The Weight of Our Sky(46)
“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 crash 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.”
Mama. I can feel the tiny bubbles of relief floating up through my murky thoughts. “Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
He straightens up, brushes dirt off his dark trousers with two brisk strokes, and heads back inside, leaving me to contemplate the night sky.
In the silence, the Djinn stirs.
Told you he’d leave you.
I’m too tired to fight him off. Instead, I let him enfold me in a beguilingly soft, dark blanket of misery, and cry and cry and cry until my head is heavy and my throat is sore and my eyes swell so that the city lights blur and merge into a beautiful, chaotic mess.
? ? ?
The Standard has been through a lot in the past few days, and it takes a bit of work to get it up the gentle incline toward Stadium Negara. The stadium sits in all its stark, modern splendor upon its hill, its windows reflecting the dim streetlights around it.
Vince frowns as the car sputters and coughs along. “I hope this thing makes it to Kelantan in one piece,” he mutters, frowning as he clutches the wheel. “Otherwise I’m going to have a hell of a time figuring out how to get us there.”
A hell-of-a racing-story. A hell-of-a-romance. I’m swept away by a tidal wave of memories so intense that I gasp; it’s like the Djinn has socked me in the stomach. One by one, I watch the pictures float by: Saf, throwing her head back to laugh her raucous laugh that her father always thought so terribly unladylike; Saf, bobbing her head in time to the beat of the latest Top 40 tune; Saf, giggling uncontrollably as she plotted and schemed to steal one of the hand-painted Paul Newman posters from the cinema.