Because it was so magical, we put off thinking about the future. Astrid sent her résumé out to lots of companies to try to get another office job, and she contacted Emily Carr, but no one was hiring. She didn’t seem worried; we had savings, enough to tide us over for a while. We looked at a few apartments, but most landlords wanted current pay stubs.
One landlord leered at Astrid and told her he didn’t need any pay stubs or references. But the basement apartment was as creepy as he was.
“I prefer the van,” she said.
“Me too,” I agreed.
But as August crept to a close and the days grew shorter, we knew we had some decisions to make.
“Felix,” she said one evening as we set up our Trivial Pursuit board outside, “we may need to stick it out in the van, just for one more month. Until I get a job.”
“It’s okay.” And really, at the time, it was.
“You know what’s great about this?”
“What?”
“You can register at any public school you want for seventh grade.” This was good news. My last two schools hadn’t been terrible, but they hadn’t been great, either. I’d felt a constant, low-grade loneliness.
“How about Blenheim? They have a late French immersion program that starts in seventh grade. I’ve always wanted to learn French.” I didn’t add that it was partly because of my dad. “Plus it’s in Kitsilano.” My fondest school memories were from our time in Kits.
Astrid’s eyes lit up. “That would be perfect for you. Et nous pouvons parler en français ensemble.” Astrid also knew French; it was yet another subject she had studied in university.
But then I remembered something my old friend Dylan had told me. “Blenheim is the only late French immersion program on the west side,” I said.
“So?”
“So, it’s mostly an English-speaking school. They only have two classrooms for the French stream. Which means space for about sixty kids. And it’s first come, first served. Dylan’s sister got in, but she applied months in advance.”
Astrid thought for a moment. “Don’t despair. We’ll go there tomorrow. And, Felix?” She looked me in the eye. “Let me do the talking.”
Astrid’s Guidebook to Lies
I suppose I need to pause here to explain that yes, on occasion, my mother lies. But it’s important to note that she has levels of lies, and rules surrounding each. Sort of like the Church of Scientology and their levels of Operating Thetans, her rationales don’t always make a lot of sense. But this is how I break them down in my head.
The Invisible Lie
This is your run-of-the-mill white lie, the type we all tell multiple times a day without even thinking about it. For example, say you’ve just been diagnosed with a terminal illness and your waiter/bus driver says, “How are you?” And you say, “Fine.” Because it’s understood that they don’t want to know the truth. They’re just being polite. And you don’t feel like telling a stranger anyway. You both want to move on with your day.
The “Give Peace a Chance” Lie
We all tell this sort of lie, to spare someone’s feelings. An example: A couple of years ago, Astrid’s waitress friend Gina asked, “Does my butt look big in these pants?”
Now. Gina is a large woman, with a butt to match. So, yes, her butt looked big in those pants. But Astrid didn’t miss a beat. She answered with an emphatic “No.” When I called her on it later, she said, “Ask yourself this, Felix: What good would come of me telling her yes? She already worries about her weight. I don’t need to add to her self-esteem issues.”
“But you’re her friend. Shouldn’t friends tell each other the truth?”
“Sometimes people don’t want honesty; they want a little comfort. Besides, her butt looked no bigger in those pants than they did in any of her other pants. And it’s a perfectly good-looking butt, a very proportional butt. So technically I wasn’t lying.”
The “Embellishment” Lie
Astrid would argue that embellishing isn’t lying, it’s just adding some flavor, like putting more spices into a dish. For example, she will pad her résumé with things that aren’t, shall we say, accurate, depending on the type of job she’s applying for. When she was first looking for restaurant work, she wrote that she had “extensive experience in the service industry.”
“Since when?” I asked when I read it.
“Since you were born. I’ve been waiting on you hand and foot ever since.”
The “No One Gets Hurt” Lie
These are bald-faced lies aimed at helping out the liar in some way. But—and this is crucial—they harm no one.
This type of lie will become clearer in a moment.
And lastly, there is:
The “Someone Might Lose an Eye” Lie
These are the worst types of lies, the kind that have the potential to hurt the teller, or the tellee, or both.
Astrid doesn’t tell these often, and when she does, I don’t think she does it on purpose. For example, I don’t think she meant to lie when she told her friend Ingrid she’d pay her back the five hundred dollars she borrowed. Or when she told her friend Karen the same thing. I think she believed she would pay them back. But she didn’t. She didn’t return Ingrid’s expensive makeup kit, either. They felt hurt, and used, and eventually they cut her out of their lives. Which was a bummer, because Ingrid’s daughter Violet had been my favorite babysitter. But once Ingrid vanished from our lives, so did Violet.
Come to think of it, my mom has pushed a lot of people away with this type of lie. Including Daniel, the man who happens to be my dad.
Anyway. I just needed to explain these categories before I continue with the story. Because Astrid is about to tell a No One Gets Hurt and a Someone Might Lose an Eye, all in one day.
“Hi, I’m Astrid Knutsson, and this is my son, Felix.” We were in the office of Blenheim Public School. Astrid had worn her prettiest peasant blouse and put on lipstick. “We sent in our registration forms for the French immersion program back in the spring, and we’ve been out of the country all summer.”
The secretary was at his computer behind the counter, playing solitaire. He shut down the game and opened a folder. “Can you spell the last name, please?”
“K-N-U-T-S-S-O-N. I was surprised there wasn’t any paperwork waiting for us when we got back last night, so we thought we’d just pop in.” She smiled. She has a radiant smile.
The secretary’s brow furrowed. “We have no record of receiving his registration form.”
“Oh, it must be there. It was probably one of the first you received, if that’s any help.”
This time he got up and moved to a filing cabinet. He sifted through a folder once, twice. “I don’t know what to tell you. It isn’t here.”
“I don’t understand. It must be there. We intentionally applied early. Felix has been dreaming of this for the past two years.”
“Dreaming,” I echoed. I added a tremor to my voice, which I personally thought was a nice touch.
He shrugged helplessly. “Mrs. Knutsson—”
“Ms.,” she corrected. “Single parent. What’s your name?”
“Obasi.”
“Obasi, there has to be a mistake. Perhaps someone misplaced it on this end?”
Obasi bristled at this suggestion. “The only person on this end is me.”
“Well, then, that’s an impossibility,” Astrid said quickly.
“Except,” Obasi said. “A temp did fill in when I was sick in late March.”
“That’s exactly when we sent it in!” Honestly, Astrid is very quick on her feet. She turned to me. “Oh goodness. Felix, I’m so sorry.”
“But—this is all I’ve wanted. For years.” I actually managed to tear up a little, for real. “Je veux learnay le français,” I added for effect.
Astrid
held me close. Her voice was wobbly when she said, “This is all my fault. I should have made a copy of the forms. I should have checked that they’d been received.”
“Now, now,” said the secretary. “Don’t blame yourself.”
“Are you a parent, Obasi?”
“Not yet. But my husband and I are trying to adopt.”
“That’s so wonderful. You’ll be able to share parenting responsibilities. I won’t lie, it’s hard doing it all on your own. And now I’ve really messed up.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. It was probably that darned temp.”
Astrid had him on the hook. Now all she needed to do was reel him in. “Isn’t there anything we could do?”
Obasi glanced around and lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t do this, but…a spot did open up just this morning. Normally I’m supposed to go to the waiting list…but seeing as you sent in your form ages ago…”
“You would really do that?” said Astrid.
Obasi nodded. I pulled away from Astrid’s embrace. “Thank you!” I said. “Thank you, thank you, you’ve made me the happiest boy on earth! God bless us, every one!” I’m not sure why I quoted Tiny Tim from A Christmas Carol, but Astrid clearly thought it was over the top, because she elbowed me in the ribs.
Obasi slid some forms across the counter. “Fill these out.”
Astrid gave him another dazzling smile. “Obasi, you just did your good deed of the year. Thank you so much.”
He smiled back at her. “It has to be our little secret.”
“Oh, definitely.”
* * *
—
I sat beside Astrid as she filled out the forms. I noticed that under Parent or Guardian, she put her information and hers alone.
When she reached Address, she paused. She glanced at Obasi, who was absorbed in a new game of solitaire. Then she pointed at the page. I read what it said: Address must be in west side catchment. Please provide proof of residence in form of government-issued ID or a phone or hydro bill.
This was a stumbling block. So far she’d had our mail forwarded from our old address to a post office box in East Vancouver, not in the catchment area.
Astrid stood up. “Obasi, I clearly haven’t had my morning coffee yet. I’ve forgotten some pertinent information at home. Here are all the other forms. I beg you, do not give up that spot. We’ll be back first thing in the morning with everything else.”
He frowned. “I can hold it till ten a.m. tomorrow, but that’s it.”
“Not a problem.” She flashed him her smile one last time.
Back in the van, she sat in the driver’s seat, silent. I knew to stay quiet; I knew she was figuring out what to do next.
After a few minutes she turned the key in the ignition. “No worries. I’ve got it.”
* * *
—
We waited until six o’clock that night. “I need to be sure he’s home from work,” Astrid said. She didn’t elaborate on who “he” was.
At 6:01 sharp we drove up to a house in Kitsilano. There were bikes and a trampoline out front. “Hey,” I said. “This is Caitlin’s house.” I’d gone to school with her, back when we’d owned our condo. “Why are we—”
Astrid just held up a hand and hopped out of the van. “Wait here.”
I watched as she walked up to the front door and knocked. Caitlin’s dad, Mr. Poplowski, answered the door.
I swear he looked taken aback when he saw my mom. He closed the door behind him and stepped onto the porch, like he didn’t want anyone else in his family to see.
They talked for a bit. He seemed agitated. Then he went back inside. Astrid turned and gave me the thumbs-up. Unlike Mr. Poplowski, she looked perfectly relaxed.
A few minutes later, the door opened again. Mr. Poplowski handed my mom some papers. Then he slammed the door.
Astrid practically bounced back to the van. “There. That’s taken care of.”
“What did you do?”
“We needed an address. He provided me with one.”
“We’re going to give the school Caitlin’s address?”
She laughed. “No, no. Her dad’s letting us use his law office address, which is on Broadway. Offices on the main floor, apartments upstairs, but the school will never know the difference. We can have all our mail redirected there.”
“And he’s okay with that?”
She pulled away from the curb, smiling. “He has no choice.”
“But why—”
“Felix. Enough questions.”
I shut up. But I was thinking about the last time I’d seen Mr. Poplowski.
It was winter. We were living in our condo. I’d gone to school feeling fine, but midmorning I’d suddenly barfed. The school nurse said I was coming down with the flu. She called my mom a couple of times, but there was no answer, so she told me to lie down on the cot in her office. After a while I got bored. When the nurse went to the bathroom, I slipped out; I figured I’d walk home and lie down there, because at least we had a TV.
I let myself in to our apartment. My mom was there—with Mr. Poplowski. He was putting on his shoes. “Hey, Felix, my man! What are you doing home?” He sounded overly enthusiastic.
“Caitlin’s dad is a lawyer,” my mom said. “He was helping me look over the condo contract.”
I was feeling woozy, plus I was only eight or nine, so I didn’t question it. But my P.O.O. told me it was odd for my mom to have a business meeting in her bathrobe.
I don’t want to think too much about all that. But I’m guessing Caitlin’s dad figured it was better to participate in a small lie than to have a bigger lie exposed.
* * *
—
We drove straight to the Kits library. Astrid took out one of the papers Caitlin’s dad had given her: a hydro bill for his law office. She fired up a library computer and found a font that matched the hydro bill. She typed in her name, Astrid Knutsson, and printed it out. Then she carefully cut it out and pasted it over Mr. Poplowski’s name. She photocopied the bill and showed me the results.
It looked good. Real.
We walked into the office the next morning at 9:01 sharp. “Ah, perfect,” Obasi said. “You’re here.” Astrid handed him the bill, and he studied it. “We don’t normally accept photocopies. We like to have the original.”
“The originals are with my accountant at the moment.”
“That’s fine. Just bring one in when you can.” Obasi smiled at me and held out his hand. We shook. “Congratulations, Felix. We’ll see you next week.”
* * *
—
I felt happy—giddy, even—as we climbed back into the van. August had been fun, but I was looking forward to being around people my own age again, maybe even making a friend or two.
Astrid didn’t turn on the ignition. “Just so we’re clear, Felix. When you start school, it would be best not to tell any of your classmates about this.”
“About how you got me into the program?”
“No. Well, yes. That, too. But about our living arrangement.” She indicated the van. “You know, and I know, it’s strictly temporary. But other people…they might not understand. We don’t want to give anyone a reason to call the MCFD.”
A chill seized my heart.
MCFD. Ministry of Children and Family Development.
We’d had one run-in with them, back in April. Astrid and Abelard had had one of their more spectacular fights the night before. A social worker showed up at the door the next day with a pile of questions. It was probably our landlord who’d called them, because he lived upstairs. Maybe he was worried I was being physically abused. I wasn’t.
Abelard never laid a hand on me.
Anyway. I knew from that experience, and from stories my mom had told me, that you did not want to get on th
e MCFD’s radar. No way, no how. So I said, “Okay.”
Not talking about my living arrangement didn’t seem like a big deal at the time.
Like Astrid said, this was temporary.
We’d have a place to live in no time.
I was diarrhea-nervous on my first day at Blenheim, which isn’t good at the best of times, and really isn’t good when you’re living in a van.
Luckily we’d spent that night parked a few blocks from the school, across from the local community center. Astrid had planned it that way so we’d have a place to freshen up in the morning. I dashed over to use their toilet three times in half an hour.
The day before, we’d driven to Soleil’s house to collect more of our things; some thicker sweaters, warmer jackets and shoes, and the school supplies I had from last year. The driveway was empty when we arrived, and all the blinds were drawn.
“I don’t think anyone’s home,” I said.
“Not a problem.” Astrid pulled away. I thought we were leaving. Instead she made two right-hand turns and stopped in the alley, outside Soleil’s back gate.
My intestines clenched. “What are you doing?”
“Going inside.”
“Mom,” I said. She looked at me sharply; she doesn’t like me calling her that. “We are not breaking in.”
“Who said anything about breaking in?” She pulled a key from her pocket.
“Soleil gave you a key?” I asked as we climbed out of the van.
Astrid opened the back gate. “Yes and no. She gave it to me for our stay. I had a copy made before I gave it back.”
My intestines re-clenched. “Then we are breaking in.”
She inserted the key into the door. “Not if we’re only taking our own things.”
I started to hiccup. This happens when I get anxious. “What if they come home?”