At least, I don’t think she did—not what she would have considered lying, anyway. The thing about my mother was that she always loved a good story, right up until the day she died, tucked under my grandmother’s wedding quilt on the chesterfield in the airless and darkened front room. She simply believed in a little embellishment, a little bending of the rules. She believed in constant and impromptu revision to keep things interesting. It was a family trait that ended, apparently, with her. I would try sometimes, at her urging, to produce an adequately dramatized version of some dry bit of information I’d learned at school, something from history or science class, even bits of gossip I was privy to in the girls’ washroom. I tried to recreate these stories the way my mother did, vividly, punching life and colour into everything; but I always ended up losing my place, confusing details, forgetting that I should have provided a vital fact sooner—No, wait a minute, there were actually two Indians waiting around the bend, and one was really tired, or, no, he was sick, really really sick, and it was dark out, I should of said it was dark, and one of the Indians, well, no, let me go back a bit.
