“No, Dr. Salama,” he says like a dutiful patient. “I just want to sit here with my wife.” He rubs his hand over my arm. “You’re cold.”
I relent. He really is just tired.
“A bit,” I admit, happy he’s holding me. “Do you want me to tell you something good?”
“Yes, please.”
“I have a new story idea.”
I look up at him and there’s a twinkle in his eyes. The tension lessens in his brows. “Tell me.”
“It came to me before we left home. When I was looking at Layla’s painting.”
“It’s a beautiful painting.”
I pat his cheek, and he leans against my palm. “It’s a story about a little girl who stumbles on magical portraits that take her to alternate universes. But to cross through, she has to sacrifice something valuable.”
He stays silent for a few seconds and then softly says, “I don’t want to illustrate this. I want to animate it.”
I smile. “Anothercollaboration?”
“It would be my honor to work with the genius herself again.”
“Praise me some more and you have a deal.”
He laughs lightly and I’m glad to be able to draw his mind away from the terror of the drive here. “Salama, love of my life. My sky, my sun, my moon, and my stars, would you grant this mortal wish of mine?”
I pretend to think about it while my ears burn. “Okay, fine.”
“We’re leaving now!” the captain calls, and we fall back to reality. The whispering disappears and, as if in unison, all of us look back at the shore.
The boat starts to rock away gently, the waves lapping against its body, trying to find holes through which to enter. I know how to swim. Baba taught me and Hamza. Kenan told me he and his siblings do too. But I don’t want us to test our strengths against the sea’s. Not today.
For once the humming in my brain stops, and I don’t hear anything but the sea and the mourning of my country. I raise my head to get a good, long look at Syria.
My eyes wander on the shore, desperately trying to memorize its features before it disappears, and just there, I see a girl about eight, laughing, running along the beach, her pink dress looking so out of place. Her curly brown hair falls below her shoulders, and when she looks toward me, she grins. I know that face, and the missing front tooth, because I have photos of me looking like that. Ten years will do a lot to the cheeky twinkle in that girl’s eyes. Ten years will teach her how to survive. It’ll wedge Syria’s soil under her fingernails. Despite being a pharmacist, she’ll know some wounds will never heal.
I blink and she disappears.
A song begins. One of the revolution’s songs that compares Syria to Heaven.Heaven. I listen as if it’s the first time I’ve heard it. I take in the words and tattoo them on my heart. And I realize I’m not hallucinating the song—everyone on the boat is singing. My throat becomes tight as the hoarse voices mingle with the wind, carrying our melody to the heavens. I can hear the tears fall down their cheeks and I can taste them in my mouth. They’re as salty as the sea.
Soon enough, my voice joins theirs, and I sing through my own silent sobbing that drips, drips, drips to the boat’s floorboards, sinking into the old wood. Even Yusuf sings, his voice bruised from underuse.
By the end of it, we’re all craning our necks back toward Syria as she vanishes slowly behind us. Kenan leans on my shoulder, trying to get a better look, and his tears drop on my hand. I look up at him and I realize we really are Syria now. Just like I told him. Our small family is all that’s left to remember our country by. I hug him, crying, and he cries too.
We don’t blink; we don’t look away until we can’t see her anymore.
AT FIRST I DON’T NOTICE HOW COLD IT HAS GOTTEN. I blame it on the adrenaline swimming lazily in my blood, which perks up when Kenan brushes against me or I hear a loud wave crashing over the side. The other passengers are huddled beside one another, their faces wet with tears, each lost in their own agony. They rub their hands to try and conjure up some warmth. I’m relieved to see Lama is fine, despite the bite of the cold. But Kenan worries me. His eyes droop, and his head nods like he’s about to fall asleep.
“Hey,” I whisper, moving over a bit to create more space. “Sleep on my shoulder.”
He glances up and shakes his head, but when I grab the front of his sweater and guide him down he offers no resistance. My bony shoulder is not much of a cushion but at least my hijab is soft.
“Salama,” he whispers. “I’m fin—”
“Shh. We’re one step closer to eating knafeh. Dream about that.”
He sighs and it takes him all of three seconds to fall asleep. I pray the Panadol eases his pain.
