all working like it’s supposed to.” Hallie sounds disappointed. “The Hurricane is slowing down.”

  “If the gas pedal stuck consistently” — I give everyone my standard line, the one no one seems to listen to — “it would be easy to prove there’s a defect.”

  “And report it,” Linda adds.

  “Well, I’m not holding this thing forever.” Margret turns off the El-Q and shoves it back in the purse on the seat.

  “You know, we could get a dash mount in the IQ store,” Hardeep suggests.

  “You’re going to be so late for Ron. He’ll put you in a home for sure,” I warn Hallie.

  “Why don’t I run in?” Hardeep suggests. “You go ahead and meet your son and bring him back here. Won’t take more than ten minutes.”

  “I’ll go too,” I offer.

  From the rear-view mirror, Hallie gives me the eye. The watery grey-blue aged eye that knows and sees all. She’s a smart girl; she must understand I want her to go out with Hardeep rather than Chael. That if I win her a boy, Hardeep will be the one. But it shouldn’t matter. Right now, we have to figure out how to get back into our own bodies again if any kind of romance is to happen.

  “Okay.” Hallie reaches into my purse and pulls out a credit card. “You can pay with this. We’ll meet you back at this door.”

  I snatch up the card and jump out the back, enjoying the energy and spring in my knees and ankles. The winter air bites, and my nose hairs clamp. Hardeep grabs my hand, and we run through the snow, over the sidewalk, and in through the mall doors. A blast of heat hits us, then that curious odour, like burnt wire or perhaps the smell of money burned up in technology. The smell of the IQ store.

  We enter together and the same wide-jawed girl greets us. Mandi is her name; how can I ever forget it? But does Mandi remember us? I hope not. And if she does, will she hover nearby, hoping to catch us shoplifting?

  “Is there anything I can help you with?” Mandi asks.

  “We need a dash mount for an El-Q,” Hardeep answers.

  Mandi points to the back of the store. “Ask Matt. He’s over at the Intelligence Bar.”

  Hardeep leads the way. He greets Matt at the bar; the very same Matt who nearly had me arrested last visit.

  “We were told you have the El-Q car mount,” I tell him.

  Behind his thick glasses, Matt’s oversized grey eyes focus. I’m almost sure he must recognize me as the girl the security guards tried to cart away. But he says nothing, just reaches to the back wall and puts the mount on the counter.

  I tap the credit card to pay.

  Matt raises an eyebrow. How many fifteen-year-olds have a Visa, after all? “Do you want a bag?” is all he says.

  “No, thank you.” I rush out of the store with Hardeep alongside of me. I’m not even out of breath at the end of our jog back to the mall exit.

  He pushes the door open, and I’m relieved to see we’ve beaten the Hurricane back to our meeting place. As we wait for the car to return, we huddle close for warmth. I can smell that hint of spearmint on Hardeep’s breath cloud.

  “Where are they?” After a few minutes, I have to stomp my feet to keep my toes warm.

  He smiles. His eyes hold mine.

  The realization comes over me that we have some alone time again, and I can’t help but smile back. This handsome young boy. I should really resist.

  But he leans forward and wraps my shoulders with his arms. Before I can pull out of his grasp, he tilts his head and draws his face to mine.

  From the corner of my eye, I spot the Hurricane, but I don’t care. I close the gap and touch my lips to his.

  My lips part, his slacken too. I can taste his sweetness now. Can I keep this moment forever?

  The horn blasts. Of course, Ron is driving. No patience for anybody or anything.

  We break apart but I lift my hand to my mouth, trying to hold the feeling there a while longer.

  Hardeep circles to the passenger side where Hallie sits. He leans across her to lift and lower a lever against the dash so that the new mount will stick.

  Hallie tests it, and when she sees it holds, slides her El-Q into the mount and adjusts it to face Ron.

  “Mom, we’re late as it is,” Ron complains. “I’m not going to sing so you can post it on YouTube.”

  “This is just in case the accelerator malfunctions. You can document the event,” Hallie explains. “People would believe you. You’re a middle-aged man and a lawyer, too.”

  He shakes his head as we pull away. Ron drives hard, rolling through stop signs, rushing through yellow lights, but we never really hit any reds. He gets on the highway, even though Tansley Woods is only a few long city blocks away. The speedometer needle hits 110, slow enough not to be stopped for speeding. “Accelerator works fine for me,” he comments as he turns on the first exit ramp. We’re in the Elmwood Village parking lot by 5:30.

  Ron smiles as he checks his cellphone. “Good. Only fashionably late.” He turns to Hallie. “Now Mom. This is really the perfect spot. You are going to love it. Just promise me that you will keep an open mind.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Hallie

  IT’S HARD TO KEEP AN OPEN MIND when someone tries so hard to sell you on an idea. Kind of makes you want to run in the other direction. But Ron never lets up. As we step into the entrance of the complex, he throws his arms open wide. “Will you just look at these windows? Can you imagine how bright this place is in the daytime?”

  Susan nods as she looks around. Don’t tell me he’s selling her?

  Still, the building looks new and the neutral beige walls and dark wood decor give the entrance a calm feel. None of that pink-and-blue lilacy-ness that Sunnyside had.

  A tall, tan-skinned lady with a long black ponytail rushes out of an office to greet us. Ron introduces us. “Mom, this is Briana Amil; Briana, this is my mother, Susan MacMillan.”

  Smiling brilliantly, she offers me a slender hand. We shake and she has a nice grip, not knuckle crushing and yet not floppy and fishlike.

  Margret, Linda, Hardeep, and Susan shake hands with her, too, and give her their names. Well, of course, Susan gives her mine.

  Briana then guides us through the Elmwood “town centre,” a wide hall lined on both sides with various shops and services.

  Linda oohs and ahhs over the huge fieldstone fireplace in the library.

  Ron tells me I can donate all my books, and in this way, new friends I make can share in my favourite stories.

  New friends. Those words make Linda flinch.

  Susan frowns and grows quiet.

  When we pass the hairdressing salon, Margret stops to peek in. “How much does it cost for a perm?”

  The lady hands her a list of prices.

  Margret scans it and snorts. “I have a young woman who comes to my home and does it for less.” She folds the paper and tucks it into her purse.

  Briana leads us into the lounge, where a huge screen covers one wall. “The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel is playing tonight. It’s a favourite with residents.” She shrugs. “Richard Gere.”

  “Can anyone come to the movie night? I mean guests, family, friends?” Susan asks.

  As if, I think. No one will want to visit a home full of old people.

  “I’d like to see Richard Gere,” Linda says.

  “Full house tonight, I’m afraid — movie nights are quite po
pular. Non-residents can attend, you just need reservations,” Briana answers.

  Next, she shows us a craft kitchen where inmates can, say, bake cookies on activity days. “But of course, in the apartments, you will have your own fridge and stove.”

  “Apartments?” Margret repeats, looking intrigued.

  “Yes. We have several levels of care at Elmwood. You can have independent living with housekeeping and linens done for you.”

  “I hate laundry!” Margret chimes in.

  “Then, if you want more assistance, you can add a meal package. Or add one because you hate cooking.” She takes us to an elevator next. “One of the residents offered to let you see his apartment.” She keys in a code and the door slides open. We step in and she asks me to press three. It’s a quiet, slow ride up. “Good evening,” she calls to a couple who come on just as we are leaving.

  They’re sweet, the woman’s arm tucked into the man’s. Both wear silver-wired glasses and similarly styled jackets in pale blue and yellow. It’s as though living together makes their tastes blend and turn into one style.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Flavelle got married in the chapel right here at Elmwood last year,” Briana tells us as we turn down the hall.

  “Really?” Margret asks.

  “It looks like they’ve been together forever,” Linda comments.

  “I hate when couples dress alike,” Susan grumbles.

  “How are you, Aiden?” Briana calls to a tall thin man with tubes in his nose.

  “All right, thanks.” He smiles and continues to the elevator.

  “You keep young people in here?” Margret squawks once he’s gone.

  “Anyone who needs assistance,” Briana answers. “We’re called ‘long term’ but we also offer respite care when fam­ilies need help with their loved ones. Perhaps when they go on holidays …”

  We arrive at a door marked 307 and Briana knocks. “Gord? Are you there?”

  Gord? Could it be?

  It is! Spinach-salad dude opens up. “Hello there, come on in.” He sweeps us in with his hand. Gord looks different, more formal. No Santa hat, plus he’s wearing a sports jacket and a bow tie. Kind of handsome for an old dude. Did he dress for us especially?

  “Hey, Susan! Margret, Linda. What a nice surprise! I didn’t realize it was you girls who were checking out my pad.”

  Girls. He is talking about women over eighty, the only girls he knows. Except for me, of course — at least my soul is girl-age.

  “We didn’t know you lived here,” Linda answers as we look around.

  Susan smiles again. Guess Gordon living here is a big plus.

  Instantly, I like this apartment better than that room at Sunnyside. It’s bigger, for one.

  “That’s the bathroom,” Gord says and opens the door.

  “The tub and shower are easy entry with safety handles to make it senior friendly,” Briana offers.

  “Can I take as many baths and showers as I like?” I ask, remembering the only-two-in-one-week rule at Sunnyside.

  “Of course,” Briana answers. “That’s what independent living means.”

  Gord grins. “It’s the best. I go as I please. Walk to Aquafit and the library. Join a card game if I want, or any of the Village events.” He tugs at both sides of his bow tie and waggles his eyebrows. “Tonight I’m taking my daughter to dinner and a show.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful!” Susan says, and I nudge her. Her words sound suspiciously old coming from my young body.

  “But for those with less mobility,” Briana continues, “retirement living units offer a complete meal plan and light help with dressing, bathing, and medications.”

  Medications! Drat, I forgot Susan’s pills.

  “We also have an assisted-living floor plus a long-term-care ward for those with memory issues.”

  I’m fifteen and I already forget things. Oh well, I’ll just have to take all that medication later, before bed.

  “All of our units come with emergency response systems.”

  Margret snorts again. “When my husband died, my son ordered me one of those senior alarm systems.”

  “That’s what I want for Mom,” Ron says. “Until she makes up her mind about residences.”

  “Well, it went off in the middle of the night for no reason,” Margret continues, “and this voice told me it was sending an ambulance. I told them I didn’t need one, to cancel the alert. Then I went back to sleep. Next thing I knew, another voice was talking at me. Telling me they were sending someone to wait with me till the ambulance arrived.”

  “That’s terrible!” Briana chuckles. “Our system’s not like that. One of our staff comes to your aid instantly. No voices over intercoms.”

  “But how else can seniors live alone?” Ron asks. “What if Mom has a heart attack at her condo in the middle of the night?”

  “She has us,” Margret insists. “We check on her every morning, bright and early.”

  “They do look in on me early, early,” I tell Ron.

  Something chimes and Gord unflips a phone. “Hi, Honey, you almost here?” His smile drops. “Sure. I understand. If Brendon’s not feeling well … you can’t help that. Love you, too!” He snaps the phone shut.

  We’re all silent for a moment. It’s so obvious he’s been stood up.

  Then Susan pipes up. “Hey, would you like to join us for a bite to eat?”

  Margret and Linda turn to look at her. A fifteen-year-old asking a senior dude to dinner does seem a little odd. Especially with the way she is looking at him.

  “That’s okay. You guys are all together. You don’t need me tagging along.”

  “But you’re dressed so smart.” She rubs my young hand over his sleeve.

  Okay, that is really weird. I know what I have to do to make this right. “Yes, please dine with us, Gordon.” I try to talk older-lady style. “You can advise on what to order. Give us your insight on what it’s like to live here.”

  “Well, if you put it that way! Sure. That would be great.” His smile lifts up again.

  We check out the small living room and the bedroom, which overlooks the parking lot. The galley kitchen, too — everything is neat and clean. Why not? He has a cleaning service. Still, he made that great spinach salad.

  “Any questions?” Briana asks.

  I shake my head.

  “How much does it cost?” Margret asks. “I heard living here is as expensive as living on a cruise ship.”

  “Oh no, no, no,” Gord answers. “You heard that wrong. People say it’s as much fun as living on a cruise ship.”

  Briana smiles. “Price point depends on the size of apartment and level of care you choose. I can get you some brochures if you’re considering Elmwood for yourself.”

  Margret nods.

  “If we’re all done here, then let’s head for the dining room. They’re expecting us.”

  We follow Gord out of the apartment and back to the elevator. Brenda’s, the name of the restaurant, is up on the tenth floor.

  The elevator chimes and the doors slide back as we arrive. A short walk to the left gets us to the door, where the hostess greets us.

  “What a fabulous view!” Ron comments as we enter.

  Much as I want to disagree, it is nice, like we’re on top of the world. Large windows overlooking snow-topped roofs and Christmas lights. In the centre is a gas fireplace lighting up and warming the room.

  A large table is reserved for us and the hostess seats us immediately. A server asks if we want something to drink and Briana orders a bottle of wine.

  Linda asks if she can also have a tea.

  Instantly, the server comes back with glasses of water for everyone and a little white teapot for Linda, which amazes Margret to no end. “Usually, restaurants serve hot water in little metal pots with spouts. They leave the tea bags separate.”

  In a moment the server returns with the wine and pours for all the adults.

  Margret sips at hers. “Mmm. Haven’t had a glass of win
e since my Ken died.” She smiles.

  That smile tugs at my heart. For the first time, I feel just a little sorry for grumpy old Margret.

  The server returns, lists off the specials, and then hands us a menu that rivals the one at that chi-chi Perspectives I made Susan take me to a few days ago.

  “Doesn’t the food come included?” Margret gasps. “Just look at the prices of these entrées!”

  “Don’t worry, it’s my treat,” Ron says.

  I can’t help but enjoy this bit of revenge on Ron.

  Briana jumps in. “With your unit rental, you can get a monthly food credit. Many residents prefer to make their own breakfasts or go out to lunch with friends. So this credit can usually cover the balance of their meal needs.”

  I want to order the fish and chips like Hardeep and Susan, but know already that I have a senior’s digestive system. Instead, I copy Linda and have the Pacific hali­but; Ron chooses the meatloaf and Margret gets the Lobster Benedict.

  When we’re all served, Briana raises her glass and waits for all of us to do the same. “To new beginnings.”

  “New beginnings,” everyone mumbles back.

  New endings for Susan and me are what I’m really wondering about and when Eli will make them happen. I sip at the wine.

  Bleh! Stuff tastes like spoiled grape juice, although Linda and Margret guzzle. I’ve never seen Margret so happy.

  Then Gord smiles at me. He’s a sweet old guy but he doesn’t stop. On the second sip of wine, I see where this is heading.

  “Would you like to go to the movie with me this evening?”

  CHAPTER 30

  Susan

  GORD ASKED ME OUT! AT LEAST he asked the eighty-two-year-old body that really belongs to me.

  Or is it Hallie’s fifteen-year-old soul that attracts him? Regardless of which, Hallie’s the one who has to answer him. For the first time, I want to be back in my creaky old shell so I can be friends with people my own age again, and I can say yes!