As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (57)

“Don’t worry,” I say tiredly, slumping down on my bed and shaking out my hair. “I’m still leaving.”

He taps his fingers over an elbow, looking almost sympathetic. “Good. You might not get your money back. Not to mention that if you’re—”

“Caught,” I interrupt, falling over the bedspread. “Waterboarded. Electrocuted. Raped. Layla’s baby ripped from her uterus and left to die. Yes, I know the horrors. We’ve been over them.”

He watches me silently. “A shame that could happen to the boy you love.”

My fingers curl around the paper-thin covers and I twist to the side, finally surrendering to the fear that has proliferated in my body. Will I be able to appreciate all the colors in Germany without him? Will I want to? With whatever is left of my heart, I love Kenan and the hope he’s given me, and I’m not ready to let go of him.

I hug my pillow to my chest, focusing my thoughts on his easy smile and kind eyes. On his words.

On him.

Because if I don’t, if I think about Hamza, I won’t be able to breathe. I won’t be able to live.





WHEN I SEE KENAN THE NEXT DAY, I NEARLY DROP the bag of haloperidol pills I’m carrying. He’s standing by a patient’s bed. A little boy about six who has one side of his head heavily bandaged, covering his right eye. Kenan crouches, talking animatedly, and the little boy’s face is entranced. As if he’s forgotten what’s happened to him. Kenan’s hands move like a maestro, weaving stories to life between his fingers.

I place the bag in a cupboard and step closer to Kenan, absentmindedly touching my ring finger. I scold myself. I may be in love with him, but is it real, or just my longing for an escape from this horror? If he were just a boy and I were just a girl, living ordinary lives, and we’d met anywhere else, would we still have fallen for each other?

Besides, even if this is real, none of it matters as long as he’s determined to become a sacrificial lamb. The pain is nothing compared to knowing what Hamza is going through.

This morning I decided I’m angry with Kenan. He has my heart and he’s breaking it. Along with Lama’s and Yusuf’s. If this past month has done nothing more than scratch his armor, how much more time is needed for it to disintegrate entirely? What will be his undoing?

“And then the boy and girl were rescued by pirates,” Kenan says. The little boy still can’t take his eyes off him. “They sailed all seven seas and battled monsters together.”

“Then what?” the boy asks.

Kenan leans in a bit closer, his voice hushed, and I take another step forward. “Well, the girl wanted to keep the diamond her mother gave her safe. And the boy wanted to find his grandfather. The pirates had the answers to both these things, and so—” He stops and turns around, catching the look of awe on my face. “Salama. Good morning.”

“M-morning.”

If he’s still thinking about how I shouted at him yesterday, he doesn’t show it. “How are you?”

I play with the ends of my hijab. “Alhamdulillah.”

He looks at me softly. “Is there anything you need?”

You. I need you to leave with me. “No,” I reply instead.

He smiles and stands, taking something out of his pocket. He holds out his hand. It’s a neatly folded piece of paper. “Open it.”

I do and softly gasp. He’s drawn the ocean forest. Colossal trees surrounding a little girl, leaves fluttering in the wind. At her side is a small fish with stripes along its body.

“That’s a flame angelfish,” Kenan points out. “I thought she’d have a friend the color of flames. Could light the way when it gets dark.”

My pulse quickens, and I hug the paper to my chest. “Thank you.”

He scratches the back of his neck, his cheeks pink. “I wanted to cheer you up after—you know.”

“I’m going to treasure this forever.” I manage a brave smile.

He returns it and then gestures to the little boy. “Would you like to hear the story with him?”

I laugh. “Yes.”

Standing beside the eager little boy, I tuck the drawing in my pocket and watch the way Kenan lights up. He commands the words, injecting each with wonder, and soon enough we’re surrounded by people, all huddling closer, wanting to forget their pain and escape into another world. Kenan stands up, his voice getting louder as he conjures ships that fly and magical lemons that revive you from the brink of death. He’s captivating, a natural-born storyteller.

But with each word, a heaviness falls on my heart and I slowly back away through the crowd until all I can see is his disheveled hair and broad shoulders. It hurts to see him, a dead man walking, when he has the power to influence the world.

I turn around, but before I make it out of the atrium, Kenan calls my name. The people behind him are talking among themselves and they go back to their beds and families, their eyes shining a little brighter. Two people clap Kenan on the back, and he smiles at them. He walks over to me, his brows furrowed, and I’m rooted to the spot, every cell wanting him near me.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

There’s a dull ache reverberating behind my eyes, threatening to spill the tears.

“What do you think, Kenan?” I whisper. Everything’s written freely on my face for him to read.