As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (77)

“Layla!” I say loudly, and she jumps.

“Salama! You scared me!”

“I was just calling you. Everything okay?”

She smiles but it looks haunting. “I’m good.”

I take a step closer. “Are you sure? Why are you looking at me like that?”

She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Nostalgia for the good days. Remember when I painted that?” She nods at the sea painting.

“Of course.”

She smiles lightly. “Remember how much I hated it when I was done?”

“The colors are all wrong!” she cried out, navy-blue streaks on her forehead and cheeks. She’d been painting for the last seven hours, not moving from her seat to drink or eat. Her daisy-printed apron was smeared with an assortment of blue and gray shades. She’d called me in a panic, barely able to get two words through the phone. “The shades! Ugh. It’s garbage!”

I laughed, looking around the living room. Paint was flecked over the latex put down to protect the floors. The rest of the furniture had been stacked against the wall to make room for Layla’s creativity. She stood in the center of the hurricane, tearfully holding up the canvas, her hair tied up in a messy bun.

“Are you kidding me?” I exclaimed, stepping over to her, careful not to kick the opened acrylic paint set. “Look at it!”

“I am!” she wailed. “It took seven hours of my life, Salama!”

I grabbed the canvas from her and set it over the mantelpiece. I made her stand in the middle, facing it. “No you’re not. Close your eyes.”

She did.

“Think of a storm deciding whether it’ll rage through the sea. The middle of nowhere. No ship in sight. No human being. Imagine the colors no human would ever see. The storm will bellow and tear across the waves and no one will be there to witness it. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe the clouds will break and the sun will shine.”

She took a deep breath.

“Now open your eyes.”

I smiled. “You captured something no one has ever seen before. Your imagination did that.”

She turned to me, beaming. “Thank you.”

“Do you remember that?” Layla asks again from the couch, and a strange lump forms in my throat.

“Yes.”

“You made it one of my favorite paintings.” There’s something in her voice I can’t decipher. Something melancholy.

“Then why do you look so sad?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not. I want you to know how incredible you are. How you touch people’s lives.”

“Salama?” Kenan says from behind me, and I immediately jump in front of Layla, hiding her from him. His brows are furrowed, his eyes glued to my face.

“Kenan!” I scold. “What are you doing? Layla’s not wearing her hijab!”

“Layla?” he echoes.

“Yes!” I wave him away. “Layla, put on a scarf or something.”

“I don’t have anything,” she answers glumly.

“Find something!” I say, exasperated.

Kenan’s confusion deepens, and then his lips part. “Salama.”

I peek over my shoulder to check if Layla’s found a shawl or a tablecloth. She rummages through the cushions, pouting.

“Salama.” Kenan’s voice comes out firmer, and I look at him.

“What?” I snap. “Why are you still here?”

He hesitates. “I came over because I heard you talking and no one was answering. I thought something had happened.”

Now I’m confused. “What? I’m talking to Layla.”

He steps toward me gently as if approaching a wounded deer. “No, you’re not.”

My arms fall heavily to my sides. “Excuse me?”

Kenan reaches for my hands, enveloping them in his warm ones. “Salama, no one’s here. There’s no Layla. I can’t see her.”





I LAUGH.

Kenan’s expression is a mix of sadness and panic.

“Of course you can’t see her,” I say. “I’m standing in front of you, silly.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Standing in front of me isn’t really hiding the couch.”

I whirl around to see Layla perched on said couch, her hands hugging her pregnant belly. Her hair auburn and her eyes ocean blue and I can see her. I can smell and touch her.

“Layla?” I say in a panicked voice.

She smiles sadly. “I’m sorry, Salama.”

A newfound fear drags my heart through a black abyss and I stumble forward, collapsing to my knees in front of her.

“Kenan,” I say in a hollow voice. “I’m begging you. Please tell me you see her. Please tell me you see her face and the blue dress she’s wearing.”

Kenan shifts behind me. “I don’t,” he says softly. “It’s just the couch.”

Layla brushes my cheek. “I’m real in your heart.”

A strangled sound escapes me. “No. No, you’re not.”

She bites her lip, tears trickling. “Remember the shooting in October?”

I am hollow. A burnt-out tree.

As she continues, each word she says pulls a thread, and another and another until I wholly unfurl. “I went to the grocery at the end of the road. There was a sniper. I didn’t survive. I was bleeding but I was able to be carried home during my last moments. I died outside the front door.”