The Weight of Our Sky(58)

In the center of the room sits a small group of six or seven children. I can tell from the way they’re seated around the teacher, who has a book in her hand, that she’s been reading them a story; the sound of the door has put them all on alert, however, and all of their eyes are trained unblinkingly on us, their bodies tense and poised to flee. May peeks out from behind me, and I give her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Students,” Miss Low says, her voice like a gunshot in the quiet room. “Students, we have some guests. These are . . .” She looks at me and quirks an eyebrow questioningly. “Melati,” I supply. “And this is May,” I add quickly.

“Very good. And what do we say, students?”

“Good afternoon, Melati and May,” the children singsong to us in unison, and I almost want to laugh.

Then I notice them. In the far corner of the room, a cot has been set up, and a child lies upon it, eyes shut and pale. A woman has been busily tending to him as we’ve been speaking, her back to us, but now she stands very erect and absolutely still.

“Puan?” I’m not the only one who’s noticed; Miss Low is staring at the other woman, her brow furrowed. “Puan? Everything all right over there?”

Slowly, the woman turns, and suddenly the room seems to spin and whirl around me, as if I were the eye of some kind of surreal tornado.

“Melati?”

I blink rapidly, trying to clear the tears from my eyes.

“Hi, Mama.”





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS real.

I can’t believe this is real.

Is this real? For a minute I waver. There have been long stretches in the past few days where I’ve been sure that I’m just in some bizarre, unending nightmare, that I’ll wake up and Mama will be scolding me for blasting my records so loudly that Makcik Siti stopped by to complain about my “heathen music.”

But no, I can feel Mama’s arms around me, the soft fabric of her nurse’s uniform against my cheek, the salty wetness of her tears on my neck. She’s here. I did it; I found her. This is real.

I sink into her arms like I’m five years old again. “Where have you been?” she murmurs into my hair over and over again, clutching me tightly. “Where have you been? I’ve been out of my mind with worry.” But I can’t reply. I just want to stay here for as long as I can.

“Hurm.” A dry, inquiring little half cough breaks the spell, and we both turn our tear-streaked faces to see Miss Low looking at us, half-disapproving at this wanton display of emotion. Mama reluctantly lets me go, and I straighten my clothes, feeling as chastened as if I’ve just been caught cheating.

“I take it this is your daughter?” she says, and Mama nods. “Yes, and I’m just so relieved. I was looking for her, as you know, when I ended up here.”

“How did you end up here?” I ask her.

“I was walking toward Petaling Street to look for you,” Mama says, taking my hand and squeezing it tightly. “But as I was passing the school, I saw someone shouting and waving their arms frantically from the inside. It was Miss Low.” I glance at the teacher. “Really?” The idea of the stiff, formal Miss Low doing anything frantically seems like a stretch. She sniffs, looking a little shamefaced. “We needed help quite desperately,” she says, by way of explanation, then busies herself with handing out some buns to the children.

I turn back to Mama. “What happened?”

“There’d been an incident.” Mama’s face darkens. “Some of the soldiers—they’ve been shooting into Chinese-owned buildings randomly. Shops, homes, schools. Ethan”—she gestures at the boy on the cot—“Ethan had gone down with Miss Low to get some supplies from the canteen to bring back upstairs for the others. One of the bullets ricocheted off a wall and tore through his shoulder.”

I wince at this, looking at the boy’s pale, sweaty face, pinched with pain even in his sleep. As I watch, he moves about restlessly, kicking his blanket off. “Is he okay now?” I whisper, not wanting to disturb him. Mama glances at him, biting her lower lip. “No,” she says, sighing. “No, he really isn’t. I’ve done as much as I can here, bandaged him up to stop the bleeding, tried to keep him comfortable. But he needs more than that. I need to get him to the hospital.”

“Can’t we call for help?” I ask. “Don’t they have a telephone we can use . . . ?”

“It’s not working,” Miss Low interjects quickly. “The phone line has been down since this whole mess started. We haven’t been able to call anyone. And we daren’t go outside because of the . . . well.”

I nod, understanding perfectly. Who wants to go outside when you’re not sure who will help you and who may kill you?

“All the same, I can’t just stand around here watching him deteriorate,” Mama says, rubbing her forehead as if it aches. Tendrils of hair have escaped from the bun she usually traps them in, and her face looks worn and gray. She can’t have slept in days. My heart swells with worry, and I can feel the Djinn begin to stir. Quickly, I tap my right index finger lightly against my thigh, counting the ornate, patterned tiles set into the floor in threes. I concentrate so hard on this that I barely hear my mother as she continues talking. It’s only once I’ve gotten it right that I emerge from my thoughts into an expectant silence.