As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (99)

He laughs and looks at me. “You look so crestfallen!”

“I’m not,” I murmur, but all the same, a blanket of melancholy engulfs me. Without Khawf, I would be buried somewhere in Homs where no one would remember me. Without Layla’s appearing to me, I wouldn’t have found the courage to live for Syria. To fight for my country.

He sweeps his hair to the side, his eyes the shade of hydrangea petals. “I’ve done my job. I got you on the boat. Whatever happens next is up to you. But no matter what it is, I’m proud of you.” He stretches one leg behind him, giving me a small bow.

“Goodbye,” I whisper, and when I blink, he’s gone.

I stare at the place he vanished from, thinking he might appear again, but he doesn’t. I raise my hands, glance at them, searching my soul for any difference, and I find it in the way my heart feels a bit lighter. Something in the air has changed as well. Like reality sharpening and settling into place.

Kenan shifts, lifting his head up, his eyelashes fluttering sleepily.

“Hey,” I whisper, tilting toward him and pressing a palm on his forehead. Warm, but not too warm. “How are you feeling?”

He grimaces. “Slightly seasick.”

Lama and Yusuf are fast asleep, their heads slumped over their backpacks, and I’m glad. If they were awake, they’d also be suffering from the nausea.

“Let me get a lemon.” I take one out along with the knife from Kenan’s bag, cut it into wedges, and pass him a piece. I nibble on my slice, relishing the sour taste.

I settle back beside Kenan. “How’s your back? Chest? Head? I saw what the soldiers did to you.”

He bites at the lemon, his expression scrunching from its acidity, and coughs. “They’re fine.”

“Kenan.”

He sighs. “The Panadol helped for a bit, though it still hurts.”

One-gram Panadols can only be taken every four hours, or else there’s a risk of toxicity. He took one less than two hours ago before he fell asleep.

I decide to distract him instead. “Khawf is gone.”

“Forever?”

“More or less.”

“Well, good,” he says, satisfied. “Because now I can tell you I didn’t like him.”

I clasp a hand over my mouth, laughing silently. “Were you jealous?”

A faint smile pulls at his lips. “Actually, I wanted to punch him for annoying you, but I didn’t want you to think he bothered me. Or to remind you of him when he wasn’t there.”

“Ah, my hero.”

He grins. “I try.”

I nestle closer, and we finish up our lemon wedges.

“Tell me something good, Salama,” he murmurs, pressing his head against mine.

“For the past year,” I begin slowly, “Syria was gray. The destroyed buildings and roads. The ashy faces of the starving. Sometimes the skies. Our life literally became monochrome, alternating with a harsh red. While some were able to see past it, I forgot other colors existed. I forgot happiness was a possibility. But when you showed me that sunset on your roof and I saw pink and purple and blue… it felt like… like I was seeing color for the first time.” I glance at him and see his eyes glittering with emotion.

“Imagine what Germany will be like,” I continue. “Imagine painting our apartment blue like Layla’s painting. And I was thinking we’d draw a map of Syria on one wall.”

“I love it,” Kenan says instantly. “I love you.”

I smile, and in that moment I know Layla would be beaming, her eyes sparkling with happy tears, if she could see me like this: stranded in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, the cold water trying to sneak under my clothes, and rather than letting my terror take the reins, I choose to focus on a future where I’m alive. Where I’m safe.





I wake up with a jolt. How long was I asleep? The lemon’s effect must have worn off, because my stomach flips and nausea sours my blood.

People’s shapes dip in and out of my vision, and their voices are dim in my ears. I rub my eyes, groaning from the cramps, and when I open them again, everything tumbles sharply into place. It must be morning by now but the sun is hidden behind thick clouds. Someone shakes me, and I turn to Kenan.

“What?” I ask groggily. A scream pierces the air, and it wakes me from my stupor.

Kenan grips my shoulder tightly, and in a measured voice I don’t recognize, he says, “Salama, the weather is bad.”

He suppresses a shiver, and I crane my neck to study the sea. Aided by the wind, the waves are throwing themselves hard against the boat, rocking it and my heart as well.

“There’s a lot of people. The boat isn’t new. It can’t handle all of us. We don’t have time,” he says calmly, but the terror is more than visible in his words.

I don’t understand. This boat has made the trip countless times. Am promised!

Kenan pulls me back. The bruise under his eye looks ink black.

“When the boat goes down, you have to stay as close to me as you can, do you understand?” he says firmly.

Lama is crying, and she isn’t the only one. The screaming, pleading, and praying are deafening—I wonder whether the sounds have reached land.

“How far are we from Italy?” I ask.