When Layla first saw this house, she was immediately infatuated with its quaint aesthetic, so Hamza bought it for her on the spot. Two bedrooms were perfect for a newlywed couple to make their own. She painted branches of green vines from the bottom of one of the walls all the way to the top, etched purple lavender blossoms on another, and covered the floors in thick Arabian rugs I had helped her buy from Souq Al-Hamidiyah. She painted the kitchen white to contrast with shelves made from walnut wood, which she filled with different assortments of mugs she designed. The kitchen overlooks the living room, where, back in the day, her art supplies cluttered every nook and cranny. Papers smudged by her colored fingertips strewn across the floor, paint from her paintbox dripping from brushes. Many times I would come over only to find her sprawled under her easel, auburn hair fanned out and staring at the ceiling, mouthing lyrics to a popular old Arabic song.
The house was the embodiment of Layla’s soul.
But it’s not that anymore. Layla’s home has lost its spark, the colors completely faded, leaving a sunken gray shade in their wake. It’s a husk of a home.
I make my way to the kitchen to find her lying back on the daisy-printed couch in the living room and put the bag of pita bread on the counter. As soon as I see her, my exhaustion disappears. “I’m heating up the soup. Do you want some?”
“No, I’m good,” she answers. Her voice, unlike mine, is strong with the promise of life. It’s a warm blanket cocooning me in sweet memories. “How did the boat thing go?”
Crap.I pretend to busy myself with pouring the watered-down lentil soup into the saucepan and lighting the ignition needle on the portable gas stove. “You sure you don’t want some?”
Layla sits up, her seven-months-pregnant belly stretching the navy-blue dress she’s wearing. “Tell me how it went, Salama.”
I glue my eyes to the brown soup, listening to the hissing flames. Since not long after I moved in, Layla has been nagging me to talk to Am at the hospital. She’s heard the stories of Syrians finding safety in Germany. So have I. Some of my own patients have been able to secure passage across the Mediterranean Sea via Am. How he finds the boats I have no idea. But with money, anything is possible.
“Salama.”
I sigh, sticking a finger in the soup and finding it just about warm. But my poor stomach rumbles, not caring if it’s truly hot, so I remove it from the stove and sit beside her on the couch.
Layla looks at me patiently, her eyebrows raised. Her ocean-blue eyes are impossibly huge, nearly taking over her face. She’s always looked like autumn incarnate, with her golden-red palette of auburn hair, scattered freckles, and pale complexion. Even now, with all the pain, she still looks magical. But I see the way her elbows stick out oddly and how her once-full cheeks have narrowed.
“I didn’t ask him,” I finally say, eating a spoonful of soup and bracing myself for her groan.
And she delivers. “Why? We have some money—”
“Yeah, money we need to survive when we get there. We don’t know how much he’ll ask for, and besides, the stories…”
She shakes her head, strands of hair falling over her cheek. “Okay, yes. Some people aren’t… reaching land, but there are more who are! Salama, weneedto make a decision. We need to leave! You know, before I start breastfeeding.”
She isn’t finished, her breaths becoming labored. “And don’t youdaresuggest I go without you! Either you and I get on a boat together or neither of us does. I won’t be in God knows where, scared out of my mind and alone, not knowing if you’re dead or alive. There’s no way inhellthat’s happening! And we can’t walk to Turkey—you told me that yourself.” She points at her swollen stomach. “Not to mention, with border guards and snipers scattered all over like ants, we’d be shot as soon as we stepped out of the Free Syrian Army’s area. We haveoneoption. How many times do I have to repeat this?”
I cough. The soup slides thickly down my throat, landing like stones in my stomach. She’s right. She’s in her third trimester; neither she nor I can walk four hundred miles to safety, dodging death the whole way.
I set the saucepan on the pine coffee table in front of us and stare at my hands. The crisscross slashes of scars covering them are the marks death left when he tried to take my life. Some are faint, silvery, while a few are more ragged, the new flesh still looking raw despite the fact that they’ve healed. They’re a reminder to work faster, to push through the exhaustion and save one more life.
I move to pull my sleeves over them, but Layla’s hand covers one of mine gently and I look up at her. “I know why you’re not asking him, and it’s not the money.”
My hand twitches under hers.
Hamza’s voice whispers in my mind, tinged with worry.Salama, promise me. Promise.
I shake my head, trying to dissolve his voice, and take a deep breath. “Layla, I’m the only pharmacist left in three neighborhoods. If I leave, who will help them? The crying children. The sniper victims. The wounded men.”
She clutches her dress tightly. “I know. But I’mnotsacrificing you.”
I open my mouth to say something but stop when she winces, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Is the baby kicking?” I immediately ask, inching closer. Even though I try not to let the worry escape, it does. With the siege, prenatal vitamins are scarce and checkups are limited.
“A bit,” she admits.
“Does it hurt?”
“No. Just uncomfortable.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
