As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (74)

Kenan smiles.

“You want to do this here? Now?” Dr. Ziad asks. His grin is as wide as a crescent moon.

I nod. “Our next moments aren’t promised. And you’ve always been like a father to me.”

His exhaustion vanishes and he looks ten years younger. “It would be my honor to officiate.”

I can’t help the smile that twitches my lips upward. I feel like I’m in a dream. Buds of hope begin to bloom slowly in my heart, petals opening to meet the sun. I wish Layla was here, holding my hand. But I take comfort that Lama and Yusuf are able to attend, watching something other than trauma unfold in this hospital.

A crowd begins to form around us, the pale faces curious about what’s happening. Patients offer their congratulations, and Kenan bows his head. Usually I wouldn’t like this invasion of privacy, but seeing anything other than pain and suffering on the people’s faces is worth it. I catch Am lurking at the edge of the crowd, his stare judging. I look away.

We stand in front of Dr. Ziad, who has finally composed himself. He begins with a small speech about finding happiness through the hardships, and everyone quiets down. After that, we all read Al-Fatiha together and Kenan recites the marriage vows after Dr. Ziad. I give my consent in a small voice.

And then we’re married.

I get married in my lab coat, a sweater three sizes too big, with dust on my hijab and dirt marks on my jeans. We don’t have cake, a proper wedding dress, or even clean clothes. But it doesn’t matter. It feels like the whole thing happens in snapshots. I try to memorize each word said, every action and look, but I’m having a hard time keeping up. Kenan looks dazed, like he’s walking through a daydream. We glance shyly at each other.

Nothing will ruin this moment for me. It’s mine to enjoy, to love, to be happy in.

Everyone claps and some even cheer. Lama’s face looks like the moon on a full night, and she’s bouncing on her feet, while Yusuf gives a small smile as if he just can’t help himself.

Nour squeezes herself through the crowds, grasping my hands and kissing my cheeks, her eyes shining bright.

Little by little, the crowd dissipates and Dr. Ziad calls for all the staff to begin work, but the energy powering the hospital is different now. The hope I’ve so carefully cultivated is no longer only in my heart.

“My office is empty,” Dr. Ziad says to Kenan and me in a low voice. “I’m sure you two have things to talk about in private.”

“Th-thank you, Doctor,” I stammer from shyness.

“You deserve all the happiness in the world, Salama.” He smiles warmly at me, and it reminds me of Baba. “Congratulations to the both of you, and may God fill your lives with joy and blessings.”

He shakes Kenan’s hand before hurrying off to his duties.

“I’ll look after the kids for a little while,” Nour says. She smiles at Lama and Yusuf, and Lama returns the smile. Yusuf slumps down on one of the plastic chairs, but he looks less tense than when he walked in.

Thankfully, everyone’s busying themselves too much to notice us slipping into Dr. Ziad’s office. Kenan closes the door softly, disturbing the dust particles.

I feel warm in my sweater. Should I say something? Where do my arms go? I swing them awkwardly for a few seconds, then stop.

“Salama?” he says, and I turn around slowly. He takes a few steps toward me, and suddenly he’s closer than he’s ever been.

I look up at him, nervous, and am surprised to see that his expression holds no tension. I can see the specks of hazel in his eyes, and if I concentrate I can count them. His hair is tousled from last night and from how many times his hands have attacked it all morning. I see a faint scar splitting his left eyebrow in half and wonder how I haven’t noticed it before. It feels like I’m seeing him for the first time. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles warmly at me, and before I can speak, he leans forward, hooking his arms under mine, pulling me close. I gasp, and after a few moments of hesitation, I wind my hands around his shoulders. He buries his head in the nook of my hijab, holding me tight. My nerves jingle; a million thoughts race through me, crowding my mind.

Suddenly, a stillness sweeps over us, and every nervous thought and feeling dissipates. I feel at peace. I can breathe, and I breathe him in. He smells like Syria in the old days. A hint of lemon picked from the gardens, mixed with the rubble and soil. He smells like home. He mumbles something I don’t hear, his words caught in the fabric of my hijab.

“What?” I whisper.

“Nothing,” he says in a louder voice, but there’s roughness to it, like he’s trying to hold back tears. Then, after a few moments, he says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a proper wedding.”

I tear myself from his embrace and eye him curiously. “You think I’m upset?”

“I don’t know,” he says sheepishly, one hand behind his neck. “I know we’re down on our luck now, and I can’t provide enough for the both of us. But I swear I will. My family has some money saved up, and we have land here as well. I can’t use any of that yet, though. Damn, I should have given you something. Maybe a dress? You should at least have had a wedding dress. I’m so, so—”

I cut him off when I stand on my tiptoes and clasp his cheeks between my hands. He stares at me.

“I want a marriage. Not a wedding.” I smile. “Besides, this is way more romantic.”