Justin stared out at the buildings and I recalled how his shirt

had gleamed at the mosque. ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘You live in Kampung

Damai, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s it like living there?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re with the Wira group, right?’

‘No.’ There was a hardness to Justin’s voice, his eyes

grew dark.

‘Isn’t everyone there?’

‘Of course not! Just because I live there, doesn’t mean

I’m with them. They’re just this group. I have nothing to do

with them.’

‘Why are you being so sensitive?’

‘I’m not.’ Justin scowled.

‘I see, I just got the impression that everyone there was—’

‘No,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘They’re not.’

Justin frowned even more and I wondered if I had said

something wrong. At the same time, I felt a small window of

hope open. Maybe I just needed to talk to Suzanna. Maybe she

wasn’t really with Wira. ‘I need to go,’ I announced.

‘Are you angry? I just didn’t like the way you assumed that—’

‘No, no, I’m not angry. Thank you,’ I said.

‘For what?’

‘For the chat.’

Justin’s frown slipped away. He tilted his head and some curls

fell over his jaw. Then he smiled. ‘You’re welcome.’

When I reached Suzanna’s house, it smelt like a pinewood forest.

Not from the garden but from the windows. The scent seeped

into the air and became stronger when she opened the door.

‘You’re here!’ She beamed. ‘For a moment, I was worried you

were ignoring me but I guess you must be busy. Come in, come

in.’ She put the kettle on the stove and the flame underneath

sprang to life. ‘Have you had spruce tea before? It’s good for

clearing the mind.’

She bustled about, taking out two cups from the cupboard,

moving here and there, from the kitchen table to the sink, throwing

out scraps and wiping plates as if I came over for tea all the time;

as if there was no nine-year chasm between our lives.

‘Why did you leave?’ I asked. My voice was loud and clear in

the quiet room.

‘What?’

‘Why did you leave Melbourne?’

I watched Suzanna grip the dishcloth in her hand. I did

not take my eyes off her, did not give her any opportunity to

look elsewhere. ‘My father was sick,’ she said softly. ‘He needed

me here.’

‘As in, why didn’t you come back?’

Suzanna’s eyes scanned the room, then flitted back to the

kitchen table. I braced myself for the answer. Inside, I kind of

knew. I thought of that day in the kitchen when I’d come in from

playing in the garden. Suzanna—Mum—had just thrown all the

groceries onto the floor. I still remembered the cornflakes and

oranges all over the tiles. ‘I can’t do this anymore,’ she said. ‘I’m

tired. I’m so tired of it.’

As Pa tried to console her, I remembered my favourite blue

bowl with the puppy face overturned in the corner, the puppy

face with its happy tongue oblivious to the tension in the room,

and I knew it was about me. I always thought that was what killed

her—this tiredness, this burden she had to bear as a parent. But

there she stood in front of me, alive, and I knew now that the

burden had not killed her—it had simply driven her away.

Suzanna frowned and contemplated the cup in hand. ‘It’s

hard to explain,’ she said in a faltering voice. ‘Have you ever felt

like you just had to get away from everything?’

‘Was it that bad?’ I winced.

‘I just felt like I didn’t belong there,’ she explained. ‘I came

back because my father was sick. But the longer I stayed, the more

I felt like it wasn’t right to go back.’

Suzanna bit her lip. ‘I felt like I belonged here.’ Suzanna

said she had missed Melbourne a little when she was here, but

when she was in Melbourne, she missed Malaysia more. She said

Melbourne was quiet, too quiet. She had missed the nightlife in

Malaysia, the food, the people.

‘So you were homesick . . .’ I said.

‘Yes, but it was not just that.’ She scanned the room. ‘Can you

hear that?’

‘What?’

‘You know that sound you hear when you stop to listen to a

place? Like a buzz.’

I pricked up my ears. ‘The children? The cars?’

‘All of it.’ She told me it was the voices, the market, the chink

of a spatula on a wok. All I could hear was the pot bubbling on

the stove.

We spoke for a few minutes more, or more like I watched her

speak; her expressions changed from happy to thoughtful to

wistful. It was only when she put her cup down that the words

began to become clear again.

‘I knew it wouldn’t be fair on you to have you come back

here,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to have a better life.’

‘A better life.’ I repeated her words as if I was turning them

slowly in my mouth.

‘Wasn’t it?’ she asked.

I clutched the strap of my bag and thought of all those

times I had cried myself to sleep, spending days huddled up in

bed. Would it not have been better to know she was somewhere

out there in the great beyond, even if she wasn’t there with me?

‘I don’t understand why you guys had to lie about it.’

Suzanna nodded like she understood, like everything I said

was valid and right. ‘I just wanted to disappear,’ she said. ‘I felt like

I wasn’t fit to be your mum and it was better if I was gone. Maybe

it was a mistake—’

‘I was a mistake?’

‘No, not you. The whole situation. I . . .’

‘You just got tired.’

‘Yes.’ Suzanna’s gaze snapped up. Despite the smooth, shiny

skin, I noticed the bags under her eyes, as if she too had spent

nights tossing and turning, or blinking into the night. She looked

relieved, and then afraid. A deep resentment began to grow in my

chest. ‘I know you’re angry,’ she said. ‘And I don’t expect you to

forgive me but you know what, seeing you that day in front of my

house . . . It was like—’

I stood up. The wind squeezed through the cracks in the

house. Everything told me to flee, to stay far away from all these

lies and get back to my life.