The Weight of Our Sky(62)

I crumple beneath the weight of his words. Time seems to stop. The barbs come thick and fast, and sharp enough to spill blood. And it’s all your fault, Melati. All of this is your fault. She’d never have been here at all if it weren’t for you. She’d never have left the hospital. She’d never have put her life on the line for her useless, good-for-nothing child.

I can’t listen to this. I can’t. My stomach is churning, my blouse damp with sweat, and all around me the world is spinning too fast for me to focus. I try to tap, to count, but he just keeps going and I can’t seem to block him out. She’s going to die, and it’s your fault. She’s going to die, and it’s your fault. She’s going to die, and it’s your fault. She’s going to die, and it’s your fault.

Your. Fault.

There’s nothing more I can do. The mob is right outside our door, and no numbers in the world will save us now.

Let death come. I don’t care anymore.

I curl up into myself and squeeze my eyes shut as the relentless waves of anxiety and fear come crashing down on me, pounding me over and over again, dragging me out into a cold and unforgiving sea and leaving me to drown.

Except there is a voice calling me, out there at sea, a voice that sometimes sounds like Saf, and sometimes sounds like Vince, and sometimes sounds like Paul McCartney, and sometimes sounds like . . . God?

Remember how far you’ve come, the voice whispers. Remember what you’ve accomplished. Remember who you are. Pictures flash through my mind, but this time they aren’t images of death. They’re images of me: me with Saf, laughing and happy; me with Mama and Abah, our heads bowed in prayer; me helping Auntie Bee hand out food to the neighbors; me with Jay and Vince, ferrying provisions to grateful families; me wrapping Roslan in a sari, our joyous laughter when we realized what we’d pulled off; me approaching armed guards, a determined look on my face, Jee and her baby etched in my mind; me holding May close, protecting her from the mob raging around us.

Me. Just me.

There is a laugh, then, a sound like silver bells tinkling through the air. You are more than your Djinn, the voice whispers. You always have been.

And then I open them again.

He’s gone.

Miraculously, I feel the waves receding, leaving me alone on the shore. The Djinn is silent. In fact—I probe the corners of my mind cautiously, testing all the usual sore spots—he doesn’t seem to be there at all.

In his place, a new feeling begins to grow. It’s been so long since I’ve felt other emotions that it takes me a while to recognize what it is, but eventually it dawns on me that it’s anger. Bright, blazing anger that is slowly spreading until I am fairly burning with rage at the injustice of our situation. It isn’t fair that all we can do is wait for death to claim us. It isn’t fair that children like May and Ethan won’t have the opportunity to grow up and see the world in all its terrible, wondrous beauty. And it isn’t fair that I’ll never get to experience a life where the Djinn isn’t in charge, where Mama and I can be happy.

And suddenly, before I know what I’m doing, I throw the door of the van open and slide out, slamming the door behind me, shutting out Mama’s cries of protest. I take a deep breath, then turn.

I’m right in the middle of two angry mobs with weapons raised, poised to strike, all looking at me as if I’m crazy.

Luckily, I’m used to that.

“Melati?” Frankie is staring at me, disbelief written all over his face. “What are you doing here?”

“You know this girl?” The question comes from the man standing beside him, muscles rippling ominously beneath his plain white T-shirt as he hefts a large wooden club from one hand to the other and back again.

Frankie sniffs. “You could say that.”

“You making friends with Malay scum now, Frankie boy?” The man in white leers at him, and Frankie scowls.

“We aren’t friends,” he says stonily.

“Then how do you know her?” a voice calls out from the other side, and a young Malay man pushes his way through the crowd, brandishing a parang. “Did you try to hurt her, you filthy dog?” An angry murmur rustles through the crowd. “You keep your nasty hands away from our women!”

“Stop it!” I yell, and miraculously, they do. All eyes are on me.

Deep breaths, Melati.

“I know him because his family helped me when all the killing and the violence started. They are Chinese and I’m Malay, and they helped me anyway. Because none of that actually matters!”

I look up at the brilliant blue afternoon sky, trying to marshal my thoughts. “Di mana bumi dipijak, di situ langit dijunjung. Have you heard this before? It means where we plant our feet is where we must hold up the sky. We live and die by the rules of the land we live in. But this country belongs to all of us! We make our own sky, and we can hold it up—together.”

I look around at the sea of faces, and my heart sinks. Because I can see that I’m not really getting anywhere. I think of Mama, and May and Ethan, and Vince and his parents, and my eyes sting with tears. I turn to Frankie.

“Your ma is the one who taught me that, Frankie,” I say, my voice breaking at the memory of Auntie Bee, her warm hugs, her generous smile. “Your mother is one of the kindest, bravest people I’ve ever met. I never got the chance to say that. You tell her thank you for me, okay?”