The Weight of Our Sky(59)

“Um, sorry, what were you saying, Mama?”

But she isn’t looking at me, she’s zoned straight in on my finger. My heart skips a beat. Hurriedly, I jam my hands into my pinafore pockets and rearrange my expression to what I hope is a thoughtful, contemplative look.

“I was saying that they have a van here,” Mama says slowly, finally lifting her eyes back up to my face. “The school van, the one they use to pick kids up and send them home. I could go, drive Ethan to the hospital. You’d be safe here with them.”

My heart immediately begins to thump in my chest. “I am not letting you out of my sight again,” I say. The very idea seems to send a shot of adrenaline through the Djinn, who begins to pace restlessly, sending waves of nausea through me. I feel like I may throw up.

“Now, listen, Melati—”

“No, you listen, Mama.” I’ve never interrupted my mother like this before; it’s just not what good Malay girls do. But I think of everything I’ve done and endured to get to this point, and I’m filled with wild, reckless abandon. I fold my arms and set my jaw, staring her straight in the eyes. “I am not going to be separated from you again. If you want to go to the hospital, then I’m going with you.”

Mama sighs in frustration. “Stubborn child.”

I turn to Miss Low. “Does the van work, Miss Low? Does it have petrol and everything?”

She nods. “It should,” she says. “The driver uses it every day.”

“There you go,” I tell Mama. “So that’s what we’ll do. We’ll get him to the hospital.”

My, my, aren’t we feeling brave? The Djinn has been so silent that to hear his voice, low and mocking, is a shock. Right on cue, my head is filled with this journey’s possible outcomes, all ending in Mama’s death. The nausea returns twofold. I am suddenly, achingly desperate to count something.

I can feel Mama’s eyes on me, so I can’t tap with my fingers; instead, I tap my tongue against the backs of my teeth, counting each one as I go, first left to right, then right to left. This time I remember to keep my ears tuned to her voice. Don’t let her catch you, Mel. Don’t let her see you struggle.

“We’ll have to go as fast as we can so nobody can catch us or stop us,” she’s saying, tugging her sleeve absentmindedly; it’s a habit she has when she’s nervous. “I hope I know how to work that thing,” she mumbles to herself.

“Why don’t we go see it?” I say, heading toward the door. “Then you can take a look, get comfortable with it.”

She pauses in the middle of the room, uncomfortable and unsure. “I don’t know. . . .”

She glances down again at Ethan as he stirs in the cot, his lips moving feverishly, uttering words we can barely make out.

When she looks up again, her expression is set, determined. “All right.” She nods curtly. “Let’s go.”

It’s as we’re almost out of the library door that I feel a little tug on my skirt. May stares up at me with huge eyes. “Where are you going, kakak?” she asks, so softly I have to bend close to hear her.

“I’m just going to check on something,” I tell her. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.” Gently, I prize her little hand from the turquoise fabric. “Go wait inside,” I say. The door swings slowly shut, and I can feel her eyes boring holes in my back as I walk away.

? ? ?

Five minutes later, we’re sitting in the school’s dark green van, and my mother is staring at the pedals. “I can do this,” she breathes to herself. “I can do this.”

“Of course you can, Mama.” But she isn’t really listening to me; she’s too busy checking the gear and peering at the mysterious dials behind the steering wheel. I can understand why she’s nervous; Abah taught her to drive ages ago, but he was always the one who took us around in the car. Mama hasn’t actually driven on her own in years.

“Just think of Ethan,” I say, trying to be helpful. She shoots me a lethal look through narrowed eyes, and I shut up immediately, slinking low in the passenger seat. She’s going to crash it, the Djinn says knowingly, leaning back in my chest, slowly crushing the air out of my lungs. She’ll kill herself, and you, and that boy while she’s at it. Right on cue, the image comes: The van, crumpled and in flames; our bodies, limp and splayed on the ground. I suck in a breath and exhale slowly, counting rapidly in my head and blinking on every third count, so that Mama won’t notice.

“Right,” Mama says, interrupting my thoughts, and I quickly sit up, trying to ignore my racing heartbeat. “Right. I think I’ve got it now. Let’s go and get Ethan downstairs quickly.”

Soon, we’re making our way back to the van, Ethan leaning against Mama and Miss Low while I bring up the rear with an armful of blankets and sheets to try and make the van’s hard seats as comfortable as I can. I know he must be in pain, but the boy tries his best not to moan or flinch, and I almost want to cry as I watch him struggle valiantly along, his shirt soaked with sweat.

We settle him as best we can across the back seat, and I tuck a blanket around him so he’s nice and snug. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You’re welcome,” I whisper back, patting his hand and smiling at him.

Mama turns the key and the van’s engine rumbles to life, sending vibrations rippling through the seats. Ethan winces slightly. “Are you all right?” I say, then feel stupid for asking; he’s so obviously in pain. But he tries his best to smile sweetly up at me. “I’m okay, kakak,” he says, echoing May. Not for long, whispers the Djinn.