As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (41)
My heart feels like it’s been wrenched from my thoracic cavity and I moan in pain.
Layla, sprawled against the hallway of our home in July. Her mustard-yellow dress bleached of its vibrant color and crumpled uncomfortably around her body. Her ocean-blue eyes are vacant. Tears streak two lines down her cheeks and her hands are trembling, but she doesn’t do anything about it.
This was the day Hamza was taken.
She sat there for three days, not eating, barely breathing, and never responding to me when I tried to talk to her. Her hair clung weakly to the sides of her cheeks, thin and brittle like straw. She sat there and cried silently until her eyes were swollen and red, and by the end of the third day, suffering from mild dehydration and shock, she turned to the side and vomited. Later we realized it could have also been due to morning sickness.
And in front of me in the dimly lit hallway sits that Layla, a hollowed shell of a girl. A broken doll. Nearer to death than life. The familiar sickening feeling of helplessness takes hold and I scratch the window’s glass with frustration.
“That”—Khawf taps a long finger against the glass—“is what you have in Homs. It was a miracle that Layla pulled out of her depression.”
I bite my fingernail.
He doesn’t wait for my reply. “I think Layla realized you’re her last family, aside from the baby. She decided to pick herself up and be strong for her family. Just until you’re all safe. She knew succumbing to the pain would hurt you, so she bottled it up.”
“She’s fine now,” I say through gritted teeth.
Khawf rolls his eyes. “The Layla you know now isn’t fine, Salama. She’s shoving down all her suffering. Layla will wither away until she’s in Europe. Whether the both of you are happy there or not doesn’t matter. You’ll be alive and you’ll have fulfilled your promise to Hamza.”
His words crawl over my skin, dissolving through the pores, and I face him, slowly comprehending his existence. I think I’ve always known he’s here to ensure my survival, but now I can see it. He isn’t promising me happiness or closure. Germany is not the answer to a life of guaranteed joy. It’s not home. But it’s safety. And that’s what Layla and I need now.
He snaps his fingers one last time. Old Homs gazes back at me with her haunting eyes. The air is heavy with dead souls and the weight of my sin.
“Leaving means you leave behind what you did here,” Khawf whispers. My heart is in my throat. “For the rest of your life, you’ll never achieve peace of mind with what you did to Samar. It’ll eat you from the inside like a cancer. It’s already started. At least in Germany, you’ll be miles away from the reminders. At this point, Salama, all you can hope for is survival. Not happiness.”
“DO YOU EVER STOP STUDYING?” SHAHED ASKED, AND I looked up from the Medical Terminology textbook I was reading.
It was a week before my first-term university exams and Shahed, Rawan, Layla, and I had decided to visit a café downtown after classes. The streets were bustling with people. The tables outside and inside the restaurants were crowded with families enjoying an early dinner of every Syrian dish imaginable. Kibbeh barbecued on coal, lamb chops skewered to perfection, tabbouleh, wara’a enab, freshly squeezed oranges picked from the countryside. There were a few passersby who looked like they were hard on their luck. Tattered clothes and gaunt faces, their hands outstretched, begging. But most people walked by without glancing at them.
We were craving sweets and we all ordered two dishes each. Every inch of our table was covered in dessert. I ordered a booza and rez bhaleeb. The booza had to be eaten fast as the ice cream was beginning to melt despite the cool breeze. The latter, the sweetest rice pudding with orange blossom water drizzled on top, was the perfect conclusion to a long day at university. High school had always been demanding, but it was the equivalent of learning the alphabet compared to my first year in pharmacy. The difference was astounding and yet all that separated them was a summer vacation.
“Seriously, stop studying!” Rawan joined in, shaking her spoon at me. “Enjoy the weather. The food.”
I frowned. “I can’t. I have an exam Monday morning and if I don’t know the difference between an ulna and a humerus, I’m failing.”
“I’ll break your ulna and humerus,” Shahed muttered.
I crossed my arms. “Scientific names for body parts are difficult! I will fail!”
“You’re so dramatic, drama queen.” Layla rolled her eyes. She picked up the chilled lemonade, her diamond ring glittering. “You always say that and then end up getting the highest grade.”
“Yeah, everyone stopped believing you by the time we were twelve,” Rawan said. Then she imitated my voice: “Oh my God. The exam was so difficult. I couldn’t answer anything. I have no idea if I’m going to pass or not—”
I bit back a grin. “That’s so not how I s—”
“It totally is,” Shahed said through a mouthful of her halawet eljebn. “And then you pass and get certificates of honor while we sit here contemplating your murder.”
I closed my textbook and dropped it onto the table rather forcefully, and the glass bowls jumped. I also startled a few people sitting around us. In particular, one boy with messy chestnut-brown hair. He looked up, blinking. I blushed at the commotion I’d caused, and our eyes met before I hastily looked away.