“Very salty,” Layla declared instantly.
“Itchy. Burned a bit too,” Hamza said, and Layla laughed.
“Yes, someone stayed too long in the water.”
“I was floating! In water! Without any effort! Of course I had to stay.”
“Everyone was staring at us because Hamza was acting as if he’d never seen the sea before,” Layla whispered in my ear. “I had to pretend I didn’t know him. It was so embarrassing.”
I laughed and Hamza rolled his eyes.
“If you’re going to act like this at my art exhibitions,” Layla said loudly, “you’re not invited.”
Hamza raised her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss over her knuckles, and I stared at him incredulously. I was sitting right there, but he had eyes only for Layla.
“I’ll be much worse, my love,” he said softly. “If you think I’m going to be anything but incredibly proud and very loudly showing you off to everyone, then think again.”
Layla blushed, but she was beaming.
“Oh, Salama.” She shook her head. “What am I going to do with him.”
I sigh and walk into my room, pushing that starry-eyed girl who didn’t survive from my mind. Mourning her doesn’t help me. It won’t feed me and it won’t get me out of Syria.
Khawf is already leaning against the window in my room, smoking. His head is turned away from me and I ignore him, kneeling in front of the dresser to pull open the last drawer. Tucked underneath the old clothes in the far right corner is Layla’s gold and the rest of the money we have. I take out five hundred dollars and choose one necklace, putting it aside. Hamza gifted it to her the day of their Al-Fatiha. It’s a thick, intricate rope and feels heavy in my hands. A lump forms in my throat, and I tuck the necklace back in before the tears spill.
“You did good today,” Khawf murmurs, and he blows out a cloud of smoke. “It went far better than I thought it would. You have no more reason to stay here and let your blood-soaked hands heal the sick.”
I clutch at my ears, shaking my head, and focus on Layla’s words to me. Hope. Finding love and happiness beyond the misery.
Khawf rolls his eyes. “If it gets you on that boat, you can believe in unicorns for all I care, but come on, Salama,hope? Let’s be realistic.” He curls his finger, beckoning me toward him, and I oblige. “Look outside.”
The city is painted black under a gray huddled sky. The moon’s light is trapped behind the clotted clouds, just as we’re trapped in Old Homs, unable to pass through. The buildings in front of my window are ghosts, no flames flickering from any of them. If I close my eyes and let my hearing take over, I can catch the muffled voices of people protesting neighborhoods away. They’ve never stopped, not for a single night, and with the uprising’s anniversary a month away, their spirits are only growing stronger.
“Tonight you might not die from the airplanes,” Khawf says, standing right next to me. “The skies are thick with clouds.”
“Lilacs.”I take a deep breath.“Lilacs. Lilacs. Lilacs.”
“Salama,” he continues, but he isn’t looking at me, rather staring at the same horizon I am. “What happiness can you find in this wasteland? Hm? There’snothingfor you here. Your family is gone. And Kenan will only bring you heartache if you continue to develop feelings for him. He won’t leave. There’s no happiness to scavenge from the wreckage. But Germany holds possibility and”—he finally looks at me, and his eyes remind me of frozen lakes in winter—“it’s better than staying here. Layla alive is better. And being away will dull your remorse for what you did to Samar. This place is nothing but reminders of your failures and the inevitability of your death.”
I fiddle with my fingers. “But Layla said—”
“Layla?” he repeats, then flicks his cigarette; and it disintegrates before hitting the window’s glass. “Let me show youLayla.”
He snaps his fingers and my grief-stricken city disappears from in front of the window, replaced by a memory. For a second I’m taken aback, because this isn’t the memory I expected. It isn’t riddled with pain, but one very near to my heart.
Layla and Hamza’s wedding.
It’s as if I’m watching a movie, but it doesn’t stop me from pressing my hands against the cold glass.
It’s held outside at my grandparents’ farmhouse, between the gardens under the lemon trees. We have the place covered in fairy lights and music is blaring from the speakers. The female guests are scattered all over, talking between themselves or cheering for Layla as she dances in the middle of the dance floor.
Layla’s face bears no agony. She sways in her off-white, princess-cut dress that flutters with every movement she makes. Her laugh, true and full, reaches my ears and fills me with warmth. Life colors her exquisitely. Her long auburn hair is in soft curls cascading down her back, with the white roses and baby’s breath I picked out for her woven between the tresses.
Mama stands beside her in a sparkling purple abaya, waving her arms joyously, and I push harder against the glass, needing it to disappear. Needing to run to Mama and throw myself into her arms. Needing to turn back time. Khawf has never shown me Mama like this before. Healthy and alive.
“Mama,” I choke out.
“Thisis Layla’s happiness, Salama,” Khawf says beside me.
