As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (6)

I finally turn to my left, where Mama stands beside me, her eyes on the shish barak, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. All the while her lips moving in prayer.

“Keep them safe,” she whispers. “Keep my men safe. Bring them back to me alive and well today. Protect them from those who wish them harm.”

I’m rooted to the spot, my heart tearing in two.

She’s beside me.

A few silent tears trickle down my cheeks, and the need to throw myself into her arms overwhelms me. I want my mama. I want her to soothe away my sadness and kiss me while calling me ya omri and te’eburenee. My life and bury me.

Instead, I gently poke her arm. She glances up with bloodshot eyes, distracted, before a tired smile appears on her lips, and I can see how this war has drastically changed her. Her face, which never seemed to age beyond thirty-five, is weary with nerves, and the roots of her umber-brown hair are gray. She never let her roots go gray, always the picture of prim and proper. Her bones poke out sharply, and dark shadows tint under her eyes, where they never existed before.

“Te’eburenee, we’ll be okay. Insha’Allah,” she whispers, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and squeezing me to her. Bury me before I bury you.

I did.

“Yes, Mama,” I manage to choke out, melting into her touch.

“Aw, Saloomeh,” Hamza calls as he walks in with Baba from the living room, and I nearly cry out. They’re here. Hamza’s honey-colored eyes are full of life and mirror Baba’s. They’re both wearing coats with the Syrian Revolution flag hanging over one shoulder. One twist and it could be a noose. “Are you seriously going to cry?”

I don’t ask Hamza where Layla is because I know she’s back at their home, waiting for him. But he won’t be returning to her today.

“Hamza, don’t tease your sister,” Baba says, walking over to Mama. She immediately engulfs him in a hug, and he wraps his arms around her, murmuring something in her ear.

I can’t bear to see this, so I turn away.

“You’re leaving now?” I ask Hamza, my voice breaking, and I have to tilt my chin up to look at him. I haven’t done that in seven months.

He smiles softly. “The protest is happening after the prayer, so we need to get there early.”

I bite back the urge to wail. He had just turned twenty-two, freshly graduated from medical school, and had applied for a residency at Zaytouna Hospital. He didn’t know he was going to be a father. Would that have stopped him from joining the protests?

“D-don’t go,” I stammer. Maybe this hallucination can end well. Maybe I can change things. “Please, you and Baba. Don’t go today!”

He grins. “You say that every single time.”

I grab his arm tightly, my eyes memorizing his faint scruff, the dimple in one cheek that appears when he smiles. This is the last memory I have of my brother. With time, memories distort, and I know I’ll forget his exact features. I’ll forget Baba’s brown hair, streaked with gray, and the gentle twinkle in his eyes. I’ll forget how Hamza is at least two heads taller and that he and I share the same shade of brown hair. I’ll forget the dimples in Mama’s cheeks and her smile, which lights up the world. Our family photos are buried under the rubble of this building, and I’ll never get them back.

“Ew. Salama, why are you being weird?” he says, and then shakes his head when he sees the tears in my eyes. He adds kindly, “I promise you we’ll come back.”

My lungs constrict. I know what he’s going to say next. I have replayed this conversation in my mind on a loop until the words scramble together.

“But if I don’t…” He takes a deep breath, turning serious. “Salama, if I don’t… then you take care of Layla. You make sure she and Mama are okay. You make sure you three stay alive and safe.”

I swallow hard. “I already promised you that.”

When the people flooded the streets during the very first protest, Hamza immediately took me aside and made me vow exactly that. He was always intuitive. Smart beyond his years. He always sensed when I was down, even if I didn’t say anything. His heart, as soft as a cloud, reached out to everyone around him. He knew that Mama, despite her terror, would need to be dragged out of Syria kicking and screaming, that Layla would scoff if he asked her to run away, leaving him behind. But I would make sure they both stayed alive. I would put my family’s safety above everything. Whoever was left of it.

“Promise me again,” he says fiercely. “I can’t go out there in good conscience without knowing for sure. I need to hear those words.” The honey in his eyes burns like fire.

“I promise,” I manage to whisper. Two words were never heavier.

Now he’s supposed to ruffle my hair before walking out with Baba, never to come back.

But he doesn’t.

His hands grip my shoulders. “Did you?”

I falter. “What?”

The fire rages in his gaze. “After the military took me and Baba, did you get Mama out? Did you save Layla? Or did you throw their lives away?”

My bones rattle.

“Salama, did you lie to me?” Agony drips from his expression.

I back away, pressing my hands to my chest.

“Did you let Mama die?” he asks, his voice louder.

Mama and Baba stand beside him, blood trickling down the right side of Mama’s face. It falls to the ceramic floor she polished every single day. Each drop feels like a knife to the heart.