As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (46)

“We’ll pack two hoodies and three pairs of jeans. Is that enough?”

I nod, thinking. “Nothing heavy, though. Like blankets or something. It’ll weigh us down.”

She looks at me pointedly. “And it’s going to be March when we leave. As in the weather will be freezing. You’re allowed one thing that keeps you warm.”

I sigh. “Fine. A coat, then. And we only get one outfit each to balance the weight!”

She pouts, throwing me a sad look. Layla was a fashion icon. She was a walking piece of art that could have been hung in the Louvre, radiating inspiration. And now she’s being forced to give up the identity she forged for herself.

“We’ll buy more in Germany,” I reassure her, and her eyes light up. “New jeans, blouses. Everything. We’ll even have a moolid for Little Salama. A celebration for her.”

An astonished joyful smile lights up her face, but it quickly vanishes into guilt. “No, it’s fine. We don’t have to do… especially since Hamza—”

I shake my head. “It’s what he would have wanted. You and me celebrating his daughter.”

I hold out my hand and she takes it.

“You’re my sister and I love you.” I squeeze it. “I want us to be happy for Little Salama.”

Her smile is gentle. “Happiness starts here, Salama. In this home. In Old Homs. Remember?”

I remember Kenan and the way he sat with me yesterday until my breathing was calm. I remember the longing creased in his eyes.

Longing for me.

I suddenly feel hot under my sweater and scramble for a distraction. “So what else do we need to take with us?”

Layla’s lips have turned into a knowing smile, but I stare at her defiantly, daring her to say what’s on her mind.

Then she lets it go and says, “Our passports and high school certificates.”

I nod. “Those are the essentials. Think, Layla, we’re on a boat at sea. We’re cold so we have our coats. What else?”

“Panadol,” she says, and I feel my veins turn to ice. “If we get headaches or anything. You still have the stash, right?”

“Yeah,” I answer immediately, forcing my tone to be casual, and play with the hem of my sweater. Surely I can salvage one strip for Layla and me until we make it to the boat. Hopefully we won’t need more than that, and she won’t know why I had to trade our supply until we land in Italy. Then she can hate me all she wants. Look at me the same way I look at myself in the mirror.

Murderer.

My stomach lurches and I stand quickly, startling Layla. I run to the bathroom, my sock-clad feet thumping on the carpeted floor, before I reach the sink and heave. My hands clutch the edges tightly, the blood disappearing from the capillaries as I vomit bile.

I haven’t eaten anything in two days save for a small piece of dry bread. When I glance up at the bathroom mirror, I fight the urge not to cry out. The sour taste burns my throat. My eyes are bloodshot, my hair sticking to my sweaty forehead in clumps. Black shadows encircle my eyes. I’m deteriorating from guilt.

“Salama!” Layla’s voice cuts through the heavy air.

I cup my hands in the water bucket and splash my face.

“Salama,” Layla repeats, and she clutches my shoulder, spins me around.

I’m met with worried eyes and instantly put on my everything’s fine face.

Her grip is firm on me. “What the hell happened?”

I give a half-hearted shrug. “I think I ate something bad.”

Her eyes narrow. “You didn’t eat anything when you came back from the hospital.”

The sour taste is pungent in my mouth. “I ate at the hospital,” I manage to say in a convincing voice.

Before she can say anything else, I push past her and walk back to the living room, crumpling on the couch. Layla appears a second later, arms folded and lips curled with suspension.

“Are you hiding something from me?”

I groan and reach down, picking up the hoodie and hugging it. It has a musty closet smell. “No, I’m not. Layla, I don’t have the energy to keep things from you.”

Calendula, I think, remembering the dried flower I taped into my scrapbook with my scribbled notes beside it. Bright orange petals. Used to heal burns and wounds. It has excellent antibacterial, antiviral, and anti-inflammatory properties.

Layla tuts but, when I peek at her, she looks concerned.

“I’m fine,” I whisper. “I promise.”

But I’m not fine.





Samar isn’t at the hospital when I arrive the next day, which means Am took her home during the night. My heart expands, glad it won’t squeeze painfully at the sight of her heavily bandaged neck. Still, the shame is in my vessels, poisoning my blood.

A patient calls for me, complaining of a pain in his amputated leg, and I run to him, quickly clearing the troublesome thoughts away.

I work like I worked yesterday until my vision blurs, and when I stop running on fumes, I run on remorse. Today brings in a wave of victims from a military plane’s bombs that rained on a residential area south of Old Homs. Just on the other side of where our home is. For now, for another day, Layla is safe.

The patients vary from civilians to a couple of the Free Syrian Army’s soldiers. With Nour’s help, I operate on one whose right arm is hanging on by just a few tendons. His whole face is twisted in pain but no whimper escapes his lips. Instead, through silent tears and a pool of blood, he sings softly.