The Weight of Our Sky(25)

We fall silent again, and I tap to the beat, counting it out under my breath, trying to will away the anxious buzzing in my chest.

“Mel, what happened to your father?” Vince says it softly, and I know he’s trying to be gentle, trying not to poke at old wounds too much.

I wipe away the tears and look down at my feet, counting it out, trying to keep my breathing steady, even. The Djinn is needling me again: You can’t trust him, you can’t trust him, he’ll think you’re crazy, he’ll leave you. Across the room, Vince sits in silence, waiting it out with me. With my mind as unquiet as it is, I’ve come to appreciate Vincent’s ability to stay still, to be patient, to let the thoughts come. How much should I tell him? I ask myself. How far do I go?

I glance at him. He’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged by the player surrounded by record sleeves, chin propped on his hands, arms propped on his knees, looking right at me.

I take a deep breath.

“My father was a police officer,” I begin, and he draws his knees up toward his chest, clasping them with his arms, his attention fully focused on me. “It’s just me and my mother now, but it wasn’t always, not until just over a year ago. He was a kind man, generous, responsible. He loved music—especially the Beatles, and he taught me to love them too. And he was funny—he was SO funny. Nobody could make us laugh like he could. My mother loved him, and he worshipped her; you could see it in the way they looked at each other. I was their only child, and I know that made them sad sometimes—they wanted more, but it never happened. Still. We were happy.”

I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. Vince doesn’t move; as far as I can tell, he barely breathes.

“Then in late November that year, in 1967, he got the call. They told him he had to go to Penang. Some trouble up there, Malay and Chinese nonsense, he told us. They were sending extra personnel from KL to help smooth things down. My mother didn’t want him to go. She didn’t say so, but I could tell from the way she bit her lips while she ironed his uniform, the way she clenched her fists when they talked about it. She worried all the time whenever he had these assignments, and so did I. But he told us he’d be back before we knew it. He kissed my mother, and then he kissed me, and he told me . . . he told me . . .”

“What?” Vincent asks me. “What did he tell you?”

“Life is very short,” Paul and John sing in perfect harmony, “and there’s no time for fussing and fighting.” I swallow a sudden lump in my throat. “He told me, ‘Take good care of your mother while I’m gone.’?”

But you haven’t done that, have you, Mel? You’ve ruined it, the Djinn’s voice hisses. An image of Mama surfaces, lying facedown on a deserted road, blood trickling from her limp body and trailing lazily into an open drain nearby.

I sigh, rubbing my aching head. “He was dead the next day. There was a scuffle between some gang members. Somebody split his head open with a parang. Mama played this song for days afterward, weeping every time.” I take another deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs, counting three beats, before I exhale and continue. “So you see, that was what I was supposed to do. Take care of her, keep her safe. And I’m not doing that, am I? I haven’t seen her or spoken to her in almost a week, I have no idea where she is, what she’s doing, if she’s hurt. I’m failing my parents in so many ways.” I can hear my voice rise, ragged with frustration, and I pause, fighting to stay in control.

The room is silent, the song having long reached its conclusion. I feel the world shift, and I’m dizzy with the sense of release—this isn’t a story I’ve ever told anyone, except for Saf. For one fleeting moment, I wonder if I should continue—if I should tell him how, ever since we got the call, ever since we buried my father, I dream endlessly of my mother’s death. I wonder how he would react if I told him about the panic, the anxiety, the choking fear that my thoughts are ominous portents of my mother’s future. I wonder if I should tell him about the Djinn.

I wonder what he’d think of me then, if he knew all of this.

Then the moment passes. I don’t have to wonder. I know. He’d think what anyone would think, what our whole extended family thought when Mama and I came asking for help, when I was so exhausted, so full of images of death and numbers that I thought I was going insane. They told her I was crazy, possessed; that we had made God angry with our faithless lifestyle; that I needed a doctor or a bomoh or a cell at an asylum for the insane. It didn’t happen overnight; the abandonment was so gradual that I didn’t even know it was happening until one day I realized that it had been six months since we last saw my aunts or uncles, or any of the half-dozen cousins that used to come over to listen to records and braid my hair. I was a curse, they told my mother, and they wanted nothing to do with me.

And Vince will think the same.

So I bite my tongue and let the silence stretch on unbroken. Vince stares at his feet, lost in thought.

Suddenly, he rouses himself and speaks. “You know jasmine?” he asks. It’s such a jarring change of subject that all I can do is look at him.

“Huh?” I say. “Like the flower?”

“Jasmine,” he repeats, looking at me. “That’s what your name means, right? Melati? Mama grows it, out in the garden. They’re the bushes right in front of our escape tunnel.” I nod, but I’m still confused, and it’s written all over my face.