No Fixed Address

by Susin Nielsen

  I missed Dylan a lot. We had a few visits, but Astrid didn’t own a car and I was too young to take the bus alone. That meant Dylan’s parents had to do all the driving, and they had two other kids with busy schedules. After a few months, we lost touch.

  Astrid couldn’t find any office or teaching work, so she got her first-ever waitressing job on the Drive. I had to spend quite a few evenings on my own. But I had my imagination and my library books, and I watched some of the shows Mormor and I used to enjoy together, like Who, What, Where, When.

  One night Astrid came home early. She was fuming. “This customer kept trying to feel my butt.” (Astrid has always been a firm believer in talking to me like an equal.) “Yet I’m the one who gets punished. Just because I threw a drink in his face so he’d stop.” That’s when I understood she’d been fired.

  We fell behind on the rent. But lucky for us, Astrid became friends with Yuri, the building’s superintendent, and he cut us some slack. A few times a week she would make me dinner, then go downstairs to his apartment for a couple of hours. I guess he was her sort-of boyfriend, even if he never took her out on a proper date.

  Then Astrid met Abelard.

  She stopped visiting Yuri’s apartment. I guess Yuri felt hurt, because he stuck an eviction notice on our door.

  The One-Bedroom Basement

  We moved again, farther east, close to Boundary Road. That meant another new school. It was harder this time. Most of the other kids had been together since kindergarten; they didn’t need a new friend.

  “What the heck is in your gene pool?” a tall, pinched-looking girl named Marsha asked me one day.

  “Fifty percent Swedish, twenty-five percent Haitian, twenty-five percent French,” I replied. “Add it up and it equals one hundred percent Canadian.”

  She pursed her lips. “You look like a clown.”

  It wasn’t the first time someone had made fun of my hair. When I was younger I’d wanted my mom to cut it all off, but she’d refused. Now I’m glad she did. It’s part of who I am. I’m like Samson, before he met Delilah: it’s my superpower. And Astrid loves my hair; she says it reminds her of two of her favorite singers, K’naan and Art Garfunkel. She says it’s good to have a distinct feature, and most of the time I agree. So I put up with idiots like Marsha, right up to the end of sixth grade. But I didn’t like that school. I didn’t like our basement apartment, either. It smelled musty, and even on sunny days it was dark. Plus Abelard was there all the time.

  Astrid managed to get another office job, at BC Hydro. But that one didn’t last either. She told me they laid some people off, and since she was last in, she was first out. But from stuff I overheard, I think it was more than that; I think she got lippy with her supervisor. “I don’t suffer fools gladly,” I heard her say to Abelard, “and that guy was such a fool.”

  Two weeks after that, Abelard broke up with her. Which brings me to:

  The Westfalia

  The van belonged to Abelard.

  My mom met him at a daylong meditation retreat. He was the instructor, or guru.

  Astrid is still pretty even though she is forty-four. She’s tall and slender and has long, wavy blond hair. I’ve seen men’s heads turn when she walks down the street. So even though Abelard was ten years younger, he asked my mom out for coffee after the retreat, and from that moment on, they were inseparable. When we moved to the basement apartment, he pretty much moved in too, parking his Westfalia out front.

  Abelard reminded me of Jesus, but only in looks. He had long brown hair, a hipster beard and a mustache. He said he was a Buddhist, and he blathered on a lot about peace and love and tolerance, which would have been fine if he wasn’t such a dink. First of all, he mooched off my mom, even though it was obvious that we barely had enough to make ends meet. And second of all, he had a temper. He’d swear at my mom because she threw his yoga pants in the dryer instead of letting them drip-dry, or because she’d accidentally interrupted one of his meditation sessions.

  He was an Angry Buddhist.

  I couldn’t stand him.

  * * *

  —

  One night in July, Abelard told Astrid that he was heading to India on a “spiritual journey,” and he couldn’t be “tethered” to her anymore. They fought. I left the apartment and walked around the block ten times. On the one hand, I felt bad for Astrid, because I knew she liked Abelard. On the other hand, I was relieved. She deserved so much better.

  By the time I returned, Abelard was gone.

  But his Westfalia wasn’t. It was still in the driveway. Astrid told me Abelard had gifted it to her, his small way of thanking her for being such a freeloader.

  Now I’m finding out that Abelard has accused her of stealing the van.

  I know my mom sometimes embellishes the truth. But any thinking person would be nuts to take Abelard at his word, because the guy is a snake. My best guess is that the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  * * *

  —

  A week after Abelard left for India, the landlord changed our locks. He’d been trying to get us out for a while because we were behind on the rent. We came home to find our belongings stacked on the front lawn. My gerbil, Horatio, sat on top of the pile, in his cage.

  Horatio had been my tenth-birthday present. I’d really wanted a dog, so at first I was disappointed when Astrid gave me a rodent. But when I looked into his beady little eyes and petted his soft black-and-white fur, I fell in love. Even though he couldn’t fetch, or run, or do tricks, even though he had a brain the size of a peanut, I adored him. So when I saw him perched precariously on top of our stuff, I lost it. What if his cage had fallen and he’d been hurt? What if the door hadn’t been securely fastened and he’d escaped? What if a hungry dog had come along? Horatio didn’t look traumatized, but then again, it’s hard to read complex emotions on a gerbil’s face.

  I started to cry. Loudly. Astrid wrapped me in a hug. “It’s okay, Lilla Gubben. It’s okay.” (Lilla Gubben is one of her pet names for me; it means “little old man” in Swedish. Apparently, when I was born, that’s exactly what I looked like: bald and wrinkly.)

  “How is it okay?” I wailed. “We have nowhere to live!”

  She gripped my shoulders and made me look at her. “Don’t you worry. I will figure something out. I always do.” And that brings me to:

  Soleil’s House

  Astrid started phoning her friends to see if someone could put us up for a few nights.

  Something my P.O.O. has taught me over the years is that my mom is really good at making friends, and even better at losing them. So I wasn’t super surprised when Ingrid said no. Or when Karen hung up on her.

  Astrid thought for a moment. Then she said, “I’ll try Soleil.”

  Soleil was one of Astrid’s students in her painting class at Emily Carr, and a fellow mom. They’d become fast friends. Then, two years ago, they had a huge fight.

  I heard the whole thing from my bedroom. It started out as a celebration because Soleil had sold another painting, this time for a record sum. But after they’d finished a second bottle of wine, Astrid started talking about the mediocrity of the masses, and how she couldn’t understand why boring, bland work like Soleil’s was selling while her superior abstracts weren’t. Soleil left in tears and they didn’t speak again.

  Until now.

  “She says we can stay with her for a bit,” Astrid said when she got off the phone.

  She looked just as surprised as I did.

  * * *

  —

  We packed everything into the Westfalia and drove to Soleil’s new house near Main Street and King Edward. She was waiting for us in the driveway of a big modern home when we pulled up. Astrid whistled quietly. “Someone’s moved up in the world.”r />
  Soleil smiled when she saw me. She’s tall and broad-shouldered and has a friendly face. “Felix, you’ve grown so much.” Then she gave my mom a lukewarm hug. “Astrid. How are you? What happened?”

  “Last-minute ‘renoviction’ by a scumbag landlord.” I almost had to admire how effortlessly the lies rolled off her tongue.

  Soleil helped us carry everything into a bright, spacious basement. A painting of yellow roses hung on one wall.

  “I remember that,” said Astrid. “You painted it at Emily Carr.”

  “And you told me it was ‘technically fine, but emotionally dead.’ You didn’t think I was living up to my full potential.”

  Astrid’s silence filled the room.

  I watched Soleil’s pale skin turn bright pink. “My rose paintings have become my bestsellers. I can’t seem to keep up with demand.”

  My P.O.O. told me we were heading into dangerous territory. “Would you like to pet my gerbil—” I asked, but Astrid spoke before Soleil could answer.

  “I’m happy for you, Soleil, I really am.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Until she added, “Your work is perfect for corporate lobbies and boardrooms.”

  Oh boy.

  Soleil wound her arms tightly across her chest. “Arpad’s parents are arriving at the end of the week. But you’re welcome to stay until then.”

  “You didn’t mention that before,” Astrid said.

  “I’m mentioning it now,” said Soleil, her gaze fixed on the yellow roses.

  * * *

  —

  Soleil and her family had plans for the evening, so Astrid and I walked over to Helen’s Grill and ordered the all-day breakfast for supper. I felt anxious. Not having a place to live can do that to a person.

  The waitress brought us our plates. “Why do breakfast foods always taste better at dinner?” Astrid asked.

  “It’s a scientific mystery.”

  We ate in silence for a while. Then Astrid said, “I have a fun idea.”

  I looked at her, my mouth full of scrambled eggs.

  “We’ll live in the van. Just for a few weeks, until I find us another place. Think about it, Felix. It’ll be the ultimate summer vacation. The freedom, the adventure…My favorite book when I was nineteen was On the Road, by Jack Kerouac. It’ll be a blast.”

  I thought about it. The farthest I’d ever traveled was to Victoria; my entire class had visited the provincial parliament buildings when I was ten. Marsha had pulled my hair on the bus, the whole way there and the whole way back. “Could we travel? Go across BC? Or maybe as far as the Rockies?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can we afford it?”

  “For a month, yes. I have some savings.”

  “If you have savings, why did we fall behind on the rent?”

  Astrid popped a strip of bacon into her mouth. “The landlord was gouging us. The number of times I asked him to repair things that never got fixed…He owed us a few months rent-free for the crap we put up with.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, what do you say? Ultimate summer vacation?”

  I wasn’t convinced. But I didn’t want to be a party pooper. “I guess so. Sure.” We high-fived to seal the deal.

  And that brings me to the beginning of August.

  To the day we started living in a van.

  The Volkswagen Westfalia is not a soccer-mom van, or a panel van, or a minivan. It is in a class of its own.

  Ours—and I will continue to call it ours for now—is a Vanagon Syncro, circa 1987, in gunmetal gray. It has a pop-up roof for extra sleeping space, and a built-in awning, which is brilliant for sitting outside in the summer. There is a two-ring stove that runs on a propane tank, a sink with a pump that leads to a huge plastic container of water so you can cook and wash dishes, and a bar-sized fridge. It has a table that can be lowered for meals and games. The backseat pulls out, creating a big bed. Once the top is popped up, you can open another bed “upstairs.”

  It also has little cubbyholes for storage tucked into every available nook and cranny. It was designed to use every square inch to its maximum potential.

  In short, the Westfalia is a masterpiece.

  But I’m pretty sure it’s only meant to be lived in temporarily, for vacations and such. And at first, that was all Astrid and I had in mind.

  “We have to pack light,” she said to me after our first of two sleepless nights in Soleil’s basement.

  We started to sift through our belongings, deciding what to bring and what to leave behind. It was a brainteaser, because even though the Westfalia uses every square inch well, there are not that many square inches to begin with.

  So Astrid and I came up with two important questions: Is this something I use every day? If the answer was yes, it went into the van. Things like:

  Plates, bowls, cutlery, glasses and mugs—two sets of each

  One pot, one frying pan, plus a few more cooking utensils

  Dish soap, dishrags

  Shampoo, deodorant, toothbrushes, toothpaste

  First-aid kit

  Flashlights, headlamps

  Two sets of sheets, pillows, sleeping bags and towels

  Clothes—enough for one week

  Once we had our essentials, we asked the second question: Is this something I feel I can’t live without? For Astrid, those items were a small stack of books, our Trivial Pursuit game and her drawing pencils, paints, easel and sketchbooks. For me, it was Horatio, a few DK Eyewitness books, my dog-eared copy of Tales from Moominvalley and Mel.

  Astrid wrinkled her nose at my tomte. “Does that really need to come with us?” My mom has never liked Mel; she says she finds his gaze disconcerting.

  “Yes,” I replied. If the Westfalia was going to be our temporary home, I figured we needed all the protection we could get.

  Next we borrowed some cleaning supplies from Soleil and gave the van a good scrub. Abelard had left a few things behind, including a tool kit, a Patagonia rain jacket, a space heater and a sandwich bag full of marijuana. Astrid kept the tool kit and the space heater and gave me the rain jacket. I don’t know what happened to the bag of marijuana, and that is the honest truth.

  After our second night in Soleil’s basement, we loaded up the Westfalia. Soleil’s twins came out to watch before their dad, Arpad, drove them to their Mechatronics camp.

  When we were done, we looked for Soleil in the garage, which had been converted into her studio. She was working on another rose painting, pink ones this time.

  “Well, we’re off on our road trip,” Astrid said.

  “What about the rest of your things?”

  “If it’s all right with you, we’ll leave them here. Just till the end of the month.” Astrid put a hand on my head, and I knew that was my cue to give Soleil a winning smile.

  Soleil’s eyebrows knit together. “Okay. But just till then.”

  “Thanks for letting us stay,” I said, since it seemed my mom wasn’t going to.

  Soleil put down her paintbrush and gave me a hug. “It was nice to see you again, Felix. You take care of yourself.”

  She didn’t look at Astrid. She just turned back to her painting without another word.

  Astrid was right. Living in the Westfalia for the month of August was a blast, once I got over the initial disappointment that we wouldn’t get to travel much. Astrid figured that out the first time we had to fill up the tank with gas. It cost, as Astrid said, an arm and a leg. “I’m sorry, Böna.” This is another of her nicknames for me; it means “bean” in Swedish. “But think of all the beautiful places we can visit in and around Vancouver! Grouse Mountain, Stanley Park, Wreck Beach—”

  “Not Wreck Beach!” Wreck Beach is famous for being “clothing optional.”
Astrid used to take me there when I was little. It was fine when I was five, but now that I was twelve, you couldn’t pay me enough.

  “Fine. Prude. I’m just saying, there are lots of great places.”

  And there were. We stayed in Stanley Park. We treated ourselves to a drive up Highway 99, and paid for camping at Alice Lake. We stayed in Lighthouse Park. Nobody bothered us. It really was like having a long summer vacation right in our own city. We spent our days swimming, hiking and reading. We were seldom far from a library. I read books like A Short History of Progress and A Little History of the World, and classics like Great Expectations. Astrid set up her easel outside and painted. The nights were warm, and we hooked the mesh tarp to the back of the van to let in air but not bugs. I could look through the skylight from my upper bunk to the stars.

  Even though the only degree Astrid ever got is from the Ontario College of Art and Design, she is highly educated; before she landed at OCAD, she was in university for five years and switched her major three times. As she puts it, she knows “a little about a lot.” She taught me how to find the zodiac signs in the sky. She told me stories from Roman, Greek and Norse mythology. I learned about Odin and Thor, and Venus and Neptune and Zeus and Apollo.

  There was no Abelard. No angry landlord. No school. No Marsha.

  It was wonderful.

  Dare I say it was even a little bit magical?

  * * *

  —