As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (13)

“First off, we can’t all be perfect,” she says, and I finally smile. Satisfied, she continues, “Because I see the love you have for me. I see your sacrifice and your kindness. I focus on the hope rather than counting my losses. I have love in my heart because of you. Because of all the help you gave me when… when they took him away.”

A tear blooms in the corner of her eye, slides down her cheek, and I catch it before it reaches her chin. She lost her parents when the bombs started falling. And then, in the middle of mourning her family, in the span of one week, we lost Mama, Baba, and Hamza. Worst of all, we still don’t know whether Hamza and Baba are alive.

I’d like to believe they’ve died. And I know Layla would too. Death is a far more merciful end than living every day in agony.

“If only everyone in the world were like you,” I murmur.

She lets loose a shaky laugh, and I take her hand to grip it firmly. But a thunderous noise outside makes us jump. Whatever warmth we were feeling evaporates, and the air is cold again. Layla squeezes my hand, her eyes closed. I pray with her that it’s nothing. Please God, let it be nothing. Let it not be a raid! Please!

My heart lodges in my throat for several beats, but when no screams pierce the night, Layla relaxes her grip.

“I think it’s just rain,” she whispers, trying to hide the fear from her voice.

“Better grab the buckets, then.” I get up from the sofa as another thunderclap shakes the night. My head spins a bit, missing the safety Layla’s lap offered.

“And don’t forget to pray. Prayers are answered when rain falls,” she reminds me.

The wind blows past me when I open the veranda door to place the buckets outside. It cools my skin’s hot flush, and my heart begins to migrate back to its proper place in my chest. I inhale as much of the fallen clouds as I can. They’re gray and dense, hopefully bringing protection against the warplanes that could shatter our lives.

After that, I help Layla get ready for bed. She doesn’t sleep in her room anymore. Too much reminds her of Hamza. I haven’t even stepped in there since the day I moved in. I don’t want to see my brother’s clothes hanging from the closet, his favorite watch on the nightstand, and the photograph of his laughing face as he kissed Layla’s cheek during their wedding.

So Layla sleeps on the sofa. I fill it with pillows and blankets. Her eyes are misty, her expression faraway. I know that look. She’s in the past, and I don’t want to jolt her out of her daydream. Even though the memories ache, it’s the only way we get to see our loved ones—replaying their words to us, letting our imaginations magnify or soften their voices however we please. Layla moves purely on muscle memory and then lies back against the pillows.

Finally, her eyes clear and she looks at me. “Salama,” she says as if she didn’t know I’ve been there the whole time.

“Do you need water? Panadol? We can spare some now that you’re in your third trimester,” I say.

“No thank you. The baby’s being very polite today.”

“She’s being considerate of her mama’s feelings.”

“She?” Layla says softly. Her expression lightens.

I nod. “It’s a girl. I can feel it.”

“Really?” Layla rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “And is that a part of your medical detection skills?”

“When you’ve been in the business as long as I have, you get a sixth sense about these kinds of things.” I wink. “Trust me, I’m a pharmacist.”

She smiles. “With my life. And my baby’s.”

“Too much responsibility!” I pretend to crumble, and she laughs. “Thought of any names?”

“Well, when Hamza and I used to discuss names for any future babies, he always thought of boys’ names. Always wanted a boy. He told me that he would be too soft if our firstborn was a girl. That he wouldn’t be able to deny her anything.”

“Oh, we both know Hamza would become a literal carpet for his daughter to step on.”

“Which is why we need to leave,” she whispers. “We can’t let her be born here. If it were just you and me, Salama, I wouldn’t leave my husband. But… it’s his child. It’s my baby.”

My breath hitches and I ball my hands into fists.

Lavender has antiseptic and anti-inflammatory properties. Purple petals. Can be used for insomnia. Lavender. Lavender. Lav—

“You—you were telling me names?” I choke out, and her gaze drops between us.

“Yeah,” she says after a minute. “If it’s a boy, Malik, and if it’s a girl—”

“Salama,” I interrupt.

“How did you know?” she gasps.

I snap back in disbelief. “Um, what? I was joking.”

“I’m seriously going to name her Salama if she’s a girl!”

“And why wouldn’t you? Salama is a great name,” I answer with a goofy smile.

She laughs. “I agree.”

I scoot over and whisper against her stomach. “You’d best be a girl. I love you, little Saloomeh.”

The pain in Layla’s eyes has mostly vanished, but traces still linger. Enough for the guilt to dig its thorns into my heart. I take a deep breath and exhale.

“Good night.” I smooth her hair back and tighten the blanket around her.