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Back No Going Back: a Novel Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Part 1
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. Part 2
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. Part 3
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. Part 4
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. Part 5
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. 55
  63. 56
  64. 57
  65. 58
  66. Part 6
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. 69
  78. 70
  79. 71
  80. 72
  81. Acknowledgments
  82. About the Author
  83. Also by Sheena Kamal
  84. About the Publisher

Do people suddenly give a shit about independent artists? I’m as surprised as anyone.

The bus sputters on the highway, and for a moment my fellow passengers are jolted into a collective prayer that we won’t break down here, not when we’re so close to our destination.

I don’t know their reasons for the journey, but mine are pure and decent, for once. I may have lied about the laryngitis, but everything else is depressingly true. I am on my way to see the daughter I’d given up for adoption as an infant, Bonnie. She’s seventeen now. We have not had much of a relationship up until this point, but I’m hoping to change that. I have made sacrifices to cross the border from America into Toronto to see her and to explain that the decision to let her go was made from a place of hurt. But I want to try to have a relationship now. If she’ll let me.

The radio host comes on after the song finishes and informs the listening audience that the man on the record is one Nate Marlowe, a soul singer who is lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life from a gunshot wound. A bullet struck him in the lung. Various complications have left him in critical condition. Nobody knows if he will make it, but the country seems invested in his recovery.

A young black man lost to senseless violence, says the host.

Far too good-looking to die so young, implies his cohost.

The authorities have apprehended two young gang members who, it is suspected, went to Nate’s house with the intention of killing another person. He was a casualty in someone else’s vendetta. They think the female singer on the hook and the second verse was the real target of the hit. It annoys me, but they’re right to speculate. She was the target. Nate Marlowe got in the way of a bullet meant for her heart.

I know this because the mystery woman on the record is me.

I check the urge to look behind me because the instinct is getting ridiculous now. It almost got my cavities inspected back at that station.

Toronto is an ugly city, I think, as we drive through it. Better-looking than Detroit, but it can’t compare in any way to Vancouver, which is the city where I parked my dog, Whisper. She’s in good hands, but they’re not mine, and I can feel her longing for me through the miles that separate us. I can’t wait to return to her, even going so far as to imagine our reunion and that silky patch of fur behind her ears.

What I don’t imagine is the reunion that I’m about to have with Bonnie.

My daughter.

Jesus.

Here goes.

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