by Varsha Bajaj
“Has Mr. C seen the heart memorial?” he asks.
“Only in pictures,” I say.
“So let’s ask your dad to take him there on the way home,” Chris says, and we high-five at his brilliant idea.
Then I have an aha moment. “That’s where the poster needs to be,” I say.
“OMG! Why did we even bother with the art gallery?” Chris says. “Let’s do it!”
Chris and I make plans, and I tell him I will let him know the time frame for Papa’s arrival at the memorial after I confirm everything with my dad.
I can feel the excitement building now. This will be the homecoming Papa deserves.
Papa already knows about the tree memorial—he got teary-eyed when I filled him in on it, and said, “You have good friends, Karina. Hold on to them.”
“Papa,” I told him, “it’s as much for you as it is for me.”
“I want to thank every one of them for making me feel like I belong,” he said. “Do you know how long it took to feel like this was truly my country? It feels good to be told over and over again that I do belong.”
So, yes, Papa needs to see the tree on his way home.
I call Dad, who is not sure at first. Fortunately, Mom picks up the phone and says, “Jay, he will feel good. It will help him to slowly forget the hate he received before. You can pull up in the car right next to the memorial.”
I am so happy when Dad agrees and says they will probably arrive at the tree a little after five. Papa, he reports, is full of energy and excited to be going home.
Then Mom calls Mrs. Kumar, who calls a few other friends, and they all agree to meet us at the tree.
I post a picture of the WELCOME HOME, PAPA! sign and write: Papa comes home today. I want him to see all the flowers and messages that you all have placed on the tree near school. We are going to take him there around 5:00 pm. I want him to feel the love #SayNoToHate, #HateHasNoHomeHere, #WeBelong, #CountMeIn.
Matt drives us and the poster to the memorial to wait for Papa.
Chris and I tidy up the flowers. We make sure there is nothing hateful around. I know there will always be Quinns and other haters in the world, but I won’t tolerate it right now.
Ashley, Diego, and Trevor arrive. We marvel at the number of green heart leaves people have hung on the tree.
Mom comes with Mrs. Kumar and a few other friends. There are now about ten of us. I take pictures.
We lean the collage up against the tree.
Mom studies it once again and smiles. Her beaming face is like the rainbow after a stormy afternoon day. Then she brushes away tears.
Ashley takes a picture. Our little party of supporters is ready for Papa.
CHAPTER 30
CHRIS
INVITE THEM, AND they will come.
A little before five, cars and bikes start rolling in. Even with all the attention that her posts have gotten, Karina didn’t expect this kind of turnout.
There are kids from school and our neighborhood who know Karina and me—and tons of others who don’t but still want to show they have our backs.
My parents show up with flowers.
Ms. Trotter comes with shiny balloons. Anne Maxwell arrives with her husband. Even Riley from the art gallery shows up.
Everyone’s drawn to Karina’s poster. So many of the people who posted pictures with the #CountMeIn hashtag are here today, and they look and find themselves in the collage.
Karina walks around thanking them all.
The crowd continues to grow.
“Wow, that’s Papa’s senior-citizen group from the temple,” Karina says, pointing to a group of older men and women who are walking toward us. Her mom rushes over to greet them.
“It’s been just over two weeks since that day, and it was around this time,” I say to Karina.
She nods. “So much has changed, hasn’t it?”
“For sure.” The time might be the same as that day when hate blindsided us, but nothing else is similar. Today, we’re surrounded by only good people.
At five fifteen, Karina begins to worry. “Chris,” she says. “Why aren’t they here yet?”
I can see her mom looking anxiously at her watch too. Karina calls her dad, and the phone rings and rings and then goes to voicemail.
“Karina,” I say, “your dad never answers the phone when he’s driving.”
And, sure enough, a minute later we see his car drive up—followed by a TV news van.
Karina’s dad parks, pops the trunk, and takes out a walker. The TV news van parks, and the videographer positions himself in minutes.
Karina’s dad and my dad help Mr. Chopra out of the car. He leans on his walker and looks stunned—by the people, the hearts, the love. While he has known about the attention his story has received, he was isolated in rehab. He was probably focused more on being able to live and stand and walk.
Slowly Mr. C walks over to the tree.
He calls me and Karina to his side. We stand on either side of him. The original three friends.
The camera phones click.
Mr. C examines the poster closely, pointing in wonderment to the people he knows. He points to his own picture in the middle of the poster, in the heart of the map. “Me?” he says.
Karina smiles at him. “Yes, you!” she says.
Mr. C seems to be searching for the right words. He shakes his head as if he can’t believe this is happening.
Then he begins to speak to the crowd. “Thank you for making me feel like I belong. I am an immigrant, and India will always be dear to me. But I have lived in this country for fifty years—I made a home, raised my family, and paid taxes.”
People chuckle.
“I am an old man. I have learned that there are people who do good things and some who do bad. It has nothing to do with your religion or skin color. I am lucky to be surrounded by all you good people.”
Karina has tears in her eyes, and I feel like I might start bawling.
“I am proud to be an American,” Mr. C continues in a shaky voice. “I don’t know hashtags and social media, but . . . Karina, how do you say it?”
Karina says, “Count me in.”
“Count me in,” he says.
Someone says, “I belong. You belong.”
Someone else says, “Say no to hate.”
Then someone repeats, “Count me in.”
And one by one, people echo, “Count me in,” till that is all we can hear.
CHAPTER 31
KARINA
THAT EVENING, WE celebrate, even though we all know Papa still has a long road to regaining his strength ahead.
We don’t let the anonymous haters on the internet stop us from admiring the collage and taking a photo. I post a picture of it and tag it #AllOfUs, #America, #StrongerTogether.
That evening, Mom lines up flour, butter, sugar, and eggs—just like on a cooking show—and bakes a cake. Not any old cake, but the one from Grandma’s recipe that Papa loves. The cake we were supposed to bake when Chris got an A and my picture was accepted in the art gallery, but Papa’s homecoming is more special than any of that.
I whip the cream to beautiful stiff, frothy peaks. When the cake is done, Mom will frost it and I will pile it high with berries.
And I really can’t believe it when Mom says, “Who wants dessert for dinner?”
What? What? What?
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” I say.
When the cake is ready, we sit outside under a starry sky with our dinner-size slices.
For a moment, when I see the strawberries, I am reminded of the splattered ones from that day.
And it’s as if Papa reads my mind. Softly, he says, “One berry, two berry.”
Immediately, he transports me to a safer place. Once again, he shows me how to not let fear and anger win.
“One ber
ry, two berry,” I say. “Welcome home, Papa Bear-y.”
“Karina,” Dad says, “I hope you’ve saved that book to read to the baby.”
“No worries. I have,” I say. “It’s a special edition, with a few bonus banana stains.”
As the sky darkens, we all look up at Venus, sparkling like a magical jewel.
Papa points to it and tells Chris, “Maybe when I tutor you tomorrow, we will calculate the distance to Venus, Earth’s sister planet.”
Papa is wasting no time getting back to work, I am happy to see.
“We used to call Venus the evening star,” Papa says. “If I could wish upon it, it would be for continued healing—and a peaceful future with my family and all my new friends.”
“Me too, Papa,” I tell him. “I’m counting on that.”
“I hear you, Mr. C,” Chris says. “And a future with a Lakers versus Rockets game, and more cake-for-dinner parties too.”
Papa’s laugh is loud and deep.
I might have once thought that Chris Daniels and I were separate planets orbiting in the same galaxy, but today I am glad that we are friends wishing upon the same star.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I landed in St. Louis, Missouri, in the fall of 1986 to attend graduate school. In 1987, I remember being at an international student night, which was attended by students from over fifty countries. It was my first exposure to such heady diversity, and I was hooked.
Upon completion of my degree, armed with youthful optimism, I decided to work and stay in St. Louis. I’ve had the good fortune to be raised and nurtured by both India and America.
My husband and I met during those years, and we married in a Hindu ceremony at the nondenominational religious center on the university campus. The center had a glass dome roof etched with the world map. It felt so appropriate and fitting.
Some of my dearest and closest friends are immigrants.
This country has been built by immigrant dreams and has flourished with our ambition.
I write this author’s note a day after an incident has occurred in my own community. A Muslim resident’s house was shot at, and the police are investigating it as a possible hate crime.
The resident shared the experience on the community Facebook page. The response from the community was swift, caring, compassionate, and intolerant of hate. There were offers of prayers. There were offers of support, solidarity, and help. Some wanted to start a fund to help pay for the damage to the house. Among all that support, there was an opinion voiced that reminded me that we have much work to do.
The incidence of hate has risen not just in America but all around the world.
It will take all of us working together to find a way forward, just like Karina and Chris.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While the author’s name appears on the cover, it takes a village to create a book.
Many have helped me in my journey.
My paternal grandfather read Jane Austen sitting on his rocking chair in the verandah at Shanti Niwas. My father introduced me to photography and Indian classical music. My mother inculcated in me the discipline essential to see a project to completion.
I would like to thank a benevolent universe for giving me the opportunity to work with Nancy Paulsen. Her guidance was always gentle and nurturing. Her thoughtful, intelligent, and insightful comments and questions were invaluable.
Sara LaFleur, Elizabeth Johnson, Cindy Howle, and the rest of the team at Penguin, thank you for your attention to every detail. You’re the best.
My critique partners and fellow quiche and scone eaters, Laura Ruthven and Crystal Allen, made me dig deep and wouldn’t let me settle for anything short of the truth. Thank you so much.
My agent, Jill Corcoran, believed in the story and made sure that I told it in a way that held the reader’s interest.
Anne Bustard, my beta reader, dropped everything and made time for me.
Dr. Maya Mayekar, Dr. Nirica Borges, and Dr. Emily Mayekar helped me portray Papa’s injuries realistically.
Law enforcement experts answered my questions with patience.
Eleni Kalorkoti’s cover art captures the spirit of the story.
Cynthia Leitich Smith and Kathi Appelt have encouraged and guided by example over the years.
I owe gratitude to Rajeev, Samir, and Karishma for supporting my passion, and to Scamper, who is by my side every day as I commit words to the page.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Varsha Bajaj (varshabajaj.com) also wrote the picture books The Home Builders and This Is Our Baby, Born Today (a Bank Street Best Book). She grew up in Mumbai, India, and when she came to the United States to obtain her master's degree, her adjustment to the country was aided by her awareness of the culture through books. In addition to her previous pictur books, she wrote the middle-grade novel Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood, which was shortlisted for the Cybils Award and included on the Spirit of Texas Reading Program. She lives in Houston, Texas.
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