As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (88)
“What?” I say, panicked, my mind jumping to the worst of conclusions.
He sits on the edge of my bed and hooks his arms under my back before pulling me to his chest.
“I almost lost you.” The words come out choked, dry sobs shaking his shoulders. “God, I felt so helpless. When he cut you, I… I can’t bury you, Salama. I can’t.”
He tightens his hold, and I sink into him, eyes brimming with tears. “We made it.”
He presses a kiss to my cheeks, my forehead, and a soft one to my lips.
“Bury me before I bury you,” he whispers in prayer. “Please.”
I clasp his face between my hands, brushing away the teardrops. “I—”
“I love you,” he says before I can. I smile. It only takes a few words from him to untangle the vines gripping my heart. Kenan is magical that way. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. I need to believe that. I need to look at the colors instead of closing my eyes to beauty and hope.
Even when it’s hard to do so.
“Tell me something good,” I whisper and scoot over to make room for him. He slowly lies down on his side and I face him, our legs tangled.
He threads his fingers through mine and kisses my knuckles. “I’ve wanted to draw you even before I met you.”
“What do you mean?”
“My uncle lives in Berlin. I remember seeing pictures of it on Google a few years ago. The architecture is breathtaking. They have this monument called the Brandenburg Gate. I always fantasized about taking my wife there. Have her sit right in the middle while I drew her. As if the whole place was built just for her.”
In this eye of the storm, his words come alive in my mind. I see us strolling around Berlin, hand in hand, while he balances his art supplies on his shoulder. I’d pick carnations from the local florist and fashion them into a crown. On certain days, when the sun shines through the clouds, rays scattering over the fields, it would remind us of Homs. Of home.
“I’d like that,” I murmur.
Kenan lets go of my hand to twirl a lock of my hair around his finger. “I feel like I’ve known you all my life, Salama.”
I smile. “Everyone knows everyone in Homs. Odds are we must have met before.”
“As children? I spent most of my time in the playground, playing football and making a mess in the sandpit.”
“Oh, then we didn’t meet. See, I was either on our balcony gardening or playing Barbies with Layla.”
He smiles. “It might sound cheesy, but I’m sure our souls met way before they found their way into our bodies. I think that’s where we know each other from.”
Heat rushes to my face. What he’s saying is part of our faith. Souls existing beyond mortal bodies. Yet hearing him say that makes my ears and face burn.
He chuckles. “Tell me something good, then.”
I pick at the cuff of his sleeve, appreciating how he distracts me from feeling flustered. “Studio Ghibli inspired me to write,” I begin, and he looks at me with awe. “After watching Spirited Away when I was ten, my mind became hyperactive. One day I thought, why not write my stories down?”
“Did you?”
I shake my head. “Never a full story, no. School happened. But I never forgot them. Especially when I fell in love with botany.”
He nestles closer. “Would you tell me one of them? It’s all right if you don’t want to.”
My blood must have recovered somewhat because it rushes to my face.
My heart pulls. “It’s silly.”
He looks offended. “Silly? How dare you call my wife’s stories silly?”
I bite back a laugh. I know this moment of happiness will trickle by like sand in an hourglass, but I want to make each second count. I want to keep the pain at bay for a bit more.
“Fine.”
THE BIRDS ARE CHIRPING WHEN I WAKE SUDDENLY, tucked against Kenan’s chest, his arm wrapped around my shoulder protectively. Dread slithers along my skin, unwelcome and unbidden, and my heart races.
A nightmare?
I sit up and untangle myself from Kenan, praying he doesn’t stir. He mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep.
I can’t remember if my dreams were troubled, but my anxiousness hasn’t dissolved. If anything, it’s escalating. The cut on my neck burns a bit when I twist my head. I stand, looking for my lab coat, and find it draped over Dr. Ziad’s chair. I wet a corner of it and rub the spot on my stomach that the soldier touched. I frantically press harder, trying to shed the cells, until it burns and my skin protests.
“Morning,” someone murmurs from the corner of the room. My eyes adjust to the scarce early light leaking through the blinds, and I make out Khawf’s silhouette.
“Morning,” I whisper, letting my lab coat fall to the floor.
He steps out of the shadows, his dark suit rippling like the sea on a moonless night.
That explains the dread.
Khawf looks wary. “Does it?”
“What do you mean?”
He glances around Dr. Ziad’s office and suddenly advances toward me. His voice is urgent, very different from his usual drawl. “If five soldiers from the military were able to breach the Free Syrian Army’s defenses, what does that say?”
Fear is a cruel thing. The way it distorts thoughts, transforming them from molehills into mountains.