“There you are,” Noorie said, sliding into the seat across from her.
“What are you having?”
“Fish and chips,” N grinned.
“Banana split later, of course. You?”
“Just ice cream. I needed something cold.” N nodded.
“So… they’re off?”
“Yep.” Noorie exhaled. “Plane took off an hour ago.”
“She’ll be fine,” N said. “It’s her first time flying, right?”
“Yeah. First flight. First time leaving the country. She was trembling at the gate. And my father… can you believe it? The night before, he showed her a news clip about a plane crash. She didn’t sleep after that.”
N laughed gently. “Maybe he thought he was preparing her. Old-school logic.”
“Or old-school fear.” Noorie smiled. “But she went anyway. That’s the point. She was scared… and she went.”
“She’ll come back a different person.”
“She will,” Noorie said softly. “There’s a spark in her. She doesn’t know it yet. But she will.”
The café around them was calm, filled with clinks of cutlery and murmurs of lazy conversations. Sunlight poured through the window, catching the edges of Noorie’s expression tired, thoughtful, a little wiser.
N sipped her drink. “You always see people, you know that? Not just their smiles or their fears—but what’s hidden in between.”
“I try.” Noorie looked out the window. “But sometimes I wonder if I’ve missed seeing myself.” There was a pause. N didn’t speak. She let her friend carry it forward. “Everything I thought was fixed… has shifted,” Noorie said. “Family. Faith. Even love. And now it’s just space. Like a vacuum.”
“Space can be good,” N said. “It gives you room to move. To breathe.”
“Or to disappear,” Noorie replied. “But maybe I needed to disappear for a while… to survive.” They were quiet for a moment.
“You’ve been through so much,” N said gently.
“So have you.” Noorie smiled, and for a moment, her eyes were bright again.
“But here we are. Still showing up. Still talking about plane rides and ice cream.”
“And the people we love.”
“Yes.” Noorie nodded. “And the ones we’re still learning how to let go.”
N reached out, touching her hand briefly. “You’re not the same Noorie I knew a year ago.”
“Good.” Noorie breathed. “I didn’t come this far to stay the same.” Outside, a breeze rattled the café’s hanging sign. Inside, two women sat side by side, not just sharing a meal—but a moment, a chapter, a quiet understanding that some stories don’t end—they evolve. A pause.
“How’s your second brother now?” the woman asked gently. Her voice had softened.
Noorie let out a slow breath. “He’s someone I can never quite figure out. Honestly… I don’t think religion made him kinder. Just louder.” The air grew still between them—not uncomfortable. Just weighty. Real.
“One evening,” Noorie went on, “I was walking home from work. I bumped into one of my father’s cousins—the one who arranged the marriage with my stepmother.” She stared into her cup, stirring it more out of habit than need.
“They told me things. Things about my brother. What he’s done. Maybe some of it was exaggerated. But even if it wasn’t… I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“What happened?” the woman asked softly. Noorie hesitated. “It all unraveled after my mother passed away. Everything became a blur. You know how it is.” She sat back.
“It’s strange, right? When someone else’s mother dies, you feel sad for them. You say all the right things. But deep inside, you’re detached. You still think—death happens to other people. Not to your own.” She paused, searching for words.
“But when it does happen… when it hits home—it’s like the ground gives way. You’re walking. Talking. Functioning. But none of it registers.” N nodded. She understood.
“It took me a long time to accept she was really gone,” Noorie said. Her voice was quieter now. “And I’m a nurse. I see death. I handle emergencies. I thought I’d cope better than the rest.” She gave a hollow, weary laugh. “But I didn’t.”
N reached for her cup, held it but didn’t drink. “She died suddenly, right?” she asked. “Pulmonary edema?”
“Yes.” Noorie’s gaze drifted. “She was at the hawker centre. Having her ice kacang. Buying dinner for us. Then she just… collapsed.” A long, heavy beat. “We weren’t prepared,” she whispered. “I wasn’t prepared.” She gave a hollow laugh. “And I’m a nurse. You’d think I could handle it better than the rest of the family. But I didn’t. I took it harder. It felt personal. Like I’d failed her somehow.”
Her voice cracked. Just slightly. “I pretended I was okay… kept going back to work, kept busy. But every time I talked about her, I’d break down. Even now—” She stopped. Blinked rapidly. Swallowed the grief that rose in her throat.
N leaned forward, her voice gentle. “The police suspected foul play, didn’t they? Because she was brought in dead?”
“Yes.” Noorie nodded slowly. “When someone collapses on the way to the hospital and doesn’t make it—it's classified as a brought-in-dead case. That automatically triggers a police investigation. And any police case becomes a coroner’s case.”
“But they didn’t do a postmortem?”
“No. I appealed to the investigating officer. He was understanding. I brought in everything—her x-rays, medical notes, appointment cards. She was a known heart patient. Left bundle branch block. Angioplasty already scheduled.”
Her voice grew soft. Distant. “All I wanted was for her to go peacefully.”
N was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, “Did you know… she was in contact with your brother?”
Noorie froze. “The missing one?” she asked, her voice sharp.
“Yes.” Her posture stiffened. Her eyes narrowed.
“Are you saying… you think she was poisoned?”
“I’m not saying anything for sure,” N replied calmly. “Only… possibilities. You managed to convince the coroner not to proceed. That means the truth—whatever it was—was buried with her.”
“But why would anyone want to poison her?”
“They wanted him. But they were watching. We were watching too. They assumed you would be the one to try to make contact because of the company. They were wrong.” Noorie said nothing. Her face unreadable.
“Sometimes,” the woman continued, “when people are angry enough, they don’t think straight. And a lot of people were very angry with your brother.” Noorie finally spoke. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
“At that time… none of that crossed my mind. She had heart problems for years. She was on daily meds. Any stress could have triggered the pulmonary edema.” She looked away, toward something unseen.
“I just wanted her to go in peace.”
“So… what happened with the court case?” the woman asked, gently stirring her drink. “The one where you were called in as a prosecuting witness. The phone-tapping incident. Did you follow up?”
Noorie shook her head. “No. I didn’t.” She paused, her fingers slowly tracing the rim of her glass. “Right after court, I went home. Never looked back. I just wanted it done with.” She gave a dry laugh.
“The investigating officer called me later. Said they wanted to process payment for my attendance.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him, ‘Keep it.’ I wasn’t in that courtroom for money. It wasn’t even voluntary, but it sure as hell wasn’t about payment either. Honestly… the whole thing just makes me angry now.”
“Angry with who?”
“The officer,” she said. “He called me out of the blue, asked me to come in. First thing he told me when I walked into his office? ‘If you don’t testify, you could be charged.’”
“Charged? For what?”
“I don’t even know. Failing to cooperate? Withholding information? But I didn’t have any information. It was my mother who made the original complaint—about the home phone line acting up. She thought it was a fault. That’s it.”
She exhaled. “I happened to be home the day the Telecom guy came. He checked the line, said it should be okay now. That’s all. No mention of tampering. I checked—it worked. End of story. I didn’t even catch his name. I wouldn’t recognise him if he walked past me.”
“And yet they made you a witness.” “They said I had to be there. So I showed up. But sitting in court—it felt like a performance. A farce. Like I was there to tick a box.” “Was it the guy they arrested for tapping your line?”
“I think so. The technician said I wasn’t the one he spoke to. And I said I wasn’t sure he was the one who came. That was our big revelation.” The woman took a sip of her drink, then glanced up.
“You know he was paid, right? Someone paid him to tap your phone. Don’t you want to know who?” Noorie didn’t flinch. Her voice was calm. But final.
“No. I don’t.”
“Really?”
“My brother is still missing,” she said. “The company’s gone. My mother’s dead. My father has remarried.” She looked the woman in the eye.
“Whatever this was—it’s over. I want names and justice. I just want peace.” A pause.
“I’m tired. I want to bury all of it behind me… and move on.” The woman leaned in, her voice lower now.
“There’s something I want to bring to your attention. About your mother.” Noorie looked up, cautious.
“What about her?”
“You know she spent a lot of time at the Johor house, right? Alone. Often. Did you ever wonder what she was doing there?” Noorie shook her head slowly.
“No…”
“We know she made contact with your brother.” Noorie stilled. “She left the house in the middle of the night. Not once. Several times.” Her voice softened.
“No… I didn’t know that.”
“We tracked some of it. She never stayed long. A few nights at most. Always quiet. Always careful.” Noorie blinked, her voice barely audible.
“But… I was told he was in Indonesia. Not at the Thai border like people said.”
“Yes. Indonesia.”
“But how? How did she get to him?”
“Through Bantam,” the woman said. “There’s a boat from Johor. Quiet. Unmonitored. It runs between there and Bantam.”
Noorie didn’t reply. A memory surfaced. Gentle. Distant. Disorienting. Dad had walked the guests to the door. Her mother sat near the sofa, silent. Distant.
Somewhere else entirely. She remembered watching her—something in her posture, in the way she stared into nothing. Not upset. Not confused. Just… still. She had felt it then. Something wasn’t right. Does she know? she had asked herself. Now she knew the answer. She already knew. She had gone to him.
Found him. Held him in secret. Protected him. Loved him—still—despite everything he had done. And she never told her daughter. The woman hesitated, then leaned in further.
“There’s one more thing. One night… we saw her come back to the Johor house with a black bag.” Noorie frowned.
“A black bag?”
“Yes. Do you know what was in it?”
“What kind of bag?”
“Medium-sized. Not new. Worn handle. Leather, I think. Slung over her shoulder. Heavy.” Noorie's eyes darkened. Her voice lowered.
“I think I know the one.” She paused, her mind reaching for the memory. “I saw her once… sitting on the edge of the bed. It was late. I’d just come out of the bathroom. She didn’t see me at first.” Her voice dropped. “She was counting money. Neat stacks. Not coins—notes. So many of them. I stood frozen by the door.” A breath.
“Then she looked up, startled. Closed the bag fast. She said it was just some old savings… told me not to worry.” She stared ahead, her voice suddenly distant.
“I never saw that bag again.”
N asked quietly, “Do you think it was his money?” Noorie didn’t answer.
Because deep down, she already knew. He didn’t take it with him. The money—whatever it was, wherever it came from—stayed behind. With her. She looked at the woman across the table. Her chest felt tight. “What happened to it?” she whispered.
“Did she… hide it? In JB house?” The woman didn’t respond. And in the silence, Noorie realised the question wasn’t meant for anyone else. It was hers to answer.
“You know…” Noorie began quietly, “I’m just really tired. I want to move on. I want to put all of this behind me.” She looked down at her hands.
“I went back to work like usual. But I was worried. About my father. He was so attached to my mother. Depended on her for everything. And when she died… he became a broken man.” Her voice softened.
“He wasn’t the same person anymore. Every time I left for work, I worried—whether he ate, whether he was sleeping, whether he even left the house. My younger brother was busy with work. So most of the time, Dad was alone.”
She paused. “Even while working, I’d call him. Just to ask what he was doing. Whether he’d eaten. I could tell—he was lonely.” The woman nodded gently.
“Yes…”
“Then one day,” Noorie continued, “almost a year after my mother passed… I came home from work. He looked so different. Brighter. There was this lightness in his face I hadn’t seen in a long time.” She smiled faintly at the memory.
“He said he wanted to talk. Then this woman’s name came up. Someone introduced by his cousins. They felt sorry for him. Thought he needed company.”
“And how did you feel?”
"I was happy,” she said without hesitation. “Truly. He looked alive again. I thought—finally, someone’s there for him when I’m not. I could breathe easier.” She looked at her friend.
“That’s all it was about. Reassurance. Companionship. Peace. But my second brother… he couldn’t see it that way. I don’t know why.” The woman frowned.
“He got angry?”
“I was in my room,” Noorie said. “I heard him come in. Heard his voice—sharp, angry. My father had told him about the woman. That he wanted to remarry.” Her jaw tightened.
“He exploded. Accused my father of being selfish. Said things I’ll never forget.”
“Like what?” Noorie hesitated, then spoke slowly. “He said… ‘You’re already old. Always falling sick. Why are you still thinking of remarrying? You’ll just become a burden to her.’”
N’s eyes widened. “He said that? To his own father?”
“Yes.” Noorie’s voice dropped. “I heard it all. Every word.”
“I wanted to step out. I wanted to confront him. I wanted to say something. But I didn’t. I stayed quiet. Not out of fear—but because I didn’t want to make it worse.” She shook her head slowly.
“Whatever respect I had for my second brother… it died that night.” There was a long pause between them. Then Noorie said, almost in a whisper,
“Sometimes I wonder if we were even raised in the same household.” The woman turned to her. “We carry the same name, the same blood. But our hearts… our values… they feel like strangers to each other.” She leaned back in her chair, gaze unfocused.
“He prays five times a day. He calls himself righteous. But what kind of righteousness makes a man shame his own father for wanting companionship?”
“Did they come for the solemnization ceremony?”
“Nope,” Noorie replied. “Not even a phone call. They've kept their distance ever since. No contact with my father. Nothing with my stepmother either.” She took a breath, steadying her voice.
“Instead, my second brother—he went to our father’s cousin’s house. Picked a fight. Accused them of trying to make us forget our mother.”
“Forget?” the other woman raised her eyebrows. “Yeah. He said he could’ve found a better wife for my father. Like marriage was some business deal.”
Noorie shook her head. “He blamed everyone. Everyone but himself.”
“Sad.”
“And my stepmother—poor woman—she got caught in all of it. She knew nothing about the arrangement, but they pointed fingers at her anyway.”
“What did they accuse her of?”
“Trying to take over my mother’s property. Said she wanted it for her son. That she married my father just to get a share of the house.” Noorie’s voice tightened.
“It broke her.” The woman’s eyes softened. “She just wanted peace.”
“She’s simple. Life hasn’t been kind. Widowed with several children. Two of her sons—drug addicts. She’s spent most of her life in survival mode. And now… she’s suddenly got a husband again. A new family. One completely different from hers.” Noorie’s tone gentled.
“We didn’t need mothering. And she didn’t know how to mother us. The first few months were awkward. But she tried. You could see it. She wanted to be a good wife. A good stepmother.” There was a pause.
“My second brother still hasn’t forgiven me.”
“Forgiven you? For what?”
“For supporting the marriage.” She exhaled. “When he found out Dad wanted to remarry, he told everyone—‘Don’t worry, Noorie will never agree. She’s the youngest. She’s close to our father. She’ll stop him.’ He was sure of it.”
“But you didn’t.” “No. I supported it. And when he found out, he went ballistic. Called me kurang ajar. Disrespectful.”
“He’s… complicated.” “Maybe. Maybe he thinks I betrayed our mother. That by allowing someone else to step into her place, I dishonoured her memory.” The woman tilted her head.
“But have you?” Noorie shook her head gently.
“No. I’m still deeply attached to my mother. But she’s gone. She’s not coming back. And I don’t believe in glorifying her in death when we ignored her in life.”
Her voice trembled, but didn’t break. “What’s the point of building marble graves, spending thousands, when during her life you hardly visited? Barely called?”
N nodded slowly. Noorie’s gaze dropped. “I still feel her, you know. She’s alive in me. No grave—no gold-plated headstone—can replace that.”
She hesitated, then whispered: “One day, I’ll take that journey. The one that leads back to her. Not to a physical place… but to a space where I can finally understand it all. The choices. The silence. The pain.”
"how about that journey to Kuala Lumpur. You have the names right"
"yes, I'm going to find those people" Noorie remarked.
"Great. I can link you up with our friend in Kuala Lumpur. She's staying here now. She will help you"
N smiled, a quiet knowing in her eyes. “The Journey Back to Mother thereafter ” Noorie nodded, her eyes fixed on something far away.
“Yes,” she said. “That one.”
Chpt 34 / 36
