Forward Me Back to You Read online

  The girl in the film stops talking. Brushes the back of her hand over the upper half of her blurry face.

  Fury rips through Kat like a California wildfire. It’s so fierce it makes her forget her nausea. What kind of Wolves do this to children? The most rabid, repulsive canine of all. The kind you fight to the death.

  ROBIN

  Sandwiched between his parents, Robin watches the video, horrified and spellbound at the same time. The blurry-faced girl in the film bends over and picks a white, starry flower. Holding it gently by the stem so her fingers don’t damage the petals, she shows it to the camera. And then she starts talking again, as if the flower gives her courage to finish her story.

  In all that time when I was a prisoner, I thought if I could see my mother’s face again, I would know I wasn’t forgotten by God. That my punishment was over. Now I had seen her face, but still I was suffering. I cried to God. Help me! Don’t you see me? I am your child.

  Robin finds himself praying the words along with the girl on the screen.

  God heard my prayer! She throws her arms open. One yellow sleeve to the left. One to the right, fingers still holding the stem of the tiny white flower. The police brought me to Asha House. Here, I am safe. I am improving in sewing so I can get a job and send money to my mother. And I am getting counseling. So that I can heal on the inside.

  The girl in the film drops the white flower into her palm. I am starting to feel better. Like myself again. But also new and fresh. Like this flower in my hand. Best of all, I am getting better at speaking English. Listen!

  The translated words stop scrolling across the screen.

  “I am better at speaking English!” her lilting, chirpy voice says. “Do you see my beautiful flower?”

  Robin can hear laughing somewhere in the background as the music begins to play again. The flower weaves and dances closer to the camera until the girl’s open palm fills the whole screen. The dancing flower is five-petaled and pearly white; Robin can almost smell the fragrance of it.

  It’s over. The lights come on. The screen goes up.

  Mom’s dabbing her cheeks with a tissue and Dad uses another one to blow his nose.

  PG asks the members of the service team to come up front.

  That’s me, Robin realizes with a start. He follows Kat up the stairs.

  KAT

  Going to India for college essay material? Going to India to pay Mom back for sending her to Boston? Those are trivial, selfish reasons to Kat now. She wants to meet the Canary. She’s going to help her fight Wolves.

  As she follows Gracie up the stairs to the pulpit, Kat automatically shifts her body into BJJ mode—tall, strong, and fierce. Suddenly, she notices that Bird Boy is behind her. So he’s definitely going to India. Interesting.

  Behind the pulpit, she towers over both of them and PG, too, feeling like the Salesforce building in the San Francisco skyline. Curious stares check out her hair, skin, body, and clothes, and she quickly secures her Lion face in place. What do these Jesus-y people think of her?

  “You all know Robin and most of you know Gracie, but this is Kat, who’s visiting Ms. Vee for a while from California,” says PG. “We’re thrilled she’ll be joining us for the trip. Let’s show her some love, shall we?”

  The congregation bursts into applause.

  For Kat.

  They’re applauding her. One hundred or so faces are smiling up at her like she’s a gift sent to them from heaven above. There’s even a “woo-hoo” shouted in her direction and a loud hurrah or two.

  Filhote disappears. She can’t help it: Kat, the real Kat, smiles back.

  Ash’s father comes up again to join them. “I think we were all moved by that film, PG. How can we support you guys?”

  “The usual,” answers PG. “Money.”

  Laughter. “Tell us something new,” a voice calls from the pews.

  “At least I’m consistent,” PG says. “But, seriously, we do need your prayers. We don’t want to do any harm to these already hurting children. Pray for us to have humility and wisdom. As I told you before, we’re going to learn and serve, not to ‘fix’ or ‘save.’ I’ll be teaching Greek and Hebrew, and I’m sure my friend Arjun will help these three find their own acts of service.”

  “Wonderful! It’s going to be expensive, so dig deep, people,” Ash’s father tells the congregation. “These folks are traveling all the way to India.”

  “The money’s mostly for air tickets,” PG adds quickly. “Once we get there, we’ll be living with the locals as guests. No touristy five-star hotels or fancy restaurants, we promise. We’ll probably be eating rice and lentils most of the time.” He pats his stomach. “I might even lose a few pounds.”

  “You’re just right the way you are, PG!” An older man calls out his affirmation in a shaky voice.

  The congregation laughs again.

  “That’s good to hear,” says PG. “But we’re all flawed, aren’t we? Will you promise to pray for us?”

  “Yes!”

  “You bet!”

  “We’ve got your backs!”

  “We’re on it!”

  When the congregation finally settles down, Ash’s father flings an arm around PG’s shoulders. “Let’s pray for Pastor Greg’s waistline and the team’s other needs, shall we?”

  He closes his eyes and starts talking as if God’s face is on the inside of his eyelids.

  Gracie reaches out to take Kat’s hand.

  Kat doesn’t pull away.

  ROBIN

  INT. THORNTON HOUSE—NIGHT

  While he’s brushing his teeth, Robin’s phone plays the harp music that signals a message from Gracie: That film! I’m still crying.

  Powerful, he texts back. That’s an understatement. For some reason, hearing that girl’s story felt like someone poured petroleum on Robin’s hope. It’s now on fire.

  Another harp chord. I’m so excited to see the place where you were born. You might even have relatives there, right?

  He guesses that she’s sub-asking if he’s decided to search, but for now he doesn’t want to share that with anybody other than his parents. Not yet. Not even Gracie.

  Maybe, he texts. See you Thursday. PG wants to start some “training” he’s got planned.

  KK. Twenty pink hearts. She doesn’t push it. Robin loves that about her. Three flashing dots tells him she’s still thumbing, so he rinses out his mouth and waits. Here it comes. Your church is so friendly. I’d come more often on Sunday mornings but I don’t like to miss Mass.

  So’s yours, he answers. He’s visited the big Catholic cathedral where the Riveras worship; it is welcoming. He adds a cross and a waving brown face. He’s not an emoji kind of guy, but when it comes to texting Gracie, sad, confused, happy, laughing, or shocked tiny face symbols flow out as if they have minds of their own.

  KAT

  INT. GUEST BEDROOM, GRANDMA VEE’S APARTMENT—NIGHT

  He’s pinning her to the wall with a hand on her throat. She tries to break his grasp, but she doesn’t have enough strength in her body. She’s prey to the predator.

  Kat sits up screaming, drenched in sweat.

  In no time, she hears the sound of Grandma Vee’s walker rolling down the hall.

  Oh, no. I woke her up. And now she’s going to find me like this. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, taking breaths to try and slow her heart rate.

  The door opens. Leaving her walker outside, Grandma Vee treads softly inside and sits on the bed beside her houseguest. She turns on the bedside lamp. Kat braces herself for questions, but they don’t come. Instead, Grandma Vee puts an old bird arm around Kat’s shoulder and they sit side by side in silence.

  It’s the unspoken aura of love that does Kat in. Breaking away from the embrace, Kat throws herself facedown on the bed and buries her face in her pillow.

  And then she starts to cry.

  Somewhere in the back of her head, the dispassionate feline version of herself watches in disgust. Katina King never c
ries. Not during or after the attack. Not when she faced the committee and told them what happened in that stairwell.

  But she can’t stop, no matter how hard the Filhote inside fights for composure.

  What a loser, she thinks. She can hardly breathe, crying into the pillow, but she doesn’t want to move it.

  Suddenly, she’s aware again of Grandma Vee’s quiet presence. One hand starts stroking Kat’s hair, the other is patting her shoulder. The old woman is humming in a low, deep voice, off-key as usual. She sounds like she’s strolling in a garden, not trying to comfort a sobbing, shaking wreck of a human being.

  But … it’s working.

  The Ibis’s deep, low breaths, soft humming, and gentle touch are steadying and calming Kat. The true Kat. The hidden one.

  Soon, it feels like she can breathe again. After a while longer, the tears slow and then stop altogether. Kat pulls her face out of the pillow, sits up, shifts herself to the edge of the bed, and looks into eyes that are as dark and soft as the weathered skin on Grandma Vee’s face.

  “Tell me about it, darling?” Grandma Vee asks, taking her hand and pulling it into her lap.

  And then, before any version of Kat can stop herself, the truth comes pouring out.

  Her companion listens, clasping Kat’s hand inside both of her own worn palms, as Kat blurts out everything that happened, from start to finish.

  When Kat’s done, Grandma Vee still doesn’t say anything. At least not to Kat. She starts talking to the Sparrow instead. Out loud. Eyes open. Head up, looking straight ahead. As if he’s standing in the room in front of them.

  “Jesus, enter the memory in this child’s soul. Heal her pain. Jesus, hear our prayer.” She stops, waits. Then prays that again. Stops. Waits. And again.

  After a third time through this strange routine, she turns to Kat. “Go back to sleep, child. All is well.”

  Suddenly, Kat’s so tired she can’t sit up anymore. The pillow feels soft and cool under her cheek. Her eyes close.

  Grandma Vee tucks the sheets around Kat’s curled-up body.

  Drops a kiss on her cheek.

  After switching off the lamp, leaves the room.

  Kat’s not sure if it’s the kiss or the prayer, but her heart feels cleaner, lighter, like some unseen vomit’s been flushed away. She drifts off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  ROBIN

  INT. METROWEST HIGH SCHOOL AUTOMOTIVE ENGINEERING DEPARTMENT—DAY

  Robin enters the warehouse where he’s taken every automotive elective the school offers. First period of the day and he’s early as usual, like all the car-loving students enrolled in Mr. Grant’s advanced automotive engineering class.

  Aaaahh. Bliss. Hydraulic lifts, loud air compressors, and the smell of brake fluid. Scattered around the room are other Metrowest High students he’s known for years.

  Kumiko the exchange student waves at him from the back. “Robin! Come and learn how we change a battery the Tokyo way.”

  Robin glances around. There’s as much mixing and mingling across boundaries in here as at Martin’s lunch table. Maybe that’s why he likes it so much.

  Along with the cars, of course.

  Kumiko adores big American pickup trucks. Darnell knows everything about German engines. There’s also “Luxury” Louis, who’s broke but plans to own a Tesla one day. Katie with the small, deft fingers likes complicated rewiring.

  And Robin Thornton, who’s been secretly longing for two years to bring a 1974 Volkswagen Bug back into commission. He pictures the car: small, rusting, hiding so much potential.

  “What do you guys think about me buying an old Beetle?” he calls out. “I’m about to do it.”

  They stop what they’re doing and gather around him, wiping their hands on already greasy rags and placing spark plugs and screwdrivers on the table.

  “Dubs are great cars,” says Darnell. “Nothing like the sound of that air-cooled, four-cylinder engine once it’s running at peak.”

  “Are replacement parts expensive?” asks Katie.

  “What about aftermarket parts?” adds Kumiko. She likes extra decor like elaborate silvery hubcaps.

  “The ’74 Beetle was Volkswagen’s highest production model of all time, so parts aren’t a problem,” Robin tells them.

  “Why not a Tesla?” asks Louis. “Your family could afford one of those, right? That Corvette you drive is worth a ton.”

  Their auto teacher saunters into the warehouse. “What’s up, people?”

  “Robin’s thinking of restoring a ’74 Beetle,” Darnell says.

  Mr. Grant shakes his head. “That’s a HUGE project. You’re going to be cutting metal, sourcing replacement parts, doing welding, hammer and dolly work, moving steel. Plus, mechanical and electrical work. Oh, and paint. Maybe even upholstery.”

  “Sounds like a lot of money,” says Louis. “Told you, Robin. Might end up being more expensive than a Tesla in the long run.”

  “Plus, a lot can go wrong every step of the way,” says Mr. Grant. “Use too much heat when you’re working on the steel, and you’ll warp the panels. Rotten floorboards under the battery tray, rust in the bottom of the A-pillar where it attaches to the channel, rust in wheel wells, badly repaired damage from collisions. Why in the world are you thinking about this car, Robin?”

  “I want it,” Robin answers, keeping it simple. “I love it.”

  KAT

  INT. MUSEUM OF FINE ARTS, BOSTON—DAY

  Kat’s next “field trip” is to the Museum of Fine Arts, where Grandma Vee buys postcards of eight reproductions and waits in the café for Kat to track down the real pieces and write her responses to them on the postcards. When Kat gets back, she’s not at all surprised to find Grandma Vee chatting with the barista, who has to wipe away tears before shaking Kat’s hand.

  “Making strangers cry again, Grandma Vee?” Kat asks as the woman turns away to fill their order.

  “Nobody’s a stranger after they cry. Let’s see those postcards.”

  “I never cry,” Kat says, handing them over.

  Grandma Vee gives her a side-eye.

  “Or at least I never used to. Before I met you.”

  “Tears are from God, Kat,” Grandma Vee says. “When the time’s right—even if you do cry some more—you might want to share your journey with a couple of friends. Gracie’s a quality girl. And you and Robin could be a great encouragement to each other. He’s had his losses, too.”

  “Maybe.” And maybe not. Telling a grandmother is one thing, but letting people her own age know about her surrender? That demographic’s never been a safe place to hold Kat’s secrets.

  Grandma Vee’s reading Kat’s three-line response to artist Kara Walker’s mural The Rich Soil Down There. That was a tough one for Kat, but she stayed in front of it for a long time, taking the story in. Women carrying women who don’t see them, she wrote. Devil man reaches to grab, take, pillage, loot. Suffering of my sisters, building the American South.

  “Take me to see this one, Kat,” Grandma Vee says, looking up. “You really think I make people cry?”

  “You’re a master.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a gift.”

  “If I put you in a superhero movie, I’d name you something mystical like ‘Keeper of the Inner Springs.’”

  This makes Grandma Vee chuckle. “Makes me sound like a mattress seller.”

  Kat giggles, too. “Your character could sell really uncomfortable mattresses. Anyone who sleeps on one starts sobbing.”

  Grandma Vee’s guffawing now. “Bedbugs no charge,” she says, between gasps.

  The barista comes up with their cappuccinos, and even though she’s not in on the joke, she starts laughing, too.

  ROBIN

  INT. THORNTON HOUSE—NIGHT

  Mike sells Robin the Beetle for what it will cost to transport it to the Thornton house.

  “Doesn’t have too many working parts left, anyway,” he says. “I haven’t had the heart to send it to the dump. It
used to be a beautiful car. You sure you want it now, before your trip?”

  “Send it over in a few days. Thanks, Mike.”

  Robin stops by the grocery store after work. He knows how to cook only one meal: spaghetti with sauce from a jar. Garlic bread. And a Caesar salad for dummies that comes with all the ingredients. He also buys a gift bag and tissue paper.

  Mom comes home first. “Yum,” she says, lifting the lid off the skillet where the sauce is simmering. “This is just what I need. I’m going to shower and wash the court germs away. Dad just texted; he’s at the station now.”

  Robin sets the round teak table in the dining room with heirloom china, crystal candlestick holders, linen napkins.

  Dad comes home and raises his eyebrows. “Fancy. Reminds me of my grandmother. We always ate here when she was in charge. More big news to tell us?”

  “I guess you could say that. Plus, I just wanted to … say thanks, I guess. With graduation coming and all.”

  “You’re growing up, kiddo.”

  Dad adds wineglasses to his and Mom’s settings and turns on some jazz. Mom comes down, smelling like lavender soap, and she and Dad kiss. Robin watches them as he tosses the salad. His parents have provided a great life for him—happy home, everything he needed materially, unconditional love, a church family that supports and adores him. He’s grateful for all that. He loves them. And he still wants to search. For him, it’s a both-and, not an either-or.

  He loads up their plates, and Mom says grace. Dad takes a big bite of spaghetti and fakes a bad Italian accent. “Tastes a-just-a like-a they useta make-a in the old country.”

  Mom’s one-quarter Italian. “Ugh! Stop,” she says, but Robin can tell she’s trying not to smile.