Feathered

by Deborah Kerbel

  Mrs. Nanda doesn’t answer. I guess at this point, what is there to say anyway? More than anything, I want Mom to be right — like she’s been right about nearly everything my whole life. She has to be right about getting Pinky and Padma back. Because I can’t even begin to understand how they might go away forever. How can two little kids be here one day and gone the next?

  A few minutes later, the car slows to a crawl, the zipping between lanes comes to a stop, and I hear Mom muttering something under her breath about “damn rush-hour traffic.” I don’t say a word because Mom seems so focused on getting to the airport, I think she’s forgotten I’m even here, and I’m not sure I want to remind her in case she’s ready to yell at me about it now. I sit like a statue, skin sticking to the vinyl and eyes flicking between the dashboard clock and the little yellow light that’s just come on next to the steering wheel. I know that light means we’re close to running out of gas. But neither Mom nor Mrs. Nanda is saying a word about it. Because if we do run out of gas, we’ll never make it, and that’s way too scary to say out loud. My thoughts flash back to those poor baby birds in the nest and how horrible it felt when I couldn’t stop Matt from hurting them. I can’t even imagine how much more horrible it would feel if we can’t help Mrs. Nanda get Pinky and Padma back. Mrs. Nanda’s eyes are closed and her hands are clasped over her heart. I remember the day I saw her praying in front of that little gold statue in her living room. I wonder if she’s praying now. I wonder if I should pray, too. The only time I ever tried praying was when Daddy was dying. And it didn’t do any good. But I think I’m going to give it a try one more time.

  Right now. Just in case.

  I close my eyes to pray because that seems to be how it’s done. And like I said before, sometimes it’s easier to be brave when you don’t have to watch what’s in front of you. I run my fingertips over my feather scar and think my most powerful thoughts. And maybe this time my prayer does do some good, because when we get off the highway, the traffic is clear and Mom picks up speed again. I know we must be close to the airport now ’cause there are big white planes flying over our heads. The gas light seems to be glowing brighter than ever. But the engine hasn’t cut out yet.

  “Almost there,” Mom says, veering off toward a sign that reads Airport Road. I’m so nervous, my head is spinning. Every time she brakes, the engine makes a clunking noise, and I imagine I’m hearing the airplane door closing behind Pinky and Padma. And every time she turns a corner, the tires screech and I imagine I’m hearing my friend crying for her mom. When we finally pull up at the airport, Mom parks the car in front of the British Airways sign and the three of us jump out and run inside. I’ve never been inside an airport before, so I don’t even know where to start looking. But Mom and Mrs. Nanda stop in front of a big black board with lots of numbers on it.

  “There!” Mrs. Nanda says, pointing to a row of numbers near the top. “British Airways flight to London. Gate 21. We only have twenty minutes!”

  The two of them start running toward the gate, and I follow as fast as I can in my flip-flops. I trip a couple of times but somehow manage to keep up. I’m starting to think we’re going to make it, when suddenly the three of us get stopped by a long line of people waiting to walk through a metal detector.

  Mom groans, checking her watch. Mrs. Nanda twists her bracelets around and around her thin wrist. She bites her lip as she watches the line slowly inch forward.

  “Come on, come on,” Mom says, bouncing up and down on her heels like she’s ready to take a giant leap over the heads of the people in front of us.

  “Are we going to make it on time?” I ask, grabbing on to her arm.

  Mom just shrugs and shakes her head. I’m not sure if that means yes or no, but I don’t think I should ask again. I wonder where Detective Kroon is. Didn’t he say he’d be here? I stand on my tiptoes, trying to count how many people are in line ahead of us. Just beyond the metal detector, I can see a white sign with black letters pointing down a long hallway. The sign says To Gates 15–30.

  Gate 21 must be right down there.

  Without stopping to think, I duck under someone’s elbow and sneak my way up to the front of the line. “Finch!” I hear Mom call out from behind me. But I don’t slow down for a second. Before anybody can stop me, I’m slipping through the metal detector. And now I’m tearing down the long hall to Gate 21.

  “Finch!”

  All I can think about is getting to Pinky and Padma in time. I trip and fall over my flip-flops once more. These stupid shoes aren’t meant for running. So I pull them off and run the rest of the way barefoot. As I reach Gate 21, I spot Mr. Nanda standing with the girls. He’s handing tickets to a lady in a blue suit. My heart stops.

  “Pinky!” I scream, racing ahead.

  She doesn’t turn around, but Mr. Nanda must have heard me because he glances quickly over his shoulder, then takes each girl by the hand and pulls them toward the mouth of a dark hallway. “Pinky!” I scream again, just as Mom, Mrs. Nanda and Detective Kroon catch up. This time, Pinky stops walking and turns her head. Her big brown eyes connect with mine. And then her mother’s. And then she pulls away and dashes toward us. Mr. Nanda calls after her, but Pinky doesn’t stop until she’s in her mother’s arms. She’s crying and I’m crying and Mrs. Nanda is holding on to her like she’s never going to let her go. There’s shouting everywhere, and Mom’s arms come around me. I hold on so tight, I’m sure I must be hurting her, but I can’t stop myself. And I don’t know where they came from, but suddenly there’s a swarm of policemen there with us at Gate 21.

  My eyes are blurry with tears, but not so blurry that I can’t see Detective Kroon carrying a wailing Padma back to her mother. And behind him, I see Mr. Nanda being led away in handcuffs. His eyes connect with mine as he passes. They’re teary, too. I turn my face back into the shelter of Mom’s arms.

  I think I should be angry at him for trying to steal Pinky and Padma away. But I just feel sad.

  CHAPTER 16

  October 1980

  Pinky and Padma’s photo got on the front page of the newspaper, just like Terry Fox. There was a big story about them and how they were almost kidnapped by their father. The newspaper mentioned Detective Kroon and even included a small photo of me and some words about how I helped. For a couple of days, I felt famous. All of a sudden, kids who had been ignoring me for almost a year started talking to me again. Just because I was in the newspaper. When Pinky came back to school a few days later, they asked for her autograph. She got so much attention, she was like a movie star. Even awful Matt didn’t dare call her another bad name.

  A few days after the whole kerfuffle was finished, Mom finally sent me next door with that long-overdue casserole. Mom’s been cooking a little bit more lately, which makes me happy. In return, Mrs. Nanda sent Mom and me and Harrison an invitation to come for tea. This time when I rang their doorbell, Pinky answered right away.

  She and Padma don’t have their father home with them anymore. Kind of like me, but different. Pinky said she cries about her dad sometimes. She misses him badly, even though she knows he made a big mistake. Her mother’s looking for a job, too. And I heard Mom saying she’d help her find one. I’m going to keep my eyes open also. After all, I was the one who found Mom a job, right?

  Pinky’s still going to school, but Mrs. Nanda walks her there and picks her up every day. I walk with them, and sometimes she’s allowed to come over to my house and play in the afternoon. And sometimes I’m allowed to go over there. We make sunbonnets out of T-shirts and play Little House on the Prairie, and we pretend we’re Mary and Laura, but both of us want to be Laura, so we have to take turns. Sometimes we do homework together. And sometimes she helps me practice my writing and spelling. But we always make it fun so it doesn’t feel anything like school.

  Last night I woke up and the moon was in my window. It was shining so big, for a second I thought I must
be looking at the sun. And so bright, my room lit up like a summer day. It made me feel hot, so I kicked off my quilt and let it drop to the floor.

  That’s when I noticed them. My feathers. They’d grown in. White and soft and curling over every inch of me like a layer of rabbit fur. I stood up and stretched, and saw that my arms were wings. So I climbed onto my window ledge, pushed out my screen and flew up toward that big bright moon. I flew so far and so fast, I knew I might never find my way back. But that didn’t stop me or even slow me down. I flew over a wide black ocean. I flew over a long gray road that stretched across flat land like a ribbon over a box. I flew over a thick forest and through a narrow tunnel, toward a bright light that wasn’t the moon or even the sun. And that’s where I finally found Daddy.

  “Finch,” he said, smiling like he knew all along I’d be coming. He looked healthy and strong, just the way he used to look before he got sick. And he had beautiful white wings, too, just like mine. He took my feathered hand in his and we flew together until the big bright moon melted back into the sky. And then he stopped and told me I couldn’t fly any farther. “It’s time to go, Finch,” he said.

  I clung to his hand. “No, I want to stay with you, Daddy.”

  “I can’t let you do that,” he said softly. “You need to go back to Mom and Harrison. They need you.” And he kissed me and told me I’m going to be okay. Then he turned me around and sent me back home.

  This morning I’m back in my bed and my feathers are all gone. And I guess it must have been a dream, and I’m sad for a bit. But it makes me think about how Pinky and Padma almost flew away to the other side of the world. And how close I came to never seeing them again. I turn toward the window, run a finger over my scar and think about everything that’s happened in the past few weeks. How I got my old mom back. And how I stood up to awful Matt. And how I found a new friend. And how maybe I don’t really need the rest of my feathers to grow in, after all.

  This afternoon, Mom gets a call from somebody important in the government. I don’t remember what his name is or the job he has, but he tells Mom that there’s a big meeting happening in a city called The Hague, in Holland. The people at the meeting are talking about how to prevent “international child abduction” (which Mom says is fancy talk for when kids are stolen away from the country they live in by one of their parents). The man from the government saw the article in the newspaper, and he wants me and Pinky to go and tell our story about what almost happened that day at the airport. He says we’ll be talking in front of really important people — ones who can help stop the same thing from happening to other kids around the world. Mom and Harrison and Mrs. Nanda and Padma would come, too. And we’d all go on the airplane together.

  Mom tells him that she’ll talk to me about it and call him back.

  “So what do you think, Finch?” she asks after she hangs up the phone. “Holland is a long way away. Do you want to go?”

  Of course, I say yes.

  I always knew I had it in me to fly.

  Author’s Note

  The Hague Convention on the Civil Aspects of International Child Abduction was created to help return children who have been wrongfully removed from their home country by one of their parents. The proceedings on the convention concluded on October 25, 1980, and entered into force between the member nations on December 1, 1983.

  The three original signing nations were Canada, France and Portugal.

  Today, over ninety nations are members of the convention.

  For more information, go to www.hcch.net.

  Acknowledgments

  Firstly, I’d like to thank Yasemin Uçar, Yvette Ghione, Lisa Lyons, Semareh Al-Hillal and the rest of the incredible team at Kids Can Press for their passion and dedication to this story.

  Many thanks to my awesome band of first readers: Gordon Pape, Shirley Pape, Kim Pape-Green, Samina Akhtar, Mahtab Narsimhan, Helaine Becker, Simone Spiegel, Tova Rich and Christie Harkin. Thanks also to super-agent Sarah Heller for her wisdom and advice.

  I’m very grateful to the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for their generous support of this project.

  And finally, hugs and heartfelt thanks to my sweet family — Jordy, Jonah and Dahlia — for their love, enthusiasm, humor and unabashed honesty. Always and forever!

  DEBORAH KERBEL was born in London, England, but moved to Canada before she was old enough to cultivate a posh accent or a love of marmalade. She grew up in Toronto, Ontario, with her parents, a sister, a brother and a beagle named Snoopy. A finalist for the 2012 Governor General’s Literary Award, Deborah is the author of six novels for young adult and middle grade readers. She lives in Thornhill, Ontario, with her husband and two book-loving children.