“Well, thank goodness for that, since God exists,” says Winnie. She’s eating a banana split, because she thinks the banana makes it somewhat healthy. I’ve chosen a Peanut Buster Parfait.
Dylan puts down his spoon, exasperated. “So why do you find it so hard to believe in the paranormal? When tons of people have actually seen ghosts? When there is tons of actual evidence?”
Winnie touches a napkin to her perfect red lips. “The only people who’ve laid eyes on ghosts are kooks or crackpots looking for attention. You’ve said yourself, you’ve never seen Bernard.”
“Felix, my buddy, my pal, help me out here,” Dylan implores me.
We’re sitting at our usual booth in the Dairy Queen. Alvin and the Chipmunks are singing Christmas carols in the background. We’ve stopped in for after-school treats almost every day for two weeks straight, slowly using up my gift card. Who, What, Where, When may not release my money till I’m eighteen, but they’ve given me all my other prizes, most of which are stored in Dylan’s basement: boxes of microwave popcorn, spaghetti sauce, maple syrup, laundry detergent, pancake batter and Turtle Wax.
I gave Dylan’s parents half of the laundry detergent and spaghetti sauce as a small way of saying thanks for letting me live with them until January. Some of the rest of it went to Soleil and her family, because they’re letting my mom stay in their basement till then. When I found out Mrs. Ahmadi loves maple syrup, I gave her all but one bottle. Some of the prizes make perfect Christmas gifts. I’ve set aside the manicure-pedicure set for Astrid. I wrapped three big boxes of microwave popcorn and brought them to Constable Lee at the police station. I ordered an enormous ice cream cake for my class with some of my DQ gift card. And at my last meeting with Vijay, he told me about his old Mustang convertible, which he’s restoring on weekends.
He got the Turtle Wax.
I even sent Daniel a Christmas gift: a one-hundred-dollar WestJet gift card, to put toward a flight to Vancouver. He sent me a gift, too: a fifty-dollar e-transfer, which I know was a big deal for him. He never did get the job he’d interviewed for out here. He wishes he could help out more, money-wise. But we talk on the phone much more often now, and he talks to Astrid, and that counts for a lot.
Dylan and Winnie got Christmas presents, too. We did our own gift exchange yesterday, at Dylan’s house. Dylan got the board games I’d won, and Winnie got a one-hundred-dollar gift certificate to Staples, so she can buy printing paper or whatever else she wants for her writing.
The two of them had to leave the room to get my gift. “Close your eyes,” Winnie demanded before they stepped back in.
I did as I was told. “Okay,” said Dylan. “You can open them.”
In front of me was a cage with the sweetest little gerbil I’d ever seen. Caramel-colored, with white patches.
I got a little dewy in the eye region.
“You can call it Horatio Blass the Second,” said Winnie.
“No,” I said. “Definitely not.”
“It’s your gerbil, my friend,” said Dylan. “You can call it whatever you want.”
I thought about it for a moment. “I will call you Dillie,” I said to the gerbil.
A combination of the names of my two best friends in the world.
* * *
—
When Vijay showed up at the Cedar Motel almost two weeks ago, he was with Soleil, the Ahmadis and Mr. and Mrs. Brinkerhoff. The Ahmadis told us about the apartment. For a moment I was scared that my mom’s weird pride would get in the way and that she would say no to their offer. But she didn’t.
The Brinkerhoffs told us I was welcome to stay in Dylan’s room until January, and Soleil offered her basement to Astrid. We packed up our stuff and drove over to see the apartment. As we stood in the tiny living room, I couldn’t read my mom’s expression. She turned to Mrs. Ahmadi. “Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?”
My heart constricted. I think she was genuinely perplexed, but she sounded kind of hostile.
“A steady rent check, that’s what,” said Mrs. Ahmadi. Her face was unsmiling.
Suddenly Astrid grabbed Mrs. Ahmadi’s hand and squeezed it, hard.
Still unsmiling, Mrs. Ahmadi put her other hand on top of Astrid’s.
She squeezed back.
* * *
—
The apartment is tiny. It smells like rotting vegetables. But there are no signs on the walls telling us what we can and can’t do. There are no people eyeing us with suspicion. There are no cigarette burns, and no scary sounds coming through the walls. It is clean. It has a toilet and a shower, and heating, and even a pint-sized bedroom, which Astrid has said will be mine; she will sleep on the pullout couch.
Bob the Bard sleeps in doorways. Mr. and Mrs. Ahmadi spent two years in a refugee camp. Two years.
I tell myself I am one of the lucky ones.
* * *
—
Since the finale of Who, What, Where, When, Astrid and I have been getting a lot of mail from across the country and beyond. We got one letter that came all the way from Cockermouth, England. Dylan and I laughed over that name for a long, long time.
A few letters and tweets are nasty. They say things like Astrid shouldn’t have had a kid if she can’t raise him properly, or that she’s just another welfare mom. But most people are kind. They write about their own struggles and wish us luck. Some of them have even sent checks for twenty, fifty or a hundred dollars. I told Astrid I didn’t feel right about keeping the money. But when we did the math, we realized we could give the Ahmadis three months’ rent up front if we cashed the checks. So that’s what we’ve done. We are writing thank-you cards to each and every person. And we’ve also allowed ourselves to buy one new set of clothes and one new winter coat each, because we need to look good for our new jobs.
A few days after the finale, Astrid got a call out of the blue from an administrator she used to know at Emily Carr. He told her that enrollment was up, and asked if Astrid would consider coming back to teach a painting class to first-year students. I have no idea if he saw the show and knew about our situation; he never mentioned it. Astrid said yes. She starts after the holidays. It doesn’t pay a lot and it’s only part-time, but she’ll get to use their studios to paint, which is a major bonus.
My new job has already begun. It’s also part time. I work for Mr. and Mrs. Ahmadi two days a week after school and one day on the weekend. I only let them pay me for the weekday shifts; the weekend day goes toward the rent. A few days ago I got my first paycheck. I put half of it in the bank and took half of it out in cash. I walked to Bob the Bard’s corner and bought two poems from him. Then I walked to the No Frills so I could start paying them back for the things my mom had shoplifted. But when I tried to explain, the cashier looked at me like I was crazy and told me to get lost.
I was wandering around the store, trying to figure out what to do, when I spotted an elderly woman in shabby clothes, looking through the dented, on-special cans. All she had in her cart was a box of birdseed and a tin of kidney beans. I walked up to her and held out a twenty-dollar bill. “Excuse me. You dropped this.”
“Oh, heavens, I don’t think so.”
“You did. I saw it fall out of your purse just now.”
She gazed at me with her milky eyes; then she wrapped her hand around the twenty. “Thank you, young man. Thank you very much.”
I will keep doing things like this until I have settled up what we owe, one way or another.
* * *
—
Astrid and I see each other a couple of times a week. She and Soleil are trying to mend their friendship. I don’t think it’s going too well. Astrid complains every time we get together. “She judges me without saying a word.”
I tell her that’s the pot calling the kettle black, and that she should put up or shut up.
&nb
sp; Sometimes I get these waves of anger toward her, and it makes me feel bad. But I see Vijay once a week, and he lets me talk about all my emotions. It helps.
To be honest, it hasn’t been the worst thing, getting a break from my mom. But I only tell that to Vijay. When Astrid asks if I miss her, I always say yes.
A Give Peace a Chance.
* * *
—
Dylan and Winnie are still arguing loudly in the DQ. “How do you account for all the stuff Bernard has done? Felix has seen some of it, too.”
“Earth to Dylan,” says Winnie. “Has it honestly never occurred to you that ‘Bernard’ is actually—”
“Anyone want a bite of my Peanut Buster Parfait?” I interrupt. I grab Winnie’s hand across the table and shoot her a warning look, which she thankfully understands.
“I’m just saying,” Dylan continues, “there’s no difference between you believing in God, or me believing in Bernard, or Felix believing in his tim-tom.”
“Tomte,” I correct. I reach into my coat pocket and put my hand on Mel. After I threw him off the balcony I felt immediate regret; my mormor had made him especially for me. So I ran down four flights of stairs, found him lying on the sidewalk, and carried him back to the room.
I have another mouthful of Peanut Buster Parfait. A beam of sunlight hits our table. Right here, in this moment, I am filled with happiness, sitting with my best friends, eating ice cream, listening to them argue.
I get why Winnie believes in God. I get why Dylan believes in Bernard. I get why I wanted to believe in Mel. It can give a person comfort, feeling that something mysterious and otherworldly is looking out for you.
But now I’m learning to have faith in something new. Something my mom stopped having faith in a long time ago.
Other people.
Astrid didn’t have much luck with them, growing up.
But I am not my mom.
And I am choosing to believe.
Acknowledgments
I have oodles of people to thank for helping me bring this story to life. Quite a few of them have helped me many times, still picking up the phone when they see my name on call display. Randy Fincham, the Vancouver Police Department’s media liaison, is prompt and insightful. Catherine MacMillan, who was my son’s guidance counselor through high school and now guides others with her compassion, wit and smarts—ditto. My husband, Göran Fernlund, reads my manuscripts, sometimes multiple times, without complaint (perhaps he realizes it makes for a happier marriage). Same goes for Susan Juby—she is one of my favorite authors, and I can’t believe I not only get the gift of her excellent feedback, I also get to call her a friend.
Thank you to Alex Scheiber, Deputy Director of Child Welfare at the Ministry of Children and Family Development in British Columbia, for taking the time to answer my questions. And to Social Worker/Counselor Amanda Oliver, your insights were invaluable. While I sit in front of my laptop and make stuff up, people like you are out there trying to make the world a better place for those who find themselves vulnerable.
I had a great deal of fun interviewing people who’ve either created or been on game shows. John Brunton, CEO at Insight Productions, has produced a lot of game shows, and he helped me tremendously. I was tickled to find out that my talented author/radio personality friend Kevin Sylvester was once a contestant on Canada’s Smartest Person—his stories were hilarious and helpful. And thanks to another author/radio personality, J.J. Lee, for putting me in touch with Julie Backer, who was a real, live contestant on my favorite game show, Jeopardy! Julie and I had a great discussion over dinner; I loved hearing her insider tales! I also enjoyed reading Prisoner of Trebekistan by Bob Harris. I must also give a shout-out to Janette McIntosh, who kindly toured me through her VW van and showed me all the bells and whistles.
I had quite a few “advance readers” for this manuscript, each of them offering unique and invaluable perspectives. Léonicka Valcius, Rania Barazi, Liz Johnson-Lee and Ellen Wu (no relation to Winnie—at least, not that we know of): I owe you each a heap of gratitude. You helped me get to know some of my characters even better. Katie Wagner seemed to know an inordinate amount about living in a van….She gifted me the bit about having to “unplug” before tearing away from the garage. L And a special shout-out to my young readers: Martin Cassini, Isabella Harrison, Noah Poursartip and Forrest Rozitis. Your comments were deeply appreciated, and I was grateful that you saw the humanity in Astrid; as one of you said, she is a “let-down mom.”
To my wonderful agent, Hilary McMahon—can this really be book six?? Thank you for your skills in guiding and building my new career. Working with you for the past ten years has been nothing short of awesome.
I feel thoroughly blessed to have three exceptional editors/publishers, who gave me such in-depth, thoughtful feedback on this manuscript at every draft. Tara Walker, my lead editor—well, anyone who’s worked with Tara knows it’s hard to put into words, even for a writer, what her notes and before-and-after conversations mean to the quality of the end product. She always pushes me, in the kindest ways, to dig deeper, and to explore nooks and crannies that I would never have thought of on my own, but always in a way that stays true to my vision (sometimes, though, my vision is blurred, and I need help bringing it into focus). To have the added gift of Wendy Lamb in the US and Charlie Sheppard in the UK—well, it’s like the icing and the whipped cream on top of the cake; these extraordinary women know how to drag better stuff out of me every single time, and I am forever grateful.
Dana Carey, Peter Phillips, Chloe Sackur, Colleen Fellingham: thank you for your keen eyes and VAT (value-added tips). There are so many others I would like to thank at Tundra, Penguin Random House Canada, Wendy Lamb Books, Penguin Random House US and Andersen Press—I still pinch myself that I get to work with this incredible group of people, who have such a passion for books.
Lastly, it took me a while to find the proper ending for this story. Sometimes ideas strike at really odd times. In this case, it happened when I was at West Point Cycles in Vancouver. My husband and I love road biking. While he was in the store looking for something, I wandered, lost in thought….Suddenly the ending burst into my brain, and tears sprang to my eyes. The owner of the shop, Tim Woodburn, asked if I was okay. I told him I was better than okay, I’d just figured out the theme of my book, and the ending. He said since it happened in his store, I should mention them in my acknowledgments. So here it is: Thank you, Tim and Sara Woodburn of West Point Cycles—you guys are awesome in so many ways.
Resources
No Fixed Address is a story about the “hidden homeless”—people with no permanent home who instead find a place to stay with friends or family, or live in their cars, or who might be on a waiting list for public housing and are meanwhile living in shelters, motels, or other government housing. Not having a home to call one’s own makes life very challenging: it can be harder to find a job or a school, or to make commitments; there are often financial and social burdens. Not having a proper bed or bathroom can affect physical and mental well-being. Many people who live such precarious lives feel embarrassed and want to hide the fact that they are in difficulty.
If you have been affected by the issues in this book, or if you would like to find out how you can help people without homes, the following organizations may be able to provide advice:
Covenant House: covenanthouse.org
National Alliance to End Homelessness: endhomelessness.org
National Coalition for the Homeless: nationalhomeless.org
National Network for Youth: nn4youth.org
Safe Horizon: safehorizon.org
StandUp for Kids: standupforkids.org
Discussion Guide
No Fixed Address opens with Felix agreeing to tell his story to Constable Lee, on the November night before he is due to go to the hotel. The story th
en shifts back in time to the previous summer. How does this affect your expectations as you read the book? Can you think of other examples of stories (whether from novels, films, or television) that are told in this way?
Felix tells the story of Astrid’s childhood and her life till now. What events from her past do you think have contributed to her situation in the novel? What could she have done differently, if at all?
The narration is from Felix’s point of view. Why did the author, Susin Nielsen, choose to tell the story this way?
Felix makes lists in his mind as a coping mechanism for his difficult and lonely life—for example, in the chapters “A Brief History of Homes” and “Astrid’s Guidebook to Lies.” What do the different kinds of lists suggest?
The reader isn’t told the full story of Felix’s dad, Daniel, until halfway through the book. Why do you think Felix takes so long to tell the reader about him?
Discuss Dylan and Winnie. In what ways are they similar and different?
Felix finds Winnie deeply annoying when he meets her at school, and tries to avoid including her in plans. How do his feelings toward her change throughout the book?
No Fixed Address has many characters who turn out to be very different from what Felix or the reader thinks at first. Compare one main character and one minor character and the ways in which they defy expectations when we learn more about them.
Discuss the themes of shame and guilt in No Fixed Address.
No Fixed Address takes a look at the lives of the “hidden homeless”—people without a permanent home who must find alternatives. If you were Felix, what aspect of your precarious existence would you find hardest to deal with?