Fever
After three months of service in disaster-torn Acheh, my Abang finally returned.
“How are you, Abang?”
He answered my 'hi' with a tired smile. We hugged, we kissed, and I helped his luggage into the back of the car. He sat in front and next to me, and we drove home.
“What would you like for dinner, hon?”
“Anything’s fine. I’m not that hungry.”
“Oh, I see. You like airline food that much, huh?” I teased him.
“No”, he countered, rather blandly. “I’m just not that hungry.”
“Oh. Okay then.”
Abang quickly reached for the knob on the car radio and switched it on. He searched for a strong, clear signal. The first few stations were his favorite ones, the usual: classic rock, the new alternatives, Top 40 hits. But he went pass all of them and settled for the one at the farthest end of the spectrum --news radio with a serious talk show on air. He then slouched back into the embrace of his seat. The volume was left knowingly at slightly above mute. Radio’s random, limp voices became our background noise; it was his slow, gentle breathing against the cold, mighty rumble of the engine.
“Think I’ve caught a fever”, he mumbled, feeling his forehead.
“Maybe it’s just your body adjusting to the local heat.”
I turned slightly to look at him, and I saw that his once lively eyes were barely kept open --a thousand-yard stare diffusing into the empty space in front of us. His breathing slow, heavy and almost inaudible. He smelled strange, too. Like that of a stranger. His work shirt seemed worn too many times too much. The sleeves scrunched high, the color faded and pale, the collar wilted and damp. The three-day stub, his face unkempt. Quiet, tired and sad. Oh, is that still you, my Abang?
“Are you okay?”
He came around, and into the formless reflection on the windshield, he smiled.
“I’ma-kay.”
Slowly I realized how cold the steering wheel was, as if it were made of glass.
“Hope I get well soon.”
Abang then sighed heavily, rested his head back, and we drove home in silence.
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