As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (54)

It hurts to know I’ve caused this breakdown in his fighting spirit when the words he spoke to me three weeks ago atop his old home have been reviving me. Our days together are numbered and I can’t stop myself from getting to know him. It hasn’t taken long for him to become a source of happiness and comfort for me. And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to tell him about Khawf. I wonder what he’d do.

When I walk out of the hospital after today’s shift, the evening sky is a dark blue canvas and Kenan is looking up at it.

“Hey,” I say, and he beams at me.

Outside the hospital and away from the harrowing realities he documents daily, Kenan usually manages to collect himself. Even though I see the cracks he’s trying to cover. During our walks, we either stay silent, untangling the trauma that has woven another knot in our brains or, if it’s been a really bad day and we need a distraction, we discuss other things. He’s told me about his drawing software and how he has a half-completed graphic novel saved on his laptop he wishes he could finish. I told him about my scrapbooks and flower-filled jars, and the way he looked at me with such awe made me ache for that might life. Wishing I could have shown them to him personally in my room, where he’d then press me against him, lips on mine.

A thought occurs to me as we walk back home now, and before I can rethink it, I blurt, “Imagine if you and I wrote a book together.”

He stops, gazing at me so intently, I feel its touch on my skin.

“You write?” he finally asks.

I nod, fidgeting with my sleeves. “I mean I want to. I have a couple of ideas for a children’s book. I was thinking you’d illustrate, and I’d write.”

He looks at me with wonder. “Tell me one of your stories.”

I glance away. “I’ve… never told anyone about them.”

He nods, and then smiles serenely. “All right. Then let’s make up a new one.”

My heart somersaults, grateful he isn’t trying to wheedle them out of me. “I have a setting.”

He grins and we walk. “Go on.”

“An ocean, but instead of water it’s gigantic trees that touch the clouds.”

His grin widens. “I can absolutely draw that. Leaves that are blue instead of green? The trunks a coral pink?”

My bashfulness ebbs away slowly. “The higher you go, the bigger the leaves are. Oh! Fish that fly through air currents instead of water!”

“Yes!” he says excitedly. “A story about a girl who longs to see the water-filled oceans!”

“They’re a myth in her world but they have something she needs,” I add, nearly skipping with enthusiasm.

And we go on like this, one chaotic thought spilling after the other, unaware that we’ve long since reached my home. We stand in front of the door talking for twenty extra minutes before a distant rumble of a plane shatters our daydream. We return to reality with trembling hands and nervous eyes cast upward.

And when I look at him, I see that pain. He and I will never be able to write a book together.

And I wonder if this ache in my heart will ever fade away. Or if it’ll only grow stronger.





The next day, Am finally has new information regarding the boat.

“It will be here in ten days. Twenty-fifth of March. We meet by Khalid Mosque at ten a.m. Do you know where that is?”

I nod. Baba and Hamza prayed Juma’a prayer there every Friday. It’s a ten-minute walk from Layla’s home.

“Good. Bring the money or there’s no boat.”

I grind my teeth. “I know.” But before I can ask about Samar, he shakes his head and walks away. My stomach feels queasy, and I hide out in my medication stockroom until Dr. Ziad needs me.

My mind wanders to the boat, and an anticipation builds in me, my fingers tingling with the promise of safety. For Layla to finally be able to sleep in a bedroom that doesn’t remind her of her incarcerated husband. Where Baby Salama would take her first steps in a house filled with flowers and the aroma of freshly baked fatayer.

My daydreams scatter with a quick knock on the stockroom door.

Kenan smiles. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Dr. Ziad is looking for you.”

I jump to my feet. Dr. Ziad is in his office and when I walk in, he stands.

“Salama.” His face is white, his expression twisted with a silent pain.

Immediately I’m on edge. “What?”

Dr. Ziad looks at Kenan. “Can you give us a moment?”

Kenan glances at me before nodding slowly and closing the door behind him.

Dr. Ziad rests his hands on the desk. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this, Salama, because it’s not fair to you, and you have the right to know.” He takes a deep breath and I begin trembling. “One of the Free Syrian Army soldiers was here with information concerning detainees in the military’s detention facilities. The ones who are alive. Your brother is on the list.”

The wind has been knocked out of me.

Dr. Ziad massages his forehead, his eyes shining with tears. “He’s alive, but your father passed away.”

I’m detached from my body, my mouth uttering in a voice I don’t recognize, “Where is he?”

Dr. Ziad’s eyes don’t meet mine. “Sednaya Prison.”