As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (22)
“At three p.m. after Friday prayer,” I said in the voice of someone reciting the history of concrete. “I know.”
She chewed her cheek, and in the light where the sun fell on her face, she looked younger. Enough to be mistaken as my twin.
“Why are you anxious?” I laughed. “I thought that was supposed to be my job.”
She sighed. Even though I shared her facial features and the color and softness of her russet-brown hair, our eyes were where the similarities ended. While mine were a mix of hazel and brown, like the bark of our lemon trees, her eyes were deep blue, the color of the sky during twilight. And now they were filled with warmth for me.
“Well, you’re not acting anxious,” she said indignantly. “So, I’m doing it for the both of us.” After a small pause, she said, “Maybe we should postpone.”
“Why?” I had seen his picture on Facebook, and I liked what I saw. I wanted to see if his personality matched his cute face.
“After—” She stopped, took a breath, and continued in a low voice. “I’m not sure if the unrest in Dara’a won’t affect us here in Homs.”
The unrest she was talking about was the government’s kidnapping of fourteen boys—all in their early teens. They were tortured, their fingernails ripped off, and then sent back to their families—all because they’d scribbled “It’s your turn, Doctor” on a wall after the success of the revolutions in Egypt, Tunisia, and Libya. By “Doctor” they meant the president, Bashar al-Assad, who was an ophthalmologist. The irony of a man who was drenched in innocent blood taking a vow to do no harm was not lost on me.
I bit my lip, looking away. No one had spoken about it in university, but I could feel the tension in the air and in the streets. Something had changed. I saw it in the way Baba and Hamza talked at the dinner table.
“Dara’a is miles away from here,” I said quietly. “And… I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Mama grasped my hands in hers and squeezed. “If we show even a small amount of resistance, then… I can’t let them take my babies away.”
“Mama, relax,” I said, wincing a bit when her hold got tight. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes you are,” she said with a sad smile. “If it works out with Kenan tomorrow, my baby girl is going to get married.”
I stared at my devil’s ivy, admiring the veins jutting through the leaves, the intricate details. “Is it really bad there are protests in Dara’a? Who would want to live under the thumb of a government like this? You’ve always told me how Jedee and his brother were taken away and you never saw them again.”
Mama was the one who winced this time, but by the time I turned toward her, there was nothing but serenity on her face.
“Yes, they took my father and uncle.” Her twilight eyes went wet. “They dragged Baba away in front of my sisters and my mother and me. I was only ten, but I’ll never forget that day. I remember hoping he died. Can you believe that?” She stopped, eyes going wide, but I didn’t feel any surprise.
I knew that for fifty years we had lived in fear, trusting no one with the rebellious thoughts in our minds. The government had taken everything from us, stripped away our freedom, and committed genocide in Hama. They’d tried to smother our spirits, tried to torture the fear into us, but we’d survived. The government was an open wound, hemorrhaging our resources for their own gain with their greed and bribery, and yet we persisted. We held our heads high and planted lemon trees in acts of defiance, praying that when they came for us, it’d be a bullet to the head. Because that was far more merciful than what awaited in the bowels of their prison system.
She took a deep breath. “Of course I want justice for my family, Salama. But I can’t lose you or your brother. Not to mention your father and Layla. You four are my world.”
Her eyes glazed over.
“So, um, knafeh?” I said meekly, trying to draw her back to me.
She blinked. “Ah, yes. Knafeh. I got you all the ingredients you’ll need.”
“I’ll make it as soon as I’m done with this.” I smiled. “Why knafeh, though?”
Mama’s lips hid a secret. “Because you’re so good at it and I believe in fate.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She got up and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Nothing, hayati. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Kenan runs a hand over his hair, and my eyes snap back to him, my heart beating painfully against my rib cage.
“I’m right, are—aren’t I?” I stutter, feeling hot in my thin sweater and lab coat. Kenan looks away, cracking his knuckles. “The marriage proposal. The one our mothers set up!”
He grimaces and glances back at me. “When you put it like that, it doesn’t sound very romantic.”
The air feels knocked out of me, and I sink back onto the mattress, hugging my legs. Oh, Layla is going to have a field day with this! I’m hiding in the house of the boy I might have married.
Might.
What a word. It holds infinite possibilities of a life that could have been. So many options stacked one on top of the other, like cards waiting for a player to pick and choose. To try their luck. I see fragments of a life where might happened. Our souls fit together perfectly from our first conversation. The rest of our visits bloom. I count down the seconds until we say I do. We buy a beautiful house in the country, dance in the dusk, travel the world, raise a family, discover new ways to fall for each other every single day. I become a renowned pharmacologist, and he becomes a famous animator. We live a long life together, partners in crime, until our souls meet their Creator.