As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (78)

My hands shake, agony splintering through my skeletal system, and I let out a choked scream.

I was at the hospital when it happened. Layla died without me there to hold her hand. Fragments of my memories come in splashes, seeping through the ones I’ve fabricated for myself. I had run back home but it was all over. She was walking back from the supermarket when a military sniper’s bullet went through her head. And the other through her uterus. The trail of blood outside on the cracked pavement is hers. It was thick, unwilling to dissolve into the soil. Just like that, she was taken away from me. And my niece was taken away. And I was all alone.

Layla’s burial was hurried, that very same day. Some of my neighbors helped me wash her and wrap her in white, and she was tucked beside her parents.

But I forgot all of that.

I woke up the next day to find her sitting on my bed with her cheeky grin and I… forgot.

No. I changed reality.

Layla’s hands are on my cheeks and I shiver. I can feel her hands. “It wasn’t your fault, do you understand me? You didn’t break your promise to Hamza.”

My sobs are dry, heaving painfully through my chest, and I can’t form coherent words. I’ve been living alone since October. For five months my mind has been spinning a fiction to keep my agony sealed away.

I gaze at her face, trying to commit her to memory. I needed her in my life. I needed that comfort and safety after I lost my whole world. The small moments of happiness I experienced with her were a lifeline. I know I’m owed so much, so I forged my own might life. She let me heal bit by bit. She’s as real to me as anything.

Her thumbs stroke my cheeks and she smiles, blue eyes brighter than a star. “You know I’m in Heaven. You know I’m safe and happy. So is Baby Salama.” She presses a hand to my chest. “You have your faith here. You will live for me, for your parents, and for Hamza. You’ll keep your promise to him by saving yourself.”

“Don’t go,” I beg. “Please.”

She takes my hands in hers and kisses my knuckles. “You have a family now, Salama. You’re not alone.”

A heavy, solid hand rests on my shoulder. So different from Layla’s touch, which feels more like a cloud whispering along my hands. I blink through tear-stained eyes and turn around and see Kenan’s sorrowful stare.

“Salama,” he whispers. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

I look around. The living room is dull and the colors murky. The Arabian rug beside the couch has a thick layer of dust on top. A cold aura hangs in the air; it gives the place an abandoned feel. It reminds me of how it was when Kenan walked me home after Lama’s surgery. This does not look like the home that Layla and Hamza put pieces of their souls into. This is not how I’ve been seeing it these past months. That place was softer and brighter with Layla’s touch.

And I realize I haven’t said anything for some time. The shock has forced me to retreat to where Layla exists. In my mind.

Kenan draws me to him, and I let him wrap his arms around my shoulders, my back to his chest. He becomes my solid wall to lean on, and my muscles loosen.

“Salama,” Layla says softly, and the world becomes brighter again.

She stands in front of me, cradling my cheeks, but her touch is barely there. I can hardly feel it now.

“It’s not your fault,” she says.

I swallow hard.

“Hamza would never want you to blame yourself. I don’t blame you. No one does.” Her expression is fierce.

I nod.

Satisfied with my answer, she takes a deep breath, and when I blink, she’s gone.

Kenan’s hold on me slackens, but I immediately grab his hands before turning into his embrace, hugging him tightly. I bury my face in his sweater, inhaling his lemon scent.

“You’re real, right?” I finally whisper. “Please be real.”

He lifts my head up and the stars are still in his eyes.

“I’m real,” he says firmly. He takes my hand and presses it against his chest. His heartbeat pushes against his ribs and the vibrations jump along my skin. I close my eyes for a few seconds, relishing the feel of it. I don’t think I can ever let him go.

I nod and press my lips together to stop myself from crying when I see Lama and Yusuf peeking from behind the wall.

Kenan notices them as well and his face changes. He beckons them over before crouching to his knees to hug them. All the while he doesn’t let go of my hand, which makes for an awkward hug, but he’s determined not to let go.

“Where’s Layla?” Lama asks, looking around with a curiosity that turns to apprehension when she sees my red eyes.

Kenan grimaces and he looks at me. I nod once.

“Layla’s in Heaven,” Kenan says gently.

Lama frowns. “But you said we will live with Salama and Layla.”

Kenan looks away, not knowing how to find the exact words to explain it to her. But Yusuf’s eyes suddenly widen with the realization and his gaze darts to me. Emotions flicker on his face.

In the quiet space between us, he sees me. Not as the girl with nerves of steel who saved his sister. Or the girl who fell for his brother and took him away. He sees himself in me as I saw myself in him.

Kenan finds the words carefully and Lama listens, but I don’t.

I’m looking at the window where the curtains flutter with a light breeze and a single ray of sunlight passes through, dropping on the Arabian rug.