As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (75)

“Really?” he asks uncertainly.

“Oh definitely! A wedding amid a revolution. Isn’t this a good premise for a story?”

He smiles back. “It does sound like a wonderful plot.”

“Exactly. I’m a pharmacist with experience, Kenan. I can take care of the both of us while you are a stay-at-home dad who draws,” I say with a teasing smile.

“Ha ha.”

I fall back to my heels, taking my hands with me before they start sweating.

“I was wondering…,” I say, playing with the hem of my lab coat. “If you’d like to move in with Layla and me.”

There’s a second where we hold our breath.

“It’s—you have that huge hole in your balcony, and I can’t imagine it’s very warm,” I clarify.

He chuckles and holds my hands, rubbing soft circles on them. “What’s the real reason?”

I blush. “That’s one of many.”

“All right, then.” He smiles. “I’ll take my siblings home, we’ll pack, and meet you at the end of your shift.”

“Okay.”

Summoning every ounce of bravery in me, I reach up and kiss his cheek. He freezes, breath catching in his throat. He stutters a goodbye and heads toward the door before glancing back at me.

“See you later.”

“See you.”





Khawf is waiting for me in the stockroom, and I jump when I see him.

“Didn’t expect me on this joyous day?” His lips twist in displeasure.

I close the door, sighing. “And why are you upset now? Kenan being my husband gives me more motivation to leave with him.”

He nods. “That’s true, but it doesn’t come without risks.”

“How do you mean?”

He steps closer. “If—God forbid, of course—Kenan or his siblings were killed or, worse, arrested. You’d still leave?”

Dread slithers in my stomach.

“A lot could happen in five days,” Khawf continues matter-of-factly. “Who will you choose? Layla or Kenan?” His eyes gleam. “Or yourself?”

I clear my throat. “I’m leaving my brother, aren’t I?”

He taps his chin. “Right. But will another tragedy make you break your promise? Make you want to die here rather than take a risk at life?”

“No,” I answer.

He steps toward me. His breath is cold, but there’s worry in his eyes. “I hope for your sake you don’t. It would be a shame to bury you here.”





KHAWF’S WORDS WEIGH HEAVILY ON ME THROUGHOUT the day. My heart is at war, trying to latch on to wisps of happiness. Hope is a ghost roaming my body.

The occasional person congratulates me as I go on with my rounds. Glimmers of joy spark briefly, but it’s like trying to hold on to fog. Nour hugs me tightly again, and I try to absorb her delight.

“I knew he liked you!” Nour exclaims, walking beside me.

“You did?”

“Yes. He always looks at you while you work. Not in a creepy way… I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. “Like you’re the only one who exists.”

I blush. “Oh. I didn’t think anyone saw that.”

“It’s been a nice distraction from all the patients running in constantly. I mean it’s a miracle we have our wits!”

“You know, in the West and other places where people have normal lives, the medical staff can get therapy for what they see while dealing with their patients.”

“What a strange word! How do you pronounce it? The-ra-pee?” she asks sarcastically.

I crack a genuine smile. “Alhamdulillah our humor is alive and well.”

“It’ll take more than that to break us.” She winks before hurrying over to a crying child.

I watch her go, her words striking a chord. When I look into my heart, I expect to find it in shambles courtesy of Khawf’s words and the military’s actions, but I don’t. Perhaps that was the case at the beginning, but now there’s a candle lit in the darkness, illuminating my path. It promises a life.

“Congratulations, Salama,” Am says from behind me, and I jump. He’s wearing a worn-out brown jacket and there’s the shadow of stubble on his face.

“Thank you,” I say, but it tastes like sawdust in my mouth.

“Does the happy groom know about your broken moral compass?” His smile is anything but kind.

I go still. “Are you threatening me?”

He raises his hands. “God, no! We have an agreement. But I do think I’m within my rights to scare you after you nearly destroyed my life.”

He holds out his hand, and I fish for the Panadol tablet in my pocket, then drop it in his palm. But before he walks away, I find the courage to say, “How’s Samar?”

He stops, his back rigid, and pivots toward me. His eyes have gone murky brown with displeasure.

“I thought I told you this was a business—”

“I don’t care,” I interrupt. Acid roils in my stomach, but I power through. “I may have done something horrible, but I still have a conscience.”

A vein pulses on his forehead, then he answers slowly, “She’s fine. Sutures are removed. No infection.”