When the laughing gas wore off, I understood why the Trespasser had warned me not to act surprised. Instead of waking up in the dentist’s chair, I was in the open air, facing Dad, his boots sunk up to the ankles in yellow horse manure, spraying grapevines from a tank painted with the letters “DDT” strapped to his back. I saw myself standing next to him. And by “myself” I don’t mean “me,” but rather the future me. Taller and heavier, bookish-looking in wireframe glasses, my shoulder-length hair covered by a red bandanna, knotted at the nape of my neck. Like Dad, I was dressed in knee-high rubber boots and (surprise of surprises) a pair of blue jeans. I watched myself reach up to gently tug on a bunch of immature grapes hanging from a vine, testing their firmness.
Even with the midday sun beating down on my bare skin, I was shivering as if I’d been standing naked in a deep freeze. In a way, I had been. When you swing Schrödinger’s cat (I would later learn), you are frozen in time until you re-enter the continuum where your future self already exists. Until you integrate your two selves, one of you is on the outside looking in.
I waved my hand up and down in front of Debbie-of-the-Future’s face. No reaction. I was invisible to her and Dad.
For one freaky, gut-twisting moment, I felt myself moving toward me/her. The acceleration felt like the final drop on a roller coaster, when you’re sure you’ve left a few of your internal organs behind. Next thing I knew, I was fondling the grapes and thinking about how urgently I needed to empty my bladder. I had integrated with my future self, but the body I was standing in did not feel like my own.
Dad had aged — his hair greyer, for sure — but he was skinnier and healthier-looking, with the tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. I’d never seen him dressed in jeans and a denim shirt before. He was almost handsome, even with a tank of pesticide strapped to his back.
His face registered concern. I must have looked as disoriented as I felt.
“You okay, there, Debbie? Heat getting to you?”
I improvised. “I am feeling a little woozy. And I need to pee.”
“Time to call it a day,” said Dad. “Why don’t you use the Johnny-on-the-Spot? Too gross for you?”
“I can handle it.” I walked awkwardly toward a green plastic outhouse at the edge of the field. I felt so top-heavy that I kept thinking I was going to fall forward onto my face.
I tried to figure out exactly where we were: this was a much bigger vineyard than the one in our backyard, the grapevines rolling in long straight lines toward a far blue horizon that suggested we were close to a large body of water. The vines looked like the twisted bodies of burnt men, crucified on posts. Judging by the firmness of the grapes, harvest time was still months away. Strange, considering that the Trespasser had said he was sending me forward in time nine years to the day. I’d been sitting in the dentist’s chair in mid-November, but the weather felt more like early summer.
Opening the door of the outhouse, I half-expected to see the Trespasser inside, waiting for me. All I found was a foul-smelling pit covered by a rudimentary toilet. As I hovered over the seat, I looked down at myself. I was wearing a bright yellow T-shirt printed with a big happy face, under which protruded a pair of breasts the size of cake mixing bowls. I was horrified to see how womanly I’d become. The Trespasser said I was supposed to save the world, but how could I do anything heroic in a body that made me feel as if I were swimming through wet cement?
I didn’t see the Country Squire among the few vehicles in the gravel parking area behind a grey windowless bunker of a building, so I slowed my pace to see which one Dad would unlock. To my surprise, he threw his equipment into the truck bed of a canary yellow Ford half-ton pickup, painted with the catchphrase of Shipman’s Corners’ favourite brand of plonk: Sparkling Sparrow Wine & Juice. Have A Grape Day! A lemon-scented cardboard deodorizer in the shape of a happy face hung from the rear-view.
Sitting high in the passenger seat, I followed Dad’s lead and clipped myself into a device I’d never used before — a seat belt — before we peeled out of the parking lot. I could see now that the front of the grey bunker, facing the road, was painted a cheerful yellow and purple, with a huge sign reading: Sparkling Sparrow Wines and Juices, A Division of ShipCo Pharmaceuticals (Canusa) Limited: Your World Looks Better Though Grape-Filled Glasses. In the near distance, a saltie cut through the canal. I had my bearings now: we were in a township on the outskirts of Shipman’s Corners, on a stretch of Lakeshore Road.
* * *
Dad turned on the radio. The music that flowed out sounded immediately fresh and new and exciting.
“I don’t know what the hell it is with the music these days,” complained Dad, fiddling with the station. “Just want to hear the damn news.”
I drowsed to the drone of Prime Minister Stanfield’s monotone — the old fart was still in power with that perennial loser, Pierre Trudeau, still the Leader of the Opposition. Surprising that the government hadn’t changed in nine years.
At the end of the newscast, the announcer said: This has been the Canusa Broadcasting Corporation’s five o’clock news for June thirtieth, 1971.
I sat up straight in my seat. Had I heard the announcer correctly?
“What day is it today?” The voice in my ears did not sound entirely my own.
“Saturday.”
“I mean, the date.”
“June thirtieth,” answered Dad.
“What year?”
Dad frowned. “1971. Sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, just — lost track of time.”
The dizziness of disorientation was turning into heart-pounding panic. Instead of the jump of nine years to the day that the Trespasser had promised, I had landed short by seven years and six months, give or take a week. The glitch might explain the Trespasser’s absence. He might not show up for years.
Dad reached over and pressed his hand to my forehead. “You’ve got heat stroke, honey.”
I laid my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. If only my problem was as simple as a few overheated brain cells. I had been stuffed inside a strange body and thrown into summer in Shipman’s Corners with no clue about what I’d been up to since 1969. If I’d changed so dramatically in a year and a half, it was scary to think about how much more I would have changed over nine. Now I had to figure out my next steps for myself, saving-the-world-wise.