As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (35)

“Obviously.”

“Stay here. I’ll go get you the antibiotics.”

He laughs humorlessly. “I’m not leaving my daughter, Salama. Not when her life is in your hands.”

I walk away, quickly wiping the tears forming in my eyes, and press my shaking hands to my chest.

What did I do?

Before going back to get the medications, I wash my hands. I scrub until the red isn’t from blood but from rawness as my skin protests with discomfort.

Then, alone in the tiny stockroom, I clutch my stomach and sink to the ground. My trembling doesn’t stop, and the tears, spurred by my mountain-sized guilt, blur my vision. What would Mama say? Hamza? My brother, who was going to be a resident at this hospital?

I used a little girl’s life as collateral. I risked her life.

“You did what you had to do,” Khawf says behind me. “And it worked. Hamza would understand. And even if he didn’t, these are dangerous times. You need to live.”

“Samar could have died.” I hiccup. “I was going to have an innocent girl’s murder on my conscience.”

“But she didn’t,” Khawf points out. “She’s alive, and you have your boat. Now get up, wipe your nose, and give Am his antibiotics for today. This is all for Layla, remember?”

Layla. Would she understand? Or would she be filled with horror? I can never tell her.

Khawf taps his foot. “You have to leave. If word of this gets out, what do you think Dr. Ziad would do? Your reputation will be sullied.”

When I hand Am the antibiotic pills, he shakes his head at me like he still can’t believe what happened. Neither can I. I feel like a spectator hovering outside my body, watching my muscles move on their own.

I scurry back to my stockroom, passing by Dr. Ziad, who smiles, and my shame deepens. I shouldn’t be allowed here. I shouldn’t be trusted with people’s lives.

Alone in the refuge of the musty stockroom, I sob quietly as I stack the rest of the medications.

“Daisies… Da—daisies… sweet… sweet smelling—” My voice breaks and tears drip on the floor beside my feet as a horrible realization dawns on me.

I may escape from Syria. My feet could touch European shores, the waves of the sea lapping against my shivering legs and the salt air coating my lips. I would be safer.

But I won’t have survived.





WHEN I FINISH MY SHIFT, I FIND KENAN STANDING beside the front door, fiddling with his camera with a concentrated look on his face. I stop in my tracks to admire it: an expression that isn’t lined with worry or pain or shame. One that reminds me of late spring afternoons. Something about the way he stands there so casually in his wool sweater creates that aching feeling in my stomach for the might life that was robbed from me. From us.

In that life, I’d train here and he’d be waiting for me on the steps of the hospital, doodling in his sketchbook. He’d treat me to booza at Al-Halabi Desserts and tell me about the quaint Japanese town he wants us to move to. He’d teach me a few Japanese characters, chuckling at my awkward pronunciation. But he’d be patient until I said them right, beaming proudly at me. He’d quiz me on my next pharmacology exam. But we’d quickly get distracted, falling into another conversation. I’d tell him about the stories I have in my mind that are inspired by Studio Ghibli. That I, too, find little bits of magic in our world and amplify them in my stories.

“Hey,” I say, and he jumps, but smiles when he sees me. “Is something wrong? Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m okay. Are you done with your shift?”

“Yes?”

“Good.” He straightens and I have to tilt my head back a bit to look him in the eyes. “I’m taking you home.”

Oh my God.

“You don’t have to do that.”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to keep paying me back for saving Lama. Taking me home means you’re spending more time outside. As a target.”

My palms start sweating with the way he’s staring at me. It’s as if he’s tuned everyone out and I’m the only one here.

“Salama.” My heart skips a beat when he pronounces my name. All soft and warm. “I want to do this.”

Well, if he wants to, the foolish part whispers to me, then let him.

“Unless I’m bothering you,” he says hastily, his face stricken with panic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even realize—”

I shake my head quickly. “No, you’re not. I promise.”

He smiles hesitantly and every worry flies out of my head.

We walk side by side, our footsteps echoing over the gravel, the sounds magnified against my ears. The rustling of dead leaves, a sad bird’s cries atop the bare branches, and the faint arguing of people standing outside their houses. I can hear each breath he takes, and my heartbeat is deafening against my eardrums.

I glance at my hands and see splotches of red pigmenting my skin. Red like Samar’s blood. I bite back a shriek because I’m sure I washed my hands. I spent ten minutes doing it. When I look again, the red is gone, but the sounds all around me are still screaming: murderer.

“Salama.” Kenan’s voice cuts through the shrieks and I stop, gasping in a sharp breath.