As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (56)

He smiles sadly. “Are you?”

His gaze dips from my sharp cheekbones to my bony wrists. I may have started seeing the colors, believing in Layla’s and Kenan’s words, but that has no power over my guilt. It’s as if I’m being slowly poisoned. Finding happiness is merely treating the symptoms and not the cause of the disease that grows stronger by the minute. My stomach can’t hold food down long enough, and I spend my nights either tossing helplessly to the nightmares or suffering from insomnia. The result is a frail body holding a brittle mind, waiting for a whisper of a catastrophe to fall apart.

Kenan takes a step closer, crossing whatever chasm of intimacy lies between us, and, as the laws of physics go, the pressure increases. A halo, courtesy of the afternoon sun, rests on his chestnut hair. He’s saturated in gold, and I feel my breath catch.

“There are enough people hurting you,” he whispers. “Don’t be one of them.”

He raises his hand, and his fingers skim my sleeve. His breaths are low, he’s closer than ever before, and I glance up at him. Longing drips from his gaze and I have one foot over the edge of a cliff.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks, his voice a mix of hope and anxiety.

“Yes,” I say breathlessly, and the next second his back is to me as he walks away.

My heart is still pounding dangerously when I close the front door and slide against it. In the few seconds of quiet before Layla discovers me, the shock transforms to reality. I sob big fat tears. I sob like the tears have been building up behind my eyes for months, waiting for one more drop to flood out. Frustration cleaves my heart.

A thudding of footsteps rushes down the corridor, and Layla skids to a halt in front of me.

“Salama!” she exclaims. “What happened?”

I can’t speak, covering my face with my hands, drawing my knees to my chest. She sits beside me, immediately pulling me to her warmth.

She holds me close, hugging my head to her chest. “Tell me what happened.”

Through a blubber of tears, I gasp out each word. I can’t look at her. Her arms go slack around me and she stiffens. For a long time she doesn’t say anything. Muffled voices from outside filter through the door. I don’t dare look at her, lost in the burning feeling inside my chest.

“Should we stay?” I say between hiccups.

“Salama.” Her voice is quiet, defeated. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, I drag my eyes to hers and see them, ocean blue, leaking tears down her cheeks.

“We’re leaving,” she says in a strange voice.

“But—”

“Please. We have to leave. He would want this.” Her voice is fractured with the pain she’s trying to hold back.

I bang my head against the door. Yes, he would. I promised him.

“If we die here, it’ll destroy him even more,” she says. “Salama, we hoped he was dead. But it was just a wish. A part of us always suspected he wasn’t.”

I clear my throat.

She shakes her head. “I can’t… I can’t think about that now, Salama. If I do—” Her voice breaks. “I don’t think I can convince myself to be okay.” She takes hold of my hands. “Let’s talk about something else.”

There’s desperation in her face; she’s wildly looking for something to distract her before she succumbs to the grief.

“Tell me about Germany,” I breathe. “Tell me what we’ll do in Munich.”

She closes her eyes briefly and inhales deeply, and her grasp tightens. “I was thinking we should have our own restaurant there.”

The surprise freezes my tears. “What?”

She nods, gaining strength from that dream. “Our food is delicious, and I read once on Facebook about a Syrian restaurant in Germany that was successful with the locals. We can make money for your university, an apartment, and stuff the baby needs. It’s also a way to spread the word about what’s happening here.”

I’m astounded, taken aback by her endless optimism. “And finding happiness?” I smile weakly.

She doesn’t return the smile but kisses my knuckles. “Finding happiness.”

Her eyes are bloodshot but she stares right back at me and I don’t want this moment to end. “But you know I’ll be the one to make the knafeh, right?”

A short laugh escapes her lips. “Of course. You don’t have the approval of every Syrian grandmother because of your charm.”

The smiles come easier now. “You know I think that’s why Kenan—” I stop.

Layla’s brows furrow. “What?”

“I… remember Mama asking me repeatedly to make it when they were coming over,” I say slowly, snippets of my old life floating out of reach around me. “She was asking if I had all the ingredients. Being so insistent.” I let out a disbelieving laugh. “I didn’t even… Wow! Takes a war and one whole year for me to realize: I think Kenan really likes knafeh!”

She squeezes my hands. “He really missed out.”

The thought makes me sad. Yeah, he did.

Layla goes to sleep early, wanting to be alone, and I tuck the blanket around her firmly. She turns away from me and collapses in on herself; I watch her for a minute before going to my room.

Khawf stands in the middle of it. Since Kenan showed me the sunset, it’s become easier for me to deal with Khawf. The visions he shows me feel less all-encompassing now, and we spend most of the time talking, working through worst-case scenarios. The talks have helped with my guilt, giving my heart the motivation it needs to leave.