As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (7)

“I’m sorry,” I plead. “Please. Forgive me!”

“Sorry?” Baba says, his brows furrowed. “You let your mother die. You’re letting Layla die. For what?”

“Mama might forgive you,” Hamza says. “But I won’t. If Layla suffers because of your choices, Salama, I will never forgive you.”

I collapse to the floor, weeping. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Not enough,” they all say in unison.

The floor shakes underneath me, and vines twist around my ankles, pulling me beneath the tiles. My kitchen and home crumble, and I fall into the black abyss, screaming. My back hits a slab of stone, and I struggle to take in a breath. When I open my eyes, smoke from a building on fire covers the pale blue sky above.

Oxygen becomes scarce in my lungs and I cough, shakily getting up onto my feet. Before me stands the seven-story building I called home. The balcony on the sixth floor has laundry drying outside and the one under it has the Syrian Revolution flag hanging proudly from the balusters. It ruffles in the wind, looking as if it’ll fly away. But Hamza had knotted it tight on each side to make sure it stayed put. After he and Baba were arrested, Mama couldn’t bear to take it down.

The air around me is very still. I know where I am without needing to ask. Khawf has dragged me a week into the future to one of the worst days of my life.

Mama.

“No,” I groan. “No.”

“You can’t save her.” Khawf stands a few feet from me. “She’s already dead.”

My building is fifteen steps away. I can make it. I can save her.

“Mama!” I scream, running toward her. “Get out! Get out! The planes are coming!”

But it’s too late; they’re faster than my voice, and the bombs don’t care that there are innocent people inside. The high-pitched sound rings against my ears as they smash the building to bloodied fragments. The aftershock doesn’t blow me away. It razes the building to the ground, and I’m standing over Mama’s mutilated body. She wasn’t wearing her hijab; her brown hair is gray with debris, her head bent at a wrong angle. And blood. There’s so much blood staining my bare feet, my stomach heaves at the sharp metallic smell.

I cry, falling to my knees, and clutch her body, drawing her closer to my living one. My hands shake uncontrollably as I try to brush away the hair plastered to her cheeks, but I only smear her with her blood. Flecks of it land in my mouth. “Mama! Oh God, not again! Not again!”

Her eyes gloss over, staring right back at me.

“Why didn’t you save me?” Mama whispers, her eyes vacant. “Why?”

“I’m sorry,” I sob. “Please, please forgive me!”

I drip tears on her still face, my lips pleading with her to come back, and I hug her. Even with all the blood drenching us both, she still smells the same.

“She’s gone, Salama,” Khawf says from behind me. “Look, there you are over there.”

I glance toward where he’s pointing. Between the rubble and smoky haze of the bomb, there’s past me. Her cheeks are still full, her eyes beginning to come to terms with a pain that will become her constant companion. She’s only seventeen and has barely glimpsed what true horror means. She coughs, her clothes and hijab torn, trying to crawl toward Mama’s corpse before her muscles give way, and she falls to the ground, unconscious.

Anger and sadness intertwine through my heart, latching to my deteriorating bones.

“That’s enough,” I pant, pressing Mama closer. “Take me back.”

Khawf crouches beside me, wiping a drop of blood from my cheek, and smiles. The rubble doesn’t come near him; his clothes are untouched. Yet the red spots on his jacket’s shoulders have grown, and I don’t know if I’m seeing things, but they seem to be leaking down his lapels.

He snaps his fingers and I’m back on my bed, all traces of soot and blood gone. I blink, staring at my chapped, scarred hands, unsettled by the sudden disappearance of Mama from my embrace. The tears on my face, still wet, are the only proof of what I went through.

Khawf takes a deep breath, satisfaction etched on every line of his pale face, and retreats to the window.

“That will be Layla if you continue to be obstinate.” He takes out another cigarette. “You’ve already broken half of your promise. Do you want Layla’s death to be your undoing?”

My body betrays me, shaking all over, and I clutch my ragged blankets to hide it.

He blows out a cloud of dark gray smoke that falls to the tattered floor in wisps before vanishing. “Every day more of your patients pass away. Each one of them is another regret in your heart. Staying here will destroy you even if Layla survives.”

“Go away,” I whimper, hating my brain for doing this to me.

“I don’t like being treated as a fool, Salama,” he murmurs. “Give me what I want and I might leave you alone.”

My tongue is dry, and the half-moon scars on my palms, the result of my own nails, begin to hurt. Instead of answering him, I turn away, my brain banging against my skull. My eyes fall on the closed drawer of the nightstand beside the bed, where I keep my hidden stash of Panadol pills. I’ve been collecting them since July in preparation for Layla’s labor, and for one brief second I consider taking one. But decide against it. I don’t know if we’ll have access to medicine wherever we’ll be.