As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (52)

I exhale deeply, commanding myself to stay calm and open the door, wearing—what I hope is—a casual smile that feels weird on my face.

“Kenan,” I say, and he looks up. “Hello.”

His expression is stunned but he recovers quickly. “You—um—I’m sorry to come over like this, but—you left the hospital pretty quickly and I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

I play with the hem of my sweater, feeling all warm at his concern. “Yes. I’m fine. It was—I’m fine, I promise.”

“I’m glad.”

He scratches the back of his head, and the movement presses his sweater against his body.

He steels himself, rocking on his heels, and he cracks his knuckles. “I was wondering if you’d go with me somewhere.”

Oh.

Oh!

Layla gasps from the living room and I try to remember how to breathe.

Kenan panics when he sees me staring at him dumbfounded. “If—it’s all right if you don’t want to.”

“No,” I say too quickly. I blush, hugging myself. “I—yes.”

He looks relieved, his chest expanding with air, and a smile lights up his face. It’s as if I’m gazing at the sun.

“Just a second.” I hurry to the living room, where Layla is still crouched on the sofa, her mouth dropped open, and she quickly takes my hands in hers.

“Oh my God,” she exclaims, shaking me. This feels like a hint of our old life seeping through the pain. It almost makes me dizzy with nostalgia.

Anxious thoughts take over. “Is this a bad idea? Will this hurt my heart? Should I pretend I’m suddenly sick?”

She laughs. “No, dummy. It’s still happiness. And you deserve to be happy.”

Samar sprawled on the hospital bed flashes in front of my eyes.

“You deserve it,” Layla repeats firmly. “Now go.”

I nod and she lets go. “I won’t be late.”

She smiles. “I know.”

I glance at the sea painting, taking strength from the feeling it gives me, and walk back toward the door. I pass my reflection in the mirror hanging in the corridor and sigh. In my might life, I’d be dressed in my favorite dark blue jeans, a soft rose-colored blouse with a matching fleece coat, and ankle boots. My hijab would be ironed and spilling across my shoulders like a waterfall. A casual outfit Layla and I had ready in case a spontaneous date ever happened.

But in the mirror stares back a girl wearing an old pair of washed-out jeans and a black sweater with fraying edges. She’s sad and skeleton-like, her eyes dim with despair and hunger.

I look away and walk out of the house, closing the door behind me.

Kenan is leaning against the wall, looking up at the sky, his jawline more pronounced. “Let’s go?” he asks.

“Where to?”

He pushes himself off the wall, eyes gleaming with a secret. The clouds have parted, allowing the sun’s last tangerine rays to peek through the holes in the hollowed buildings of my apocalyptic city.

“It’s a surprise,” he says, and walks in the opposite direction of the hospital.

I hurry after him. “Surprise?”

He smiles. “You don’t like surprises?”

“I… I don’t know.”

He stops for a second, giving me a confused look. “You don’t know?”

I shrug. “I used to like them. Now they make me anxious, I guess.”

He nods solemnly. “That’s fair. This will be a good one. I hope.” Then he adds, “But… if you want, I can tell you.”

My heart glows. “No, that’s okay.”

We pass by a mosque still standing strong after everything that’s happened. A huge corner is missing from a blast, the green carpet inside muddied. DOWN WITH THE GOVERNMENT! is spray-painted across one of the walls.

Puddles of murky rainwater are everywhere. A couple of children zoom past us, their shoes worn and their cheeks thin. I want to call after them to put on something warmer because it’s still February.

Some men stand in front of a supermarket on the other side of the street, deep in conversation, while other people walk about, carrying groceries or in a hurry to be somewhere. I know this area, and if we take the upcoming right, my home—my old home—would be a five-minute walk away. I’ve only been back once, when I tried to salvage what I could from the rubble.

But Kenan doesn’t turn right. He walks straight ahead and then takes a left turn into a narrow alleyway. The road is uneven here; one building’s floors have collapsed on top of each other like upset dominoes.

“Here!” he finally says, and ducks inside a building. Its dusty red doors have been torn from their hinges and lie cracked on the floor. I hesitate for a second before following. He’s climbing a set of ceramic stairs. His legs are longer than mine, and he’s at least five steps ahead of me.

“Yalla!” he calls, an entire level above me. “To the roof!”

I glance upward and can estimate there’s more than five floors to go.

“I’m trying!” I shout back.

After what feels like decades, I make it to the roof, where Kenan’s already standing outside. Despite the cold, I’m sweating and out of breath. I stumble out the doorway, feeling my heart pumping against my throat.