THE DREAMER'S LAMENT

03. Tiga

EVERY morning the Gunawan family woke differently.

Lea didn't go back to sleep after shubuh, the dawn prayer. She rose immediately from her dzikir, folded her prayer robes and mat, and filled the teapot. Cleaning her hands, she took out vegetables from the refrigerator and began cutting them diagonally, for the oseng-oseng they'd have for breakfast. Sometimes when the knife sliced too near her ring finger, Lea contemplated trying to crack her gold wedding band with it. Her eyes watered, not because of the onions.

Half an hour after reciting Ar-Rahman, Mahra clambered off her bed and began cleaning the floor of their apartment. She passed her parents' bedroom, noted the AC still whirring and the shadow of a trudging father returning from the bathroom to slither once again under the covers. She scowled. Hatred burned beneath her breastbone. Her fingers clenched around the broomstick. But she didn't barge into the room and berate her father like she'd been imagining in the frequent flint-striking times when aversion boiled her blood.

Oldest daughter and mother bid good mornings and kisses on the cheek at the kitchen. Mahra glimpsed her mother's glassy gaze. Leaning the broom on the counter, Mahra folded her mother in the warmth of her shorter arms, her smaller chest. She was getting taller; merely an inch shy of her mother's height. Her mother laughed softly, the faint joy in her eyes betrayed by a wet sniff of her nose.

"Are you the mom and I'm the child?" Lea joked.

Mahra giggled. "I just want you to know that I'm not going anywhere."

Maia stirred to a lazy sun buzzing heat into her bedroom. It was nine in the morning. She jolted up, a mussed blanket strewn everywhere. "I'm late!" Leaping to the door, Maia wrenched it open, flew to the balcony to snatch her towel, and stormed into the bathroom.

Around eight, Arief had already moved from his bed but retired to the living room sofa, where tucked under a Lightning McQueen blanket and a Captain America bolster hugged to his tiny chest, his dwarf-like hand reached for the remote and switched the TV on.

Lea and Mahra had already spooned the oseng-oseng into a clay bowl, set out the porcelain plates and silver cutlery. Mahra fetched milk from the refrigerator, placed it on the counter, beside a Kellogg's honey cornflakes. Lea took out a bottle of pepper and tomato ketchup, despising herself for paying attention to her neglecting husband's preferences when eating.

Niko stretched on their bed, finding a crinkled emptiness on his left side. He frowned. Instantly, his mood soured. The entire night's kisses and panting breaths became suddenly meaningless. Compared to his nights with Shira--

No. That was years ago. Before he even realised Lea existed.

His heart heavy and sluggish, Niko showered and dressed, then dragged his feet to the kitchen.

Everybody was already abuzz with activity. Scooping rice on her plate, Mahra hissed at Maia for waking up late - "again!" Eyes entranced by Paw Patrol on TV, Arief slurped his cornflakes and milk messily, spraying white on the table-top each time his spoon missed his mouth.

When Niko's gaze landed on his wife, portioning the oseng-oseng on plates, he didn't see Lea. He saw Shira, long dark hair cascading around her high-cheeked face, framing her teasing eyes and plump lips. He imagined a household life with her, if only her parents hadn't decided to cut off their marriage short to a month, banning him from ever seeing her again.

"Mas, let's eat--"

Niko was jerked out of his train of thoughts. Lea was staring at him. "Come, I made oseng-oseng." When his eyes flicked to the clay bowl, there wasn't anything interesting in there. If Shira had been the one cooking, she'd have wagyu beef diced and whisked into mouth-watering rendang.

Maia had finished gorging her plate and was reaching for more, but Lea slapped her hand gently. "Save some for your father," Lea told her, playful reprimanding dancing in her brown-eyed gaze. Maia's mischief glimmered dully in her own, though she withdrew and grinned cheekily under Mahra's glare. Lea pushed a plate toward Niko.

Niko pivoted from the dining table, not even touching his plate. Held in his eyes, like frozen in amber, were disappointment and anger and hatred and disgust. "I'm not hungry."

Hurt pricked Lea's heart. "But--"

"Let the kids eat." His laptop was already in his backpack - perfect. Without wasting a second, Niko snapped his wristwatch over his pulse, blood streaming cold and still and unsatisfied. He walked to the door, shoved his feet into a pair of grey socks and then Skecher trainers. Lea's hands trembled, but he didn't notice. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Niko did not kiss his wife or his children; it was as if he was never there. The shadows and the seconds were snipped and stolen, missing time slipping through fingers as easily as sand - and then.

And then, he was gone. Out the door. The bolt swinging back and forth, chain chinking on wood. A hollow, ringing sound - something of a presence abruptly sheared into a stark absence. A shadow that was there one moment, glaringly gone the next.

Oblivious, Maia hollered a "Yay!" and added more food on her plate. Mahra's attention carefully stayed fixed on the scene, hand pausing on the edge of the table. Her mother didn't move from her place, and Mahra only saw with swelling guilt the tightening of her beringed fingers around the broad rice spoon. The hundred shards of glass fracturing in her once steady ebony stare.

That broken gaze constantly reminded Mahra, that love could be destructive. It took slowly, quietly, and painfully, little by little, and then all at once.