The Weight of Our Sky Read online

  I look at Vince despairingly. “How are we going to get her out of here?” I whisper. “We can’t bring her on a motorcycle! And you’re hurt, too.” He waves away the last comment as if it doesn’t matter. I can see his mind turning over possible solutions, but when he finally opens his mouth to speak, I can tell he’s arrived at a conclusion he doesn’t like.

  “We’ll have to ask them for help,” he says.

  “Them?”

  “Them.” He jerks his head toward the outside, and I suddenly realize who he means.

  “Them? You mean the jerks who tried to shoot us?!”

  He shrugs. “They’re guards,” he says. “Their job, first and foremost, is to protect citizens.”

  “That was your idea of them PROTECTING us?”

  “If I just went and explained to them—”

  “Explain?!” All I seem able to do is throw Vince’s words back at him, just at a higher pitch and with a lot more hysterical disbelief behind them. “What if you don’t get the chance to explain?! What if they kill you first?”

  They will, the Djinn whispers, and I tap quickly against my thigh to shut him up.

  “You have a better idea?” he asks me.

  Of course I don’t.

  “I’ll show them my Red Cross badge,” he tells me. “They won’t shoot me. They’ll know I’m trying to help. They probably didn’t see it when we were riding past.” I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince me or himself.

  “Sure,” I say. Because what else can I do?

  I kneel down again, beside the panting woman on the floor. “My name’s Melati,” I tell her, looking her right in the eye. “This is Vincent. What’s your name?”

  She exhales slowly. “Azizah,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “My name is Azizah. My friends call me Jee.”

  “Okay, Jee,” I say, “Vince is going out to get help, and I’ll stay right here with you.”

  She nods, her eyes never leaving my face. Vince turns to go. “I’ll be right back,” he says over his shoulder. Sure you will, the Djinn sneers, and reaches up to grip my heart with his cold, bony fingers.

  “Will he really come back?” Jee whispers in his wake.

  “Of course he will.” I reach for her hand and grasp it, trying to reassure her with my touch.

  She shuts her eyes. “But he’s Chinese,” she says. “Can we really trust him?”

  “I do,” I tell her. “I trust him completely.”

  She subsides, leaning back against the counter and groaning as another wave of pain hits her. But the Djinn doesn’t. You trust him, do you? he says, grinning, his fingers still prodding and poking away at my heart, sending a stab of fear through it with each touch. What’s to stop him from going away and never coming back? What’s to stop him from saving his own skin? Or else, what’s to stop the soldiers from shooting him straight through the head, blasting it right off his body?

  I shudder.

  Best start counting, the Djinn says, tossing my heart lightly up into my throat so that it’s hard to breathe. And so I lift my bowed head, scan the shelves, and begin. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three . . .

  • • •

  Before long, he returns, and I feel my heart wriggling itself out of the Djinn’s grasp and blossoming with joy and relief. But Vince’s face, I notice, is anything but joyful.

  “I can’t get them to come,” he says, flushed and agitated. “They won’t follow me.”

  The woman whimpers, clutching her belly. She’s trying her best to keep calm, not to complain, but her hands are clenched in white-knuckled fists, and beads of sweat are forming on her forehead.

  I try to ignore the Djinn’s yowl of glee and grab Vince by the elbow, leading him away and out of earshot. “Didn’t you tell them it was an emergency?” I keep my voice low, so as not to worry Jee. But I don’t think she can hear us over her own grunts and moans. I don’t think she even sees us, she’s in so much pain.

  “I did, Mel,” he says. “They wouldn’t come.”

  “Why not?”

  “They must have their reasons.”

  “Bloody hell, Vincent, she needs to get to the hospital, and we can’t take her there on a motorcycle! Why didn’t you—”

  “Mel,” Vince interrupts, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “They wouldn’t come no matter what I told them. Because . . . well. Because I am who I am.”

  It’s only then that it dawns on me.

  “Because you’re Chinese.” I say it flatly, without emotion. Because of course that’s why they won’t come. A woman and her unborn child could die at my feet right now because some Malay soldiers won’t pay any attention to a cry for help from a Chinese man. Inside me, the Djinn smiles delightedly, baring his sharp little teeth. Look at all the death you bring with you.

  Vince is looking at me. “Di mana bumi dipijak . . . ,” he says slowly.

  “Huh?”

  “We have to hold up their sky, Mel. Play by their rules.”

  I stare at him, openmouthed. “Are you serious? These are the guys who tried to shoot us!”

  “Because they thought we were both Chinese. But you aren’t. You’re Malay; you’re one of them.”

  “I am NOT one of them!”

  “As far as they know, you are. They’ll help you. They’ll help you get her to the hospital.”

  I shake my head. “No. They’ll never let you come with me. We’ll be separated.”

  “I’ll follow on the bike. I’ll meet you there.”

  My eyes are filling with tears, and I blink them back angrily. Being apart means I won’t be able to keep him safe. Being apart means never knowing what dangers could befall him.

  Being apart means being alone.

  The woman groans, biting her bottom lip so hard that she draws blood. My fingers spasm against my thighs, begging to tap out these anxieties, one by one.

  “I’m not sure I can do this,” I whisper. “They’ll die, and this time you won’t be able to say it isn’t my fault, because it will be, one hundred percent, my fault.”

  Vince exhales noisily, and I can sense his frustration. I can even understand it. I’m frustrated with me too. “Everybody dies, Mel,” he says. “The only real question is when. The truth is that she may die if we stay here and do nothing, or she may live. She may die on the way to the hospital, if we find a way to get her there—or she may live. She may make it to the hospital and die anyway. Or she may live. It’s a game of chance, or destiny, or God’s plan—whichever you believe.” He glances at the woman as she pants, trying hard to control her pain. “At least if we try to get her to the hospital, we know she’ll be with people who know what they’re doing. If we’re her only chance of making it there, why not tip those odds a little more in her favor?”

  You’re going to get them all killed, that familiar rasping voice says, and suddenly, I am filled with white-hot rage. I am tired of being the Djinn’s plaything. I am tired of the constant tapping and counting, tired of my brain never stopping, never staying still.

  Shut up, I think. You’re not me. You don’t know what I can or can’t do. You don’t get to decide.

  I look at Vincent and nod. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

  Deep breath, Melati. Let’s go.

  • • •

  The guards are standing around a car just a little way down the road when I emerge from our hiding place, smoking and chatting like it’s Sunday morning at the neighborhood kopitiam. The scent of cigarette smoke wafts over to where I stand, bathed in sweat and trying to suppress the urge to run as fast as I can in the opposite direction.

  “Assalamualaikum!” I try to greet them as loudly as I can, but the Djinn reaches up to my throat and squeezes so nothing comes up but a cracked whisper.

  Damn it.

  I clear my throat and try again. “Assalamualaikum!”

  You know the plan, Melati. Just follow the plan. The Muslim greeting will identify you immediately as being as Not Chinese as they come, so
they’ll want to help you. Plus—and this is pretty important—it’ll make them maybe not want to shoot you on sight. Which is a bonus.

  Trust my stupid broken brain to bring up their guns at a time like this. My head is throbbing and my teeth itch and I’m aching to count something, anything. Quickly, I tap my right index finger on my left wrist—Vince says I have to keep my hands visible so they don’t think I’m concealing any weapons.

  Again, Melati.

  “Assalamualaikum!” I’m practically roaring it down the streets at this point, and it is a relief when one of the guards finally turns toward me, frowning as he tries to locate the source of the commotion.

  Showtime.

  “Tolong! Help!” I yell, waving my arms as I jog toward them. “Help me! Please!”

  Now all four of them are looking at me, and one of them straightens up, dropping his cigarette and grinding it under his feet.

  “What is it?” he growls, keeping his hand on the rifle slung over his shoulder. “Little girls shouldn’t be out and about at a time like this.”

  “Especially not when they’re disturbing the peace,” drawls another, before taking a drag of his cigarette. I can feel his eyes traveling up and down my body, lingering insolently in select spots, and feel the bile rise to my throat.

  Now I’m more pissed off than ever.

  “I’m sixteen, thank you,” I say, setting my chin and addressing my remarks entirely to the first soldier. “And I came to you because I need help. That is what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Help the people?”

  The first soldier grunts in response, and I take that as a sign to continue. “There’s a woman in that building over there, and she’s pregnant, and I think she’s about to give birth,” I say. “She’s in a lot of pain. She needs to get to a hospital.” My eyes keep flitting over to their guns, and I can’t help wondering which one launched the bullet that tore a bloody path through Vincent’s arm. Focus, Melati.

  “Sounds like a real problem,” the second soldier says. He hasn’t stopped staring at me. “What do we get in return for helping you?” His tone is perfectly pleasant, his grin wide and leering. I want to take the knife from his holster and slash it from his face.

  “Shut up, Rahman.” The first one is clearly the one in charge here, and Rahman subsides with a scowl.

  The soldier looks at me. “There’s a car we can use here,” he says, gesturing to the black sedan behind them. “Can your friend walk? Or does she need help with that?”

  Relief floods through me. “I think she could use some help,” I say. “She’s just over there, inside that shophouse—that one, just there.”

  He nods. “All right. Arif, start the car and bring it around. You two, stay here and keep watch. I expect a full report of any incidents when we get back.”

  The others nod, and the soldier and I—“You can call me Mat,” he tells me—make our way toward the shophouse. Vincent is nowhere to be seen. In the middle of the room, right where I left her, Jee is panting harder now, her face completely pale, her jaw set, her eyes closed. I kneel down beside her. “Time to go, Jee,” I say gently. “We have to get to the hospital now.”

  I might as well be talking to stone.

  “Jee?” I say again, touching her shoulder. “Jee?”

  Great. I just risked my life for a woman who appears to be set on giving birth in the middle of an abandoned shophouse.

  Then, the strangest thing happens. Mat, who has thus far been hanging back, just watching us, decides to come forward and kneel on Jee’s other side.

  This is going to be great.

  “Hello, Jee,” he says.

  No answer. The only sound that fills the room is Jee’s shallow panting. I can’t help myself; I start counting them, finding a small comfort in the familiar rhythm: one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three . . .

  “Jee, we have to get you to the hospital now, okay?” Mat says, keeping his voice low, gentle.

  Still no response.

  “I know what you must be feeling,” he continues. “Well, not know, obviously, because how can I? But when my wife was having our son, she was just like you. She wanted to concentrate, and I just kept bugging her—asking her all sorts of stupid questions, making all sorts of stupid comments. ‘Are you okay? Does it hurt? Is he coming now?’ She told me afterward that she never wanted to punch me in the face so much.”

  Jee has her eyes open now and is looking at him with a slightly dazed expression. The pants have given way to periodic grunts and groans.

  “I know you’ve got this covered,” Mat says gently. “I know you’re worried about setting foot out there, with everything that’s going on.”

  “What if someone tries to hurt the baby?” Her voice is barely a croak.

  “They’d have to get through me first,” he says. He means it, I think. He really means it.

  I guess she thinks so too. “Okay,” she breathes. “Okay.”

  Five minutes later, we’re all sitting in the car, and Arif is driving toward the hospital as though he’s being chased by monsters. In the back seat, Jee grips my hand so hard it goes numb; the upside is that it keeps me from tapping.

  I know we’re in the middle of an intense situation here, but part of my mind—the part that’s still sane—is busy doing victory laps and turning cartwheels. I did it! I went up to strangers—armed strangers!—because someone else needed help, and I succeeded. I didn’t let my stupid broken brain get in the way. I didn’t rely on someone else to save me. And I didn’t give in to the numbers, not even once! For the first time in a long, long time, I’m beginning to feel like normal is within reach after all. I can do anything. I can save others. I can save myself. And I can find Mama.

  “We’re here.” Arif’s voice puts a screeching halt to my euphoria. I look up and realize we’re at the main entrance of the Kuala Lumpur General Hospital. Mama’s hospital.

  Mama is here! My brain is screaming for me to run as fast as I can, dash inside, look for Mama, make sure she’s safe. But I stop myself. Jee first. Mat wrenches open the car door, and between us we haul Jee into the emergency room, where she’s immediately swallowed up by a frenzied group of nurses and attendants, leaving us standing uncertainly in the lobby, side by side under the bright red letters spelling out EMERGENCY. There are nine letters; three times three. It’s a good sign, I decide.

  “Thank you,” I say, looking up at Mat. He rubs his nose, suddenly bashful. “Just part of the job,” he mutters. Then he pulls himself together. “Will you be all right?”

  I nod. “My mother is here,” I say. I can feel the relief unfurl inside me, blooming like fresh flowers.

  “Okay, then. Take care, young lady,” he says, striding off, presumably to find Arif and get back to work.

  It’s only when they’re both gone that I really stop to take stock of my surroundings.

  The hospital is chaos. Nurses and doctors run to and fro, wheeling complicated machines, carrying stacks of charts. At the registration counter, an attendant wearing a harassed expression is patiently trying to help an increasingly hysterical older woman. “But where is she?” she keeps asking. “Why can’t you tell me where she is? How will I know if she’s hurt?” “We’re doing everything we can to find out, madam,” the attendant says, straining to keep her voice even, polite. On the benches and chairs, dozens wait their turn in silence. One boy, no older than ten, whimpers in the corner; his mother murmurs soothingly in his ear. There’s no way to tell the original color of the blood-soaked towel she’s pressing to his face. “Ricochet,” I hear one nurse mutter to another as they flip through a chart. “The bullet pinged off a wall and ripped through his cheek.” Along one corridor, bags are piled high on gurneys. “You can’t leave these here!” I hear one doctor yell at the beleaguered attendant, who shrugs. “There’s no room left in the morgue,” he says. “I’ve got nowhere else to put them.”

  My euphoria has disappeared, in its place that familiar, dark dread, that feeling of wanting to
burst out of my own skin. I have come to the house of death, and I’m completely unprepared for its assault on my senses. My mind moves at the speed of light. Here’s Mama, riddled with bullets; here’s Mama, her skull crushed by the beating of a heavy truncheon; here’s Mama, throat slit from ear to ear.

  I start pacing, and as I walk, I count—a barrier, a protective incantation to ward off the specter of death. I count every step I take, every word and every letter on every sign. I count the number of chairs in the waiting room, the number of people on the chairs. I assign them to groups and count them off—men versus women, adults versus children, long-haired women versus short-haired women, men with black hair versus men with gray hair. Nothing works. My thoughts flutter like poisonous butterflies, from Mama to Saf to Vincent, from Jee’s pale face to the leer on Rahman’s, from Frankie’s burning, righteous anger to the worried expressions of Uncle Chong and Auntie Bee. Death, death, death for them all, and it’s all my fault.

  But Mama’s here, I remind myself, fighting to stay in control. Mama’s here; Mak Siti said so. I’ll find her, and once I see her I know everything will be okay again.

  I just have to find her.

  I run, as fast as I can, to the nurses’ station, pounding through the familiar, brightly lit corridors. Left here, then right, then up the stairs, then I skid to a stop, almost slipping on the polished floor.

  There it is before me, bathed in harsh fluorescent light, and buzzing with activity. Nurses slip in and out, consulting charts, talking on the phone, conferring with doctors and one another in hushed tones. I look anxiously around for a familiar face. Then I spot Auntie Fatimah, my mother’s lunch buddy and confidante, and a regular visitor at our home. Relief floods through me. “Auntie Fati!” I call out, jogging toward her. “Auntie! Over here!”

  She turns, squinting at me over the top of her glasses. “Melati?”

  I fling myself into her arms. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see anyone before. She hugs me back before pulling away. “Are you all right?” She’s scanning my body up and down, her expert eye clocking every scrape, every bump, every bruise. “Are you hurt? What’s happened?”