As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (31)

“Bloodroot,” I chant. “White petals. Yellow center. Secretes a red fluid. Effective in low doses for respiratory diseases. Bloodroot. Bloodroot. Bloodroot.”

“If that boy changes your mind, Salama,” Khawf continues, “I’ll make it so that you don’t even remember what flowers are.”





THE NEXT DAY DR. ZIAD RUSHES TO ME AS SOON AS I walk in. He’s wearing a smile I haven’t seen in a long time.

“Salama!” he exclaims. “We got a medication shipment. Panadol. Ciprofloxacin. Azithromycin. Even morphine!”

My mouth drops open, my heart lifting until it’s soaring through the clouds. If life were normal, it would have been part of my daily duties to update Dr. Ziad on the medication restock. Dispensing, counseling, and inventory would be my domain. Restocking would be boring at best. Not cause for celebration. “How?”

“The FSA was able to smuggle it,” Dr. Ziad says. He runs a hand through his hair, and there’s a certain hopeful energy coming off him. “We put the boxes in the medication stockroom for you.”

I beam. “I’m on it.” The hospital is brighter today. The patients’ faces, though still tired and pained, show some degree of happiness. Or maybe that’s just my imagination.

Before I race off, Dr. Ziad holds out an arm. “You left the hospital a bit suddenly yesterday. Is everything okay? Are you eating well? Sleeping? Do you need anything?”

“I’m all right,” I say. And in this moment, surrounded by patients, it doesn’t feel like a lie. For now, I’m all right. I’m just all right.

If he doesn’t believe me, he doesn’t show it.

To distract him, I tell him about Lama and how the surgery went well. His face brightens and he praises my quick thinking.

“Well done,” he says, smiling.

I skip to the stockroom, my steps lighter than before, forgetting all about the nightmares that dragged me down last night. Today is a good day. It will be a good day insh’Allah.

The cardboard boxes are wrinkled, the corners squished, but when I open them, the medications are all intact. They’re cool to the touch, and I hug a whole bottle of children’s acetaminophen syrup to my chest. We’ll be able to soothe their fevers.

“I heard we got a restock,” a voice says from the doorway, and I turn around to see Nour. Her round face shines with delight. Nour was part of the custodial staff for three years before she was promptly promoted to a nurse when the first martyrs were wheeled into the hospital. It was from Nour that I first learned how to stitch wounds, fashion makeshift bandages, and drain fluid out of patients’ lungs. Her nerves are made from steel, and her heart is softer than feathers.

I wave a flucloxacillin box. “You heard right!”

She ululates and I laugh. The joy sounds strange against my ears, but I welcome it.

“I have to check on a patient but I needed to see this miracle myself.” She smiles. “If you need any help, look for me.”

“I will.”

She leaves. I stack the empty shelves for a while, then look up at the clock. It reads 10:13 a.m.

Kenan.

I told him to be here at nine, but he still hasn’t shown up. To dispel some of the anxiety I’m feeling, I decide to take a quick spin around the hospital. Maybe he’s here but can’t find me. I casually go from room to room but can’t find him anywhere, so I return to the stockroom. Worry reclaims its place in me and I try not to think of all the reasons he’s not here. His sister is still recovering and she probably needed him. I send a quick prayer for her health to be restored. Maybe I can pass by their apartment with a Panadol strip after my shift. A part of me—a foolish, hopeful part that has somehow survived everything—is happy I’d get to see Kenan again.

I shake my head. This is not the time for my selfish thoughts of a might life and a tall boy with warm, vivid green eyes.

“Good morning,” Kenan says from behind me, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

My heart pounds like thunder. I turn around slowly, giving myself time to look calm and collected before he can read all the thoughts written on my face.

The morning chill has coaxed him into wearing a jacket over his old sweater. He leans on the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. His hair is tousled, the ends curling around his ears, and his face is flushed with the cold. An old Canon camera hangs at his side, smudged white at the edges and a bit chipped.

“Good morning,” I answer, commanding my voice to stay calm and not too eager. “You’re late. Is everything okay? How’s Lama?”

He smiles and butterflies flutter in my stomach. “Yes, thank you for asking. Lama’s fever broke, alhamdulillah. Yusuf is doing well too, now that she is. They slept in this morning, and I couldn’t leave before they woke up.”

I fiddle with the antibiotics box in my hands. “Well, I’m glad you’re all good.”

“We are.” He stares at me for a few seconds and I feel the touch of it everywhere.

In our might life where he and I are promised to each other, he’d be standing in front of me now, holding up two fresh halloumi mana’eesh, the melted cheese on the warm bread seeping through the paper wrapping, while supporting two cups of zhoorat tea, the mint leaves filling the air with their freshness. A quick breakfast before we both go on with our day. He’d joke with me and tell me about the dream he had last night. And before he left, he wouldn’t kiss my hand or my cheek because we’re not officially engaged, but he’d give me a smile that feels like he had.