He taps the cigarette and ash falls to the floor, disappearing just as it should hit the ground. “What happened?”
A five-year-old girl with curly brown hair died from a sniper shot to the heart while I saved her older brother from sepsis. I amneeded. “I—I couldn’t.”
His eyes narrow. “You couldn’t,” he repeats dryly. “So I take it you want to be crushed under this house. Alive and broken and bleeding. No one coming to save you because how could they? Muscles as atrophied by malnourishment as yours are can barely lift bodies, let alone concrete. Or maybe you want to be arrested. Taken to where your Baba and Hamza are. Raped and tortured for answers you don’t have. Have the military dangle death as a reward and not a punishment. Is this what you want, Salama?”
My bones shiver. “No.”
He blows out one last trail of smoke before grinding the cigarette under the heel of his oxford shoe. Then he crosses the threshold and stands in front of me. I raise my head to look at him. His eyes are as cold as the Orontes River in December.
“Thencouldn’tisn’t going to cut it,” he says. “You promised you would ask Am for a boat today. And three times he passed by and youdidn’t.” His lips pull into a thin line, a muscle working in his jaw. “Or do you want me to go back on my deal?”
“No!” I shout.“No.”
One snap of his fingers and he could completely alter my reality, unleashing hallucination upon hallucination, showing everyone that the exterior I’ve put up is nothing more than brittle twigs against a strong wind. Dr. Ziad wouldn’t let me work at the hospital anymore. Not when I could be a danger to the patients. I need the hospital. I need it to forget my pain. To keep my hands busy so my mind doesn’t scream itself hoarse.To save lives.
Worse, I’d be piling more worries and anxieties on Layla, affecting her health and the baby’s.No.I’ll endure it all for her. I’ll drown in my tears and offer my soul to him if I can keep Layla safe in the knowledge I’m all right.
And so, Khawf has promised to keep to himself during the day and confine the terrors he shows me to the night. Far away from anyone else’s eyes.
An unkind smile tilts his lips upward. “This is your last chance, Salama, and I swear to you, if you don’t ask him tomorrow, I will tear your world apart.”
Anger awakens between the heartbeats of fear. My subconscious may have me under its thumb, but it’smysubconscious.
“It’s not that easy, Khawf,” I hiss, shaking away the look on the boy’s face when he held his little sister in his arms, her body small. Sosmall. “Am might not have a boat. And even if he does, the price will be so high we won’t be able to pay it. So then theonlyway out would be to walk to Turkey. Making us a perfect target for the military. That is,ifLayla survives the walking!”
His eyebrows quirk up in amusement. “Why are you choosing to ignore the promise you made to Hamza about getting Layla out? Your conflicted feelings about the hospital are causing chaos in your heart. Point is, you made promises and you’re backing out. All of this babbling is nothing more than excuses to keep your guilt at bay. What price wouldn’t you pay for Layla’s safety?”
I look away and dig my hands into my pockets, sinking into the mattress.
“This memory”—he straightens, smirking—“should solidify your decision.”
Before I can scream, he snaps his fingers.
The rich smell of mint and cinnamon stewing in a broth of yogurt and meat invades my nose and I’m overwhelmed with nostalgia. I hesitate for a second before opening my eyes. When I do, I’m no longer in my musty room but back home.Myhome.
The kitchen is exactly how I remember it. The marble walls alternate between beige and cedar brown, where hanging frames show Arabic calligraphy and painted golden lemons. The storage space beneath the counters holds our saucepans and pots, neatly stacked. A white satin cloth embroidered with lilies drapes over the kitchen table. Around the table stand four wooden chairs, and on top of it, orchids sprout out of a crystal vase. Blue orchids I bought for a visit that was supposed to happen later that day—today. I always bought blue orchids when we had a social gathering.
I finally turn to my left, where Mama stands beside me, her eyes on the shish barak, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. All the while her lips moving in prayer.
“Keep them safe,” she whispers. “Keep my men safe. Bring them back to me alive and well today. Protect them from those who wish them harm.”
I’m rooted to the spot, my heart tearing in two.
She’s beside me.
A few silent tears trickle down my cheeks, and the need to throw myself into her arms overwhelms me. I want my mama. I want her to soothe away my sadness and kiss me while calling me ya omri and te’eburenee.My lifeandbury me.
Instead, I gently poke her arm. She glances up with bloodshot eyes, distracted, before a tired smile appears on her lips, and I can see how this war has drastically changed her. Her face, which never seemed to age beyond thirty-five, is weary with nerves, and the roots of her umber-brown hair are gray. She never let her roots go gray, always the picture of prim and proper. Her bones poke out sharply, and dark shadows tint under her eyes, where they never existed before.
“Te’eburenee, we’ll be okay. Insha’Allah,” she whispers, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and squeezing me to her.Bury me before I bury you.
I did.
“Yes, Mama,” I manage to choke out, melting into her touch.
“Aw, Saloomeh,” Hamza calls as he walks in with Baba from the living room, and I nearly cry out. They’re here. Hamza’s honey-colored eyes are full of life and mirror Baba’s. They’re both wearing coats with the Syrian Revolution flag hanging over one shoulder. One twist and it could be a noose. “Are you seriously going to cry?”
I don’t ask Hamza where Layla is because I know she’s back at their home, waiting for him. But he won’t be returning to her today.
