As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (40)

“You did good today,” Khawf murmurs, and he blows out a cloud of smoke. “It went far better than I thought it would. You have no more reason to stay here and let your blood-soaked hands heal the sick.”

I clutch at my ears, shaking my head, and focus on Layla’s words to me. Hope. Finding love and happiness beyond the misery.

Khawf rolls his eyes. “If it gets you on that boat, you can believe in unicorns for all I care, but come on, Salama, hope? Let’s be realistic.” He curls his finger, beckoning me toward him, and I oblige. “Look outside.”

The city is painted black under a gray huddled sky. The moon’s light is trapped behind the clotted clouds, just as we’re trapped in Old Homs, unable to pass through. The buildings in front of my window are ghosts, no flames flickering from any of them. If I close my eyes and let my hearing take over, I can catch the muffled voices of people protesting neighborhoods away. They’ve never stopped, not for a single night, and with the uprising’s anniversary a month away, their spirits are only growing stronger.

“Tonight you might not die from the airplanes,” Khawf says, standing right next to me. “The skies are thick with clouds.”

“Lilacs.” I take a deep breath. “Lilacs. Lilacs. Lilacs.”

“Salama,” he continues, but he isn’t looking at me, rather staring at the same horizon I am. “What happiness can you find in this wasteland? Hm? There’s nothing for you here. Your family is gone. And Kenan will only bring you heartache if you continue to develop feelings for him. He won’t leave. There’s no happiness to scavenge from the wreckage. But Germany holds possibility and”—he finally looks at me, and his eyes remind me of frozen lakes in winter—“it’s better than staying here. Layla alive is better. And being away will dull your remorse for what you did to Samar. This place is nothing but reminders of your failures and the inevitability of your death.”

I fiddle with my fingers. “But Layla said—”

“Layla?” he repeats, then flicks his cigarette; and it disintegrates before hitting the window’s glass. “Let me show you Layla.”

He snaps his fingers and my grief-stricken city disappears from in front of the window, replaced by a memory. For a second I’m taken aback, because this isn’t the memory I expected. It isn’t riddled with pain, but one very near to my heart.

Layla and Hamza’s wedding.

It’s as if I’m watching a movie, but it doesn’t stop me from pressing my hands against the cold glass.

It’s held outside at my grandparents’ farmhouse, between the gardens under the lemon trees. We have the place covered in fairy lights and music is blaring from the speakers. The female guests are scattered all over, talking between themselves or cheering for Layla as she dances in the middle of the dance floor.

Layla’s face bears no agony. She sways in her off-white, princess-cut dress that flutters with every movement she makes. Her laugh, true and full, reaches my ears and fills me with warmth. Life colors her exquisitely. Her long auburn hair is in soft curls cascading down her back, with the white roses and baby’s breath I picked out for her woven between the tresses.

Mama stands beside her in a sparkling purple abaya, waving her arms joyously, and I push harder against the glass, needing it to disappear. Needing to run to Mama and throw myself into her arms. Needing to turn back time. Khawf has never shown me Mama like this before. Healthy and alive.

“Mama,” I choke out.

“This is Layla’s happiness, Salama,” Khawf says beside me.

Suddenly the women all rush to wrap their hijabs around themselves as the prerecorded DJ announces Hamza’s arrival. I stifle a whimper at the sight of my brother, who’s smiling bashfully as he walks up to Layla. His gaze only on her, his eyes shining like the stars in the sky. When he reaches her, they embrace despite her dress’s full skirt, and Layla’s flustered giggles echo against the window’s glass.

Baba, dressed in his finest suit, laces his fingers with Mama’s, and my knees weaken with longing. I want to hold them all so badly, I cry out.

My eyes wander all over, drinking in this memory like a parched man in a desert. Mama’s graceful way of twirling her hands when she speaks, Baba’s gray-peppered hair, which he keeps pushing back, Hamza rocking back and forth with Layla clutching his arm to keep him steady. My eyes finally fall on a woman who’s perfectly manicured from head to toe. A bit of her dark brown hair peeks out from the top of her hijab against her forehead. Her face is beautiful, with soft wrinkles around her eyes. She’s wearing a forest-green abaya that matches her eyes. Hazel green. I gasp. I know those eyes. I have seen those eyes before. On a tall boy with messy chestnut-brown hair.

Is this how it all started? At a wedding? How very Syrian. I nearly smile at the thought.

“Salama,” Khawf says, trying to draw my gaze to him, but I refuse to let go of this beautiful illusion and be faced with his unforgiving stare. “Salama, you can’t live in the past. I’m reminding you what true happiness was. This doesn’t exist anymore. This isn’t something you’ll find here.”

“No,” I growl, holding on to what Layla told me. Life here is more than the horror. “No.”

He sighs and snaps his fingers again. The wedding slowly dissipates, molecule by molecule, shifting into a terrible memory. One I never want to revisit for as long as I live.