The Weight of Our Sky(43)

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?”

“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?