As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (39)

She bites her lip before laughing. “Chaperone!”

“What?” I say indignantly.

She wipes her eyes, still chuckling. “Nothing. You’re so cute.” She sits beside me, tucking her feet under her, and says, “Tell me more about him.”

I fidget under her gaze. “He’s… honest. With everything. His thoughts, his expressions. He’s kind. It’s a rare kindness, Layla. I’m sure he still dreams. Maybe he’s the only one in this whole city who still dreams at night. And when he looks at me, I feel… I feel like I’m being seen, and there is… there is a tiny bit of hope.”

She grins and links her hand through mine. “That right there,” she whispers. “I want you to hold on to that. No matter what happens, you remember that this world is more than the agony it contains. We can have happiness, Salama. Maybe it doesn’t come in a cookie-cutter format, but we will take the fragments and we will rebuild it.”

My bruised heart twinges.

“Salama,” she continues, and her hold tightens. “You deserve to be happy. You deserve to be happy here. Because if you won’t try it in Syria, then you won’t try in Germany. Getting to Europe won’t solve your problems.”

I pause. I’ve never thought of this before.

“Promise me you’ll look for the joy.” She smiles sadly. “The memories are sweeter that way.”

In her words lie the coping mechanism she’s been using ever since Hamza was taken. That she met the love of her life when they were children and had a lifetime with him. That the memories of him are what’s keeping her upright or else she’d have collapsed in on herself from the pain.

“I… I promise,” I say, the words heavy on my tongue.





When the sun sets, I tuck Layla in on her couch, securing the blanket firmly around her so the cold doesn’t bite. She drifts off to sleep after a couple of minutes, smiling at me, and my hands drop to her bulging belly. My niece is on the other side and, if I concentrate hard enough, I can imagine her pressing her tiny palms against the placenta right under mine. Now that Layla is in her third trimester, Baby Salama’s brain and neuron development are in full effect, but no doubt, being as malnourished and underweight as Layla is, her kidneys will be affected. Baby Salama wouldn’t survive a harsh winter in Homs. I curse myself silently for three months of doubting whether or not we should leave. How could I have been so selfish?

No.

How did we come to this?

Layla snores softly, and I mourn silently. Even though I’m here, she’s alone. It’s as if it were yesterday: Layla and Hamza coming back from their honeymoon, their eyes glowing like the Ramadan lanterns.

Layla rested her head against Hamza’s shoulder where they sat on the balcony in our home. His face went a deep shade of pink but he looked pleased with himself.

I was in the living room watching the intimate secrets traded between them that only my daisies in their pots were able to hear.

Layla caught my eye and waved me over, her auburn hair falling across her shoulders. Hamza immediately brushed it back so he could stare at her.

“You two looked deep in conversation,” I said, smiling and stepping out onto the balcony. The warm morning breeze was a welcome after months of winter. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

They shook their heads in unison.

“Bother us?” Layla laughed and pulled me to her. “My sister is never a bother.”

“Tell me about the Dead Sea, then,” I said, wedging myself between them. Hamza gave me an exasperated look. He scooted to the end but kept holding Layla’s hand, their fingers intertwining right in front of me.

“Very salty,” Layla declared instantly.

“Itchy. Burned a bit too,” Hamza said, and Layla laughed.

“Yes, someone stayed too long in the water.”

“I was floating! In water! Without any effort! Of course I had to stay.”

“Everyone was staring at us because Hamza was acting as if he’d never seen the sea before,” Layla whispered in my ear. “I had to pretend I didn’t know him. It was so embarrassing.”

I laughed and Hamza rolled his eyes.

“If you’re going to act like this at my art exhibitions,” Layla said loudly, “you’re not invited.”

Hamza raised her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss over her knuckles, and I stared at him incredulously. I was sitting right there, but he had eyes only for Layla.

“I’ll be much worse, my love,” he said softly. “If you think I’m going to be anything but incredibly proud and very loudly showing you off to everyone, then think again.”

Layla blushed, but she was beaming.

“Oh, Salama.” She shook her head. “What am I going to do with him.”

I sigh and walk into my room, pushing that starry-eyed girl who didn’t survive from my mind. Mourning her doesn’t help me. It won’t feed me and it won’t get me out of Syria.

Khawf is already leaning against the window in my room, smoking. His head is turned away from me and I ignore him, kneeling in front of the dresser to pull open the last drawer. Tucked underneath the old clothes in the far right corner is Layla’s gold and the rest of the money we have. I take out five hundred dollars and choose one necklace, putting it aside. Hamza gifted it to her the day of their Al-Fatiha. It’s a thick, intricate rope and feels heavy in my hands. A lump forms in my throat, and I tuck the necklace back in before the tears spill.