As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (15)

“Are you hurt?” I ask through silent tears.

He doesn’t stop singing, but his voice is lower. I check his pulse; it’s slow and unnatural. I don’t see any wounds.

“Are you hurt?” I ask again, urgently. At this rate, his heart will stop.

He turns toward me. “My name is Ahmad. I’m six years old. Can you help me find my mama?” he says quietly. His eyes, deep blue, are sunk so far into his skull, I’m scared they’ll vanish.

He’s in shock. I take off my lab coat, put it around him. I warm his hands in mine and kiss them.

“Yes, habibi. I will find your mama. Can you tell me if you’re in pain?”

“I feel funny.”

“Where?”

“My head. I feel… sleepy”—he coughs roughly—“and my chest… I don’t know.”

Internal bleeding.

I yell for Dr. Ziad. The doctor hurries to my side and checks Ahmad’s pulse. Ahmad tells him he’s thirsty while Dr. Ziad inspects his head. Extreme thirst can only mean one thing. With a deep sigh, he shakes his head.

“What does that mean?” I demand. “Are you giving up on him?”

“Salama, we don’t have a neurosurgeon. No one here knows how to operate on internal bleeding in the brain.” His tone is grave, full of regret.

“What? So, we’re just going to let him…?” I hiss but can’t get the horrible word out. I don’t want Ahmad to hear it.

Dr. Ziad wipes back Ahmad’s hair from his forehead. There are droplets of sweat coating it. I swallow the bile in my throat.

“Are you in pain, son?” he asks.

Ahmad shakes his head.

“Adrenaline and shock. He doesn’t need morphine. We can’t do anything except make his last moments better.”

“I’m going to do a blood transfusion.” I turn around to where we stack the equipment. As an O-negative, I’m a universal donor. We have a manual device Dr. Ziad made to donate blood to the patients because the transfusion machines don’t always work. Not with the electricity shortage. “I can give him my blood. I’ll give him—”

“It won’t help,” he says in a pained tone.

“Dr. Ziad—” He holds up a hand, interrupting me.

“Salama, it won’t. If I could give my life so this boy would be safe and well and healthy, I would. But I can’t. I can’t help him. But I can help the little girl whose intestines are all over the floor. We can’t save everyone.”

He leaves before I can yell.

“Auntie—” Ahmad begins softly, stopping to gasp for breath.

“Yes, habibi?” I turn around and clasp his hands back into mine. If you live, I’ll take care of you, I vow. Just live. Please. Just live.

“Am I going to die?” he asks, and I see no fear. Do all six-year-olds know what death is? Or is it only children of war? My hands shake.

“Are you scared of death?” I reply instead.

“I—” He coughs, and a hint of red drips from his lips. My God. “I don’t know. Baba’s dead. Mama said he’s in Heaven. Will I go to Heaven too?”

I shudder in a breath. “Yes, you will. You’ll see your baba there.”

He smiles gently.

“Alhamdulillah,” he whispers. “What can I do in Heaven, Auntie?”

How can a child have so much composure in the face of death?

I swallow my tears, drowning inwardly. “You will play all day. There are games and food and candy and toys and everything you could ever want.”

“Can I talk to God too?”

I’m taken aback by his question. “Of… of course you can, ya omri.”

“Good.”

We sit silently for a few minutes, and I listen as his lungs struggle. Already his eyes are losing focus, his breaths becoming shallower by the second.

I pray for his soul and recite Quran verses in a whisper.

“Auntie—don’t cry—when I go to Heaven—I’ll tell God—everything,” he chokes out. I look up, and his face has gone still. His eyes are glassy, and it looks like little stars are caught in his blue irises.





I DON’T MOVE FROM AHMAD’S BODY FOR A LONG time. I don’t even let go of his hands. Pressing them to my lips, I try to will life into him again. The background noises are muted in my ears. All I hear, stuck on repeat like a broken cassette: I will tell God everything.

Gooseflesh erupts on my neck, and I’m chilled to the bone. I half expect God’s wrath to strike down.

A hand taps on my back. I ignore it. I don’t even hear what the person is saying.

“Hey!” The tapping increases and borders on annoying. I’m grieving a boy I never knew, but who I let down.

“What?” I snap, turning around.

It’s a boy. My age or older. He’s panting and shaking. His hands can’t keep steady; they’re running over his face and tawny curls; his green eyes are wild. He looks familiar and it takes me a second to realize it’s the boy from yesterday, who was carrying a little girl in his arms.

“Please… please! You have to help me.” He jumps over his words, shoulders trembling.

His tone jerks me back to reality. Ahmad may have died, but the living are still here. I push my grief down into the dark edges of my mind. I’ll deal with it later.