The Weight of Our Sky(21)
The sight of them, arm in arm, whispering confidences to each other in quiet corners, so firmly entangled that it is hard to know where one ends and the other begins, reminds me painfully of Saf. And the Djinn, as always, knows just where to jab at me so that his words leave the deepest wounds. That’s what you and Saf used to be, he taunts me. Always together, except when it mattered most. And now Mama is next. Every hour brings a fresh glimpse of death: Saf’s, my mother’s, both, together, individually, my fault every time. You failed them. You failed them. You failed them. I sacrifice every minute to the altar of the Djinn, tapping on this, counting that, over and over and over again, yet never getting to that moment when things felt “just right,” when my brain might stay quiet, when I can take in air and feel like I am actually breathing. Once or twice, I think I see Auntie Bee staring at me, her expression worried, but she leaves me alone.
When there is so much broken about the world we currently live in, one cracked person is easy enough to excuse or ignore.
On the third day, acrid, pungent gas steals in through the cracks in the doors and windows, and I wake up in Vincent’s bed coughing and gasping for air, tears streaming down my cheeks. At first, I think this is the end. The Djinn has finally decided to destroy me. Every breath burns a path straight through my body, and I feel as if my lungs are filled with fire.
This is death, I think to myself, rubbing desperately at my stinging skin, my swollen eyes. This is how you die. I curl up in my borrowed bed and will the end to come quickly. If I’m honest, some small part of me thinks it might almost be a relief.
Instead, Auntie Bee bustles into the room with a pail full of cold water and a cloth to gently wipe away the worst of the pain. “Tear gas,” she murmurs from behind the damp rag she’s tied over her own mouth and nose. I just nod. I’m not even sure what that is; all I know is that it hurts to breathe.
The authoritative voice that comes crackling over the radio informs us that the curfew will be lifted for two hours, and we all breathe a collective sigh of relief. “We can finally go home,” Auntie Letty says, wiping away her tears. “Not home, Letty,” Uncle Francis says, handing her his handkerchief. “Not home. But maybe we can make it to your sister’s house in Cheras. It’ll be safer there.”
One by one, they all make plans to head home or find relatives with whom they can shelter for the rest of the duration. I know Auntie Bee is sad to see them go. I know better than anyone what it feels like to want to protect the people you care about. But she merely bustles around, packing food, making sure everyone gets a bite to eat, arranging for the old Indian lady—“Paati,” she insists, jabbing at her chest, “You call Paati”—to get a ride to wherever she needs to go.
I can tell Uncle Chong is relieved too at this lifting of the curfew; there have been enough mouths to feed that we’ve all been feeling the pinch of subsisting on watery, unsalted porridge, unripe bananas plucked prematurely from Auntie Bee’s trees, and boiled sweet potatoes and sweet potato leaves. We’re in desperate need of provisions to keep us going through however many more days we’ll be here.
Watching the others leave, I ache to get out, find my mother, keep her safe. Hidden in my pocket, my fingers tap an ode to my desires. “Not yet,” Uncle tells me gently. “Not until we know more. Young ladies shouldn’t be out and about right now. Wait first, girl.”
When the announcement is made, Uncle Chong takes Frankie with him and tells Vincent to stay behind, “just in case.” They set off, armed with heavy wooden sticks, and I see Auntie Bee pause by the door to stroke the little wooden cross, her head bowed. My heart is heavy with worry, and I can’t sit still; in my head, the Djinn adds them to the lineup as the latest stars of my own personal horror movies, their lives seeping away each time I shut my eyelids. Stop, I tell myself, stop thinking it, stop, you don’t want this, stop. But I can’t.
I move around the room, touching each book and ornament, three quick, light little taps each time.
“Would you stop fidgeting and sit down? You’re making me nervous,” Auntie Bee implores me. So I sit and tap my feet instead, three times a side, willing the time to pass quickly and for Uncle and Frankie—yes, even Frankie—to make it home in one piece.
We sit this way in silence for a while. Then, suddenly, Auntie Bee speaks. “We used to live in Kampung Baru, you know, girl? Years ago, when the boys were both this small,” she says, bringing her hands down to indicate a level just below her waist. “Uncle had a shop there. That’s where you live, right?”
I nod. “Why did you leave, Auntie?”
“Oh, you know. The Malays didn’t like us very much.” She pauses and thinks about this for a second. “No, that’s not true. They liked us fine, I think. They accepted us. We were part of their scenery. We had plenty of customers; the boys had plenty of friends to play with. I think it was the idea of us that they didn’t like. You know lah, they would never say it straight out—Malays are so particular about giving face. But once in a while, someone would joke about pendatang, immigrants. Or they would refer to us as ‘you Chinese,’ laughing as they did it. Or make pointed little remarks about ‘outsiders’ stealing jobs.” She sniffs.
The phrases are familiar; I feel a distinct, unsettling sting when I realize that I grew up with them, heard them so often they were reduced to nothing more than background noise. Taking away our opportunities. Heathens. Chinese pigs. Go back to where you came from. Malaysia for the Malays. Have I ever said any of those words? Do I believe any of it? The Djinn moves suddenly, rising from the depths, seizing this new idea gleefully. Maybe you haven’t. Maybe you will. Or maybe you already have. Haven’t you? Have I? I shake my head a little, trying to dislodge that needling voice, then shoot Auntie Bee a quick glance to see if she noticed. But she’s still wrapped up in her memories.