The Weight of Our Sky(36)
“Mel?”
Vince’s voice breaks the spell; I turn from the window to look at him, but my vision seems to blur for a second and it takes a while for my eyes to focus on his face. I suddenly feel exhausted.
“What do you want us to do now?” he asks.
I take in a deep breath, hold for a count of three, exhale. “Stop here,” I say, gesturing to a clearing up ahead. “Let’s see what we can find.”
? ? ?
I don’t know what I imagined I’d see when I got here. If I were honest, I’d admit that I had visions of Mama throwing open the doors to welcome me home, taking me in her arms in the tightest hug, never letting me go again.
Instead, here we are. My home, Mama’s and mine, is a pile of blackened ash and rubble, and the houses that used to surround us aren’t much better.
I can sense Vincent’s eyes on me as he stands a little way away, giving me space, time to take it all in; Jay is waiting by the car. I walk through the detritus and although I feel like weeping, a part of me is fascinated by what the flames chose to consume and what they chose to keep intact: Our kitchen is completely devastated, but just steps away, our outhouse still proudly stands, all on its own; my prized records have been melted down into warped, unsalvageable lumps, but Mama’s black-and-gold sewing machine stands untouched on its little table, the silver letters spelling out SINGER still visible under a layer of soot.
Mama. A fresh surge of panic rushes through me all at once, almost knocking me off my feet. Was Mama in the house when this happened? Did she make it out alive? I look around wildly; someone must know. Someone must know what happened to her.
Then I hear a woman’s voice calling my name.
“Mama?” I whirl around, the ashes crunching beneath my feet. “Mama?” But no Mama answers my call. Instead, approaching me from a distance is Mak Siti, as neat and trim as ever, her hair tied back in a loose bun, her floral cotton baju kurung with nary a smidge of dirt besmirching it.
“Hello, Melati,” she says, as though we’re just making small talk at the market stand.
“Hello, Mak Siti,” I say back, because what else am I supposed to say?
“I was waiting for you to come home from school, you know, the other day,” she says, squinting at me. “Had dinner waiting. I took out a whole fish for you, fried it and everything. Your mother told me you were supposed to be home by four. Where were you, hmm?”
Is she seriously scolding me for not coming home on time on the day of a massive, bloody racial riot, in the middle of the charred ruins of my former home? Seriously? I look closely for any signs that she’s kidding.
Oh. She isn’t. Okay, then.
“Sorry, Mak Siti,” I say, in the absence of any other alternative. This is becoming more and more surreal.
“Naughty, naughty,” she tuts, pursing her lips. “Made me worry to death, once that nonsense started. I didn’t know what I was supposed to tell your mother when she came home. Not to mention the waste! One whole fish, did I tell you? Those things aren’t cheap, you know.”
My heart lifts at the mention of my mother. “Mama! You saw Mama? Where is she? Is she—”
“Of course I saw your mama,” Mak Siti interrupts, regarding my outburst with disapproval. “She came home early from her shift to look for you, make sure you were safe. Imagine how embarrassed I was when I had to tell her I didn’t know where you were! I didn’t know where to put my face! And the look on her! So much heartache you caused, young lady.”
“Sorry, Mak Siti,” I say again, because I can see that she expects it. “But do you know where Mama is now? Is she here? I need to see her.”
She sniffs. “She’s not here, of course. The hospital sent a car to pick up the nurses, doctors. They said they needed all the help possible. So she went. Told me to look out in case you came back home. And here you are.” She says this in a voice completely devoid of enthusiasm. Good old Mak Siti.
My heart sinks. Mama isn’t here. We’ve come all this way for nothing.
On impulse, I reach out a hand for Mak Siti’s. Her skin feels like parchment, worn and wrinkled from years of hard work, but soft and yielding to the touch. “Thank you, Mak Siti,” I say. “Thank you for looking out for me. I’m glad you’re safe.”
Her face softens. “It wasn’t easy,” she mutters. “So much yelling, so much noise. We all ran for Pak Samad’s house—the big stone house, you know? We were worried they would set fire to our homes, so we packed ourselves in there like sardines to wait. Alang rounded up the other men, and they took all the weapons they could find and went to fight against those Chinese troublemakers from across the road.” She shoots a quick glance at Vince, still standing a few paces away, then back at me. “That fat boy, Manaf, he acted so brave at first, shouting so loudly about how he was going to have Chinese heads on a platter. When the men left, he was as close to the front line as he could be, so eager to be a hero. When we came back out, after the fighting was over, we found him by Pak Samad’s outhouse, white as a sheet. He fainted dead away when he saw them coming!” She cackles, shaking her head. I remember Manaf. He’s a year or two older than me. When we were little, he liked to pull my hair and then run away, laughing; in recent years, this has given way to sitting with his friends on a special grassy knoll shaded by coconut trees and whistling to girls as they pass.