The Weight of Our Sky Read online

  “I’m okay, Auntie Fati,” I say, smiling. “Honestly, I am. I’m looking for my mother. Have you seen her?”

  She frowns again, her right hand reaching up to massage her neck as she considers the question. “I know I saw her . . . When was that?” she says, and my heart lifts crazily. “It’s been such a blur, I can’t really remember. I do recall being really happy when she walked through the door. We were just so swamped with everything, we really needed all the hands we could get. Still do. But we’ve been so busy since then. . . . I just don’t know where she went. Hey, Anita”—she turns to another nurse seated at the counter scribbling on a chart. “Have you seen Salmah anywhere?”

  Nurse Anita looks up from her notes. “Oh, no,” she says. “Salmah was here that first day, but she left a couple of days ago. I heard her tell the head nurse she had to go home, make sure her daughter was okay.”

  “Well, there you go,” Auntie Fati says, turning back to me. “I tell you, time has gone by so fast here with all the bodies coming in, I don’t even know what day it is, if I’m standing on my head or on my feet. . . . Eh, Melati, are you all right?”

  I can’t speak. The Djinn is on a gleeful, nasty rampage: Ice courses through my veins, sending a thousand painful little pinpricks shooting throughout my entire body. His cold, bony hands close in around my throat, and I fall to my knees, dizzy and gasping for air, a million spots dancing in front of my eyes. I squeeze them shut, but behind my eyelids Mama’s corpse lies cold and rigid on Petaling Street. My heart pounds a frantic, erratic beat, so hard that I’m actually afraid it will explode into a million tiny pieces. I want nothing more than to rip myself out of my own body, free myself from the Djinn’s grasp and run as far and as fast as I can. That’s what you get for getting cocky, he tells me. That’s what you get for thinking you could beat me. As if you could. The spots in front of my eyes begin to merge together, millions and millions of them, until all I see around me is deep, inky black. And then a whisper from the darkness: You’ll never beat me, Melati.

  I don’t know how long I stay this way on the floor, my arms locked across my chest, my head bowed, my eyes shut.

  All I know is that when I open my eyes again, Vince is carrying me in his arms. I blink up at him sleepily. There is a bandage wrapped around his injured arm; the glow from the fluorescent lights forms a halo around his head.

  “Come on, Melati,” he says quietly. “Let’s go home.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE MOTORCYCLE JUDDERS TO A stop in front of the house. My legs feel strangely wobbly, and Vince has to help me off, wincing when I grab his arm to steady myself. They bandaged it up pretty well at the hospital, but I can tell he’s still in pain. “Sorry,” I whisper.

  As we walk toward the house, a curtain flutters in the breeze and the Djinn begins to swirl around in my stomach, trying to get my attention. Something’s wrong, he whispers, don’t you feel it? Something’s wrong, Melati. I strain to keep my breathing even, keeping my eyes focused on the house, but I can’t shake the feeling that the Djinn is right. What am I missing?

  Then it hits me.

  “Check the windows,” Uncle Chong had commanded on that first night. “Make sure they’re secure.” And they’ve stayed tightly shut and locked ever since—I should know, I checked them often enough in those fevered nights, trying to make sure we all stayed safe. Yet there it is, the curtain swaying in the breeze.

  Except for some jagged pieces along the edges, the glass from the window is gone.

  I can feel my pulse quickening. Vince is ahead of me, his hand outstretched to open the door. I want to say something, to warn him, but the Djinn grabs hold of my tongue and stops me from speaking. All I can do is watch the frown on Vince’s face as the door swings open at his touch, unlocked; the confusion quickly giving way to shock and pain as he takes in the scene before him; the flash of anger as he quickly strides inside.

  I take a deep breath to steel myself, then head in after him.

  Inside, I have to pick a path through the debris on the floor: overturned furniture, bits of broken glass from the windows, the remnants of Auntie Bee’s delicate blue patterned plates and bowls. Vince is standing in the middle of it all, silent, unmoving but for his hands, which are balled into fists and shaking.

  “It happened a couple of hours ago,” a voice says, and we both turn to see Frankie leaning against the door frame, silhouetted in the dying rays of the evening sun. “A mob came. Started burning and looting the houses. Malay, of course,” he says, nodding in my direction. “All while the guards stood back and let them. Must take care of your own, right?”

  “What happened to Ma and Baba?” Vince’s voice is strangled.

  “Ba and I tried to fight them off, but some cibai Malay coward hit him on the head from behind, and when I went to help him they ran off,” Frankie says. “He’s okay. Bruised. Ma is really scared. I took them to Chin Woo Stadium; that’s where they’re letting people like us take shelter. You know, people the Malays have managed to take everything from.”

  “Frankie . . .” The two brothers look at each other, and I wonder if they’re about to get into another fight. “Thanks for being here,” Vincent says, and though his voice is still strained I can hear the thread of sincerity in it. “Thanks for taking care of them. While I was out there . . .”

  Frankie shrugs. “No point talking about it now,” he says. “I’m just here to get some clothes and stuff for them. Don’t hang around here; it’s dangerous.” He walks past us toward the master bedroom. Soon, we hear muffled thuds and bangs as he rummages through the wardrobe and vanity.

  I look over at Vince, his eyes closed, his hands clenched into tight fists by his side. “I’m sorry, Vincent,” I say, because what else is there to say? But he doesn’t answer, and eventually I slip quietly away and leave him to his thoughts.

  • • •

  Sitting outside is probably the worst thing to do at a time like this, but I don’t know where else to go, so I settle myself on an upturned ceramic plant pot just outside to wait. The sky is ablaze with streaks of orange, pink, purple, and the breeze carries the merest whiff of flowers—jasmine. For once, the Djinn is silent. It’s so peaceful, so beautiful, that I could almost forget everything that has led us to this point.

  A movement in the corner of my eye jolts me out of my reverie. It’s Frankie, bearing a small, stuffed suitcase in each hand.

  “I’m sorry about your parents, Frankie,” I tell him. It’s my third apology in thirty minutes, but I don’t know what else I can say. “I’m glad they weren’t badly hurt.”

  He regards me, his head tilted to one side. I search his expression, but can’t tell what he’s thinking. When he speaks, he speaks slowly, thoughtfully. “Even after my father was hit, even when we were trying to get him to a doctor, you know what he was saying? ‘Aiya, don’t blame them lah, they don’t know any better, poor things.’ He was still trying to justify their actions, still trying to be understanding and forgiving.”

  I can feel tears welling in my eyes. Frankie goes on, his eyes never leaving my face.

  “My parents were never anything but nice and good to anyone—Chinese, Malay, Indian, whoever. But the Malays didn’t care. They looked at them and saw outsiders, not worthy of their time or mercy. What’s the use of being good if it just gets you trampled on?”

  I can feel my body burn hot with shame, frustration, anger. I can’t make myself meet his gaze. Are we all as bad as he says? Yes, says that voice in my ear. Yes, you are. What makes you think you can protect anyone? You failed Saf, you failed Mama, and now you’ve failed Auntie Bee and Uncle Chong, too.

  After a pause, he turns toward the car. “Tell Vincent I’m going back to Chin Woo,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away. Before long, I hear the sound of the Standard puttering down the road.

  I sit outside until the last of the evening light deepens into night. I hear mosquitoes buzz lazily past my ears, but I don’t even flinch. I’m too busy counti
ng jasmine blossoms through eyes blurry with tears.

  Eventually, Vince comes outside. I look up at him from my spot on the ground. “Come on,” he says, brushing past me. “Let’s go.” He looks more tired than I’ve ever seen him.

  “I . . . in a minute,” I say, my fingers moving feverishly in my pockets. 249, 252, 255 . . . Wait, did I count that right? Is it 255 or 256? 257? I freeze, paralyzed by my own doubt. You’ve messed it up now, the Djinn growls. Do it again. You have to do it again, or it won’t be right, and your mother dies, and Vince dies, and his parents die. Everyone dies, because of you.

  My stomach is churning, and my chest is tight. Every breath is a struggle.

  “Come on, Melati,” Vince says impatiently. “I need to make sure my parents are okay.”

  So do I, I want to yell at him, but I can’t, yelling is just another distraction, and I can’t afford to be distracted now, or else I’ll have to start all over again.

  “MELATI.” Vince’s voice is like a gunshot in the quiet of the garden. “My parents have been hurt, and you’re keeping me from seeing them! What’s wrong with you?”

  “I . . . just wait a second,” I choke out. I’m flushed and my face is streaked with tears, but I can’t answer, I can’t, I can’t lose my place again. I can’t let them all die. “I have to keep counting. I have to finish.”

  Vince clicks his tongue in frustration. When he speaks again, his tone is as cold and sharp as a diamond’s edge. “You and your numbers,” he says bitterly. “I wish I’d never met you and never heard about your stupid numbers. I could have been home. I could have been here to help Frankie; I could have kept my parents safe. And now, when I could be there with them, we’re stuck in here because you’re too busy counting to get your butt moving. God, you’re a piece of work, Melati. You’re so bloody selfish, you know that?”

  And with that, he turns and heads back to the motorcycle to wait for me.

  I want to follow him, to apologize, to explain, to make things right. But I can’t move from my spot. Instead, I count and count until I reach a number that feels safe—a perfect three hundred—hating myself more and more with each passing second.

  • • •

  In the distance, I see it: Chin Woo Stadium, looming over a concrete parking lot, the streetlights glinting off the windows that cover the entire façade of the circular building. Over the main entrance, large red Chinese characters stand proudly. “What does Chin Woo mean?” I ask after Vince has parked the bike and cut the engine. It’s the first thing either of us has said since our showdown in the garden, and I’m not really sure if he’ll answer me. But I’m low and hurting and desperate for some kind of normalcy.

  In the time he takes to respond, Mama, Auntie Bee and Vince himself die, one at a time, with varying degrees of gore. I flinch with each one as if I’m taking blows, tapping the panic away furiously, my fingers hidden in my pockets. “The essence of martial arts,” he says finally. “The association that runs it does a lot of activities here, including swimming and wushu. We used to come here to swim, once in a while.”

  He doesn’t look at me when he tells me all of this. He hasn’t really looked at me since we left the house.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go look for my parents.”

  Inside, the great hall is packed with families seeking refuge from the chaos going on outside. In one corner, a mother dozes off while breastfeeding a squirming baby; he moves here and there, restless, exposing her nipple, but she doesn’t even notice. I look away, embarrassed. A pair of little girls shriek as they dash past, weaving and ducking through the crowd, leaving a trail of giggles and messes in their wake. An old woman spoons porridge into her husband’s mouth as he sits propped against the wall, one arm in a sling. Off to the left, a small group has commandeered a couple of tables and are sorting through what seems to be a massive amount of food supplies. “Another delivery from the markets and sundry shops,” I hear a woman saying. “We need to get these repacked and start sending them out.”

  Vincent, who has been scanning the room anxiously, suddenly straightens up. “There they are,” he says, and begins to work his way through the crowd. I hang back, inexplicably nervous. Why should they want to see you? Why should any of these people want to see you?

  What do you mean? I’ve been trying not to engage with the Djinn, but I’m genuinely confused.

  You failed them, he says, caressing the back of my neck with a cold hand, trailing goosepimples in his wake. You took their food and their hospitality and all they got in return was hurt.

  I am suddenly acutely aware of the beads of sweat standing on my forehead, the fact that my hands are convulsively clenching and unclenching themselves. I read a book once about how our bodies are primed to protect us; faced with times of extreme danger or stress, we either choose to go into battle or run for safety. Fight or flight, they call it. And right now every nerve ending in my body is screaming at me to run, run as fast and as far away as I can—well, almost. There is one corner of my mind where a light seems to pulse, away from the Djinn’s endless taunts, one corner where a voice that sounds a lot like mine whispers: You could fight. You could fight him, Melati, you could fight your Djinn. And you could win.

  I wish it were easier to hear. I wish it were easier to believe.

  “Melati!” Auntie Bee charges through the crowd toward me and wraps me up in a huge hug, almost suffocating me.

  “Hi, Auntie Bee,” I manage to croak out. The Djinn casts a spotlight on all her worst injuries—the cut above her eye, the bruise spreading across her left cheek, the slight limp when she walks—and snickers. Look what you did.

  “Aiyo, I was so worried about you all! We waited so long for you two to come back, I kept thinking about what was happening to you both. You know lah, you hear all these stories . . .” She shudders delicately. “But never mind, never mind, we don’t talk about that. Are you all right? Are you hurt?” She holds me at arm’s length, looking me up and down.

  “I’m fine, Auntie Bee,” I say. “Vincent kept me safe.”

  Just like you were supposed to keep them safe.

  I shake my head again, hard, fast. Auntie Bee is still talking. “Your poor uncle, his head hurts a little bit but it’s fine lah really, I think he just wants people to make a fuss. I told him, he’s so hardheaded it wouldn’t make any difference. . . .”

  I wonder how your mother is doing, the Djinn muses, waving his arms so that my stomach turns and churns, making me queasy.

  “. . . of course, he thought he could fight them off, and I told him, you see lah, you see! See what happens when you try to be a hero! He thinks he’s still a young man, your uncle, but well, clearly . . .”

  I wonder if she’ll suffer, when it happens. If there’ll be much pain.

  I can’t do this. I can’t. My mind flails around for something to fixate on and seizes on the tiled floor: thousands upon thousands of scuffed pale green tiles stretching out all across the hall.

  “. . . Pity about the house, ah girl, but of course, better it than us, right? Oh well, we will stay here for a while, then maybe find someplace else. It isn’t too bad here, really. . . .”

  The little squares arrange and rearrange themselves into patterns only I can see; I count each and every one, over and over again, breathing as deeply as I can. The words, when they come, clang in place in my head one by one, heavy as lead.

  Do you think Saf was in pain when she died?

  I recoil physically at this, sucking in a breath sharply, wriggling myself free of Auntie Bee’s grasp. “Ah girl, are you okay?” I look at her kindly face staring at me, soft with sympathy, and suddenly I can’t bear it.

  “Just need some air, Auntie,” I manage to say, smiling at her weakly before stumbling away. I have to get away.

  As far away as I can.

  • • •

  Outside, I lean my head against the cool concrete surface of the building, my eyes shut, trying to get a grip on the thoughts that swirl and cras
h within. Don’t listen to him, Melati. Don’t listen to the Djinn. I try to keep my breathing as deep and even as I can, counting the beats as I inhale and exhale. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. The girl with kaleidoscope eyes, I think, or a waltz. The ones Mama listens to on Sunday mornings.

  Used to listen to, the Djinn says. Past tense.

  No, not you. “Go away,” I say aloud.

  “Sorry.”

  “What?” I open my eyes, startled, and see Vince standing before me, frowning.

  “I didn’t realize I was disturbing you.”

  “No! No, sorry. I was just . . .” I wave a hand around lamely, as if I can draw the words out of the air to explain myself. “I was just talking to myself, I guess.”

  He doesn’t respond, and I don’t want to make him. Instead, I lean back against the wall and wait. He walks over to stand beside me and sags against the wall himself, his head tilted back, his eyes shut.

  When he eventually speaks, his voice is low, and I have to lean in to catch every word.

  “They’re all right.”

  I nod. “I know. I spoke to your mother for a bit.”

  He lets out a breath. “I’m going to take them away from here tonight.”

  He’s avoiding my eyes, but I can fill in the blanks without him looking at me. “You’re leaving?”

  “I want to take them somewhere safe. Maybe to Kelantan—we’ve got some relatives there, and I hear it’s pretty peaceful.”

  What about me? I want to ask him. What happens to me now? But the words stick in my throat. Instead I say, “I understand,” and I do. Why wouldn’t I, when all I ever think about is keeping my own mother safe?

  He looks at me then. “They’ve taken the Malays over to Stadium Negara,” he says. “I can take you there, if you like. That’s where your mother is, probably. Everyone who lost a home or has nowhere else to go . . . that’s where they ended up.”