The Weight of Our Sky(51)

Feeling better than I have in a long time, I run quickly out of the shophouse and down the lanes and alleyways toward the police station. The rain trickles down my hair and pools in the hollows of my collarbones and in the bottoms of my shoes so that I make squelching sounds with each step, but I don’t care. Finally, finally, I feel like I can see an end to this whole ordeal. I’ll find my mother, and everything will be right again.

The station looms high over the rest of Petaling Street, painted in the signature blue and white colors of the police force. I make my way inside, pushing open the heavy doors and leaving a trail of water on the tiled floor as I look around for someone to speak to. Inside, the station is full of people, but relatively calm; men, women, and children sit on benches or on the floor, talking quietly or not at all. One little girl cuddling close to her dozing mother looks up at me with frank curiosity in her eyes, her hands clutching an old rag doll with one missing eye and a frayed skirt.

I head straight for the front desk, where an officer barely looks up as I approach, busily writing in some files before him. “Yes?” he says brusquely.

“Hello, sir,” I say politely. “I’m looking for my mother.”

He looks up properly then, taking me in, in all my shivering, drenched, bedraggled glory, my soaked uniform clinging to me like a second skin. His expression softens. “Child, you must be freezing!” he says, turning around and rummaging in some cupboards behind him until he emerges with a dark blue blanket. “Here, take this.” The blanket is soft and worn with multiple washings, and I wrap it around myself gratefully, luxuriating in the warmth. “Now,” he says, leaning back in his seat and smoothing his mustache, “what was that about your mother?”

“I’m trying to find her,” I say. “She left work when all the . . . troubles . . . started, and she came to Petaling Street to look for me and bring me home. But we never found each other, and now I don’t know where she is. . . .” My voice trails off, and I suddenly feel very, very tired.

The officer is silent, contemplating my words. Then he nods. “Right. Well, she might certainly be here,” he says, gesturing to the hallway. “Lots of people taking shelter here for a bit until everything dies down. It’s the safest place to be around here. Why don’t we go take a look? Hakim!” he barks to a younger officer in the back room, who comes running. “Yes, sir?”

“Keep an eye on things here while I try to help this young lady.”

“Yes, sir.” Hakim takes his place at the desk, and the officer comes around to where I stand. “Thank you, Officer . . .” “You can call me Pakcik Hassan,” he says, smiling at me paternally. “Now come, let’s see if we can find your mother.”

He leads me down a hallway with doors on either side that open to reveal rooms filled with more people. I go through each one, combing through the faces hungrily for my mother’s familiar smile. But the more rooms we go through without finding her, the more my heart drops, and by the time we finish it’s all the way in the depths of my shoes, soaking in the dirty rainwater at my feet.

“Well,” Pakcik Hassan says, then stops, unsure how to continue. I can’t speak; I just stare morosely at the ground and listlessly count the scuffed tiles on the floor around us.

He clears his throat and tries again. “Well. You must be hungry. Everything always looks better with some food in your stomach. You sit here and I’ll get you something.” He points me in the direction of an empty chair, and I drag my feet over to it and sit. I’m still counting, for lack of anything better to do, but mostly I just feel numb.

Pakcik Hassan returns bearing a bun and a cup filled with steaming black coffee. I nibble at the bun, which is soft and tasteless. I don’t normally drink coffee—I can’t stand the bitter aftertaste—but gulp it down anyway. The hot liquid burns my tongue and throat, but wakes me up, for which I’m grateful. “I’m sorry she isn’t here, child,” Pakcik Hassan says gently, watching me. “I’m sure she’s safe somewhere. We know there are people taking shelter in the temples, the churches, the mosques, in schools. She could be with a friend in someone’s house. Plenty of places. Why don’t you stay here, wait it out? Once it’s safer and we get the all clear, we can take you home.”

I nod, and eventually he walks away, back to his post at the front desk. I sit there for what seems like an age, not thinking of anything in particular, just taking in my surroundings. On the wall across from where I sit, a little brown lizard makes its way determinedly from one side to the other, darting across in fits and starts, pausing anytime it spots some perceived, unknown danger to wait and watch before proceeding. A journey that could have taken a minute or two stretches on and on—five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen . . .

Okay, universe. I get it.

I wrap the half-eaten bun up carefully in my handkerchief and stuff it into my backpack, fold the blanket as best I can, and leave it on my seat, balancing the coffee cup on top of it. Then I straighten myself up, take a deep breath, and stride toward the door. I’m going to find my mother if it kills me.

Or her, the djinn whispers.

I’m ignoring you.

But as soon as he sees me head for the door, Pakcik Hassan is up from his position behind the desk. “Where are you going?” he asks me pleasantly.

“I’m going to find my mother,” I say, a little taken aback. He was watching me the whole time?