As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (37)

The compliment tastes like cyanide in my mouth, and I swallow the tears. God, I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve his kindness or his dreams.

“We’re here,” he says, and my blue door comes into view.

I take out my keys, hands shaking a bit.

“Hey, listen,” he says, and I look up at him, quickly blanking my face. “I remember you mentioning Layla is seven months pregnant, right?”

“Yes,” I say slowly.

He runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly bashful. “I know we met yesterday. But I’d like to believe in an alternate universe, where this”—he gestures between us—“would have worked out spectacularly. If there’s anything you or she need, please tell me.”

My eyelashes flutter.

When I don’t say anything, he continues, more flustered than ever, “Especially because, you know, there could be snipers or something, and Layla shouldn’t be getting groceries in her condition. And neither should you—”

“Thank you,” I interrupt, and he lets out a relieved sigh. “But Layla doesn’t leave the house anyway.”

He frowns. “Is she all right?”

I nod, fidgeting with the keys. “We had a close call with a sniper last October. Layla was on her way back from the supermarket. Actually, just over there—” I point to the end of the dusty road where a huge electrical pole stands broken in half, the metallic skin of it gleaming in the afternoon light. Rusted blood coats the pavement under it. “Snipers started shooting. She wasn’t the only one there. Three women and one man died that day. Layla and one other child were the only survivors. She hid under a stray chunk of debris until it was safe.” I take a deep breath. The terror I felt that day when I heard there was a military sniper in our neighborhood was unparalleled.

I had run back home, not a care in the world for my safety. All I could hear was Hamza’s plea replaying in my brain like a broken cassette. His voice beseeching me to save his wife. I arrived to find the aftermath of blood trickling down the streets between the glass shards and rubble. The martyrs had been carried away to the graveyard. Only a soul-crushing silence was left, as if the essence of this corner in Old Homs were shell-shocked. My legs could barely propel me to the front door before I flung it open.

And Layla was there, sitting on the floor with her back to the peeled wallpapered wall, sobbing. Her face was tear-stained, small cuts on her forehead and arms. When I hugged her, she smelled of rubble, smoke, and blood, but it didn’t matter. She was alive.

“You’re alive,” I choked through my cries, pressing her closer. “You’re alive.”

It was from that day on that Layla became adamant about leaving Syria.

“Oh my God,” Kenan whispers. “That is… I can’t begin to imagine.”

“Yes,” I reply and tighten my hold on the keys until it starts to hurt. “You can imagine, Kenan. That time it was Layla, and it was only by God’s mercy that she walked away unharmed. Today, tomorrow, in two weeks, it could be Lama or Yusuf. But they might not be so lucky.”

Kenan looks stricken but I don’t push him anymore. I hope the sniper victims, the family he talked to, and now my own story will slowly begin to crack through his resolve. These newfound feelings of fear need time to grow from vague, chaotic forms into solid thoughts and decision-making. All I can do is try to spell out those thoughts for him.

“I think,” I say in a loud, clear voice, and he straightens up. “I think your adventure doesn’t have to end here.”

His eyes soften and I see gold circling his irises. For another moment, we stare at each other, and I finally realize that this boy with the old sweater and the disheveled brown hair who wears his heart on his sleeve is beautiful. Standing in the middle of this ravaged, torn city, he is beautiful and real.

I wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s continuing the sentence that I’m too shy to say. That he could find his Sheeta. Somehow his smile tells me he is.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” he asks, his voice warm, like a cup of zhoorat tea. There’s no pink coloring his cheeks now, only a vast calm like we’re not on borrowed time but have eternity stretching in front of us.

“Yes, definitely,” I reply, smiling.





“SO AM, OUT OF THE KINDNESS OF HIS HEART, AGREED to one thousand dollars and a gold necklace?” Layla leans against my doorway with her arms folded. “For the both of us? Like a ‘buy one get one free’ kind of deal?”

I shrug. “What can I say? I told him about your swollen feet and how you’re starving. You’re an excellent bargaining chip.”

“So he knows I’m pregnant?” she says, still staring suspiciously. “Shouldn’t that cost more or something?”

“Yes, he knows,” I reply. “And no he didn’t say anything about a pregnancy costing more. And I’m not going to be dumb about this, Layla. I’m giving him five hundred dollars tomorrow and the other half plus the gold necklace when we’re at the boat.”

She blows out a puff of air. Her hair slips from its bun, auburn wisps falling to her shoulders. Her freckles are nearly invisible in the dying sunlight of my room. “I don’t know, Salama. I’m worried. I mean, we know the stories about the refugees on boats. We know they get scammed and they dr—drown. You know there are sharks in the Mediterranean, right? This feels like a trap.”