I twist around, hurrying away and out of the hospital as my heart thunders in my ears. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take another dead body. I can’t take this guilt. I’m tired and my stomach is ripping itself to shreds with hunger. My palms are red from my nails, my scars horrendous. I need to breathe in something that isn’t blood and bile and guts. I need to hold Layla and remind myself she’s alive.
I want to scream.
I want Mama.
By the time I reach my home, I’m out of breath and wheezing.
“Layla!” I call out, slamming the door behind me.
“Salama?” Her surprised voice answers from the living room. She appears a second later, hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her washed-out mustard dress stretches over her bulging stomach, and I throw myself in her arms, hugging her.
“Hey, is everything all right?” She holds me closer. “Oh my God, did something happen? Is Kenan okay?”
“N-no,” I stammer. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I just needed to see you.”
She holds me back, eyes searching me. “The circles under your eyes are darker.” She grips my arm. “Your face is thinner. Something’s happened. Salama?”
“I’m fine,” I repeat weakly.
She doesn’t believe me. “It’s nearly four o’clock. Your shift isn’t over until five.”
I tear myself from her and plod toward the couch, where I all but collapse. I shrug my lab coat off and remove my hijab, throwing it over the couch’s arm. “I’m tired. Please, can you play with my hair?”
She exhales and sits down, and I lay my head in her lap. Her touch is gentle as she untangles the knots in my tresses. I feel the blood moving in the vessels in my scalp and sigh with relief.
I close my eyes and whisper, “Thank you.”
“Anything for you, silly.”
We stay silent for a while and I remember how dramatic I used to get if a pimple popped up unbidden on my face. My bookshelf was stacked with homemade concoctions I’d whipped up from all the herbs and flowers I’d gathered, neatly arranged beside one another alphabetically. Jam jars filled with sprigs of tea tree, buds of witch hazel, dried rose petals. I would make pastes out of them.
“Dab it under your eyes,” I remember saying once to Layla, who would always volunteer as my guinea pig. She was perched on my bed, drinking coffee from a huge blue mug. She put it down on my desk and opened the jar.
“Mmm.” She smeared the pink cream on her cheekbones and under her eyes. “It smells so good. What is it?”
“Arabian jasmine, daisies, and a dash of almond oil.” I went through the jars’ labels. “It’s supposed to make your skin smoother and erase your dark circles.”
Layla huffed, feigning offense. “Are you saying I don’t take care of my skin?”
I laughed. “Layla, you owe half your beauty to me.”
She flicked her hair to the side. “I won’t comment on that.”
Now, my skin is dry and flaky, my lips chapped, and the dark circles under my eyes have become permanent. The old Salama wouldn’t recognize me.
“Salama,” Layla says, and I crack my eyes half open. “Talk to me.”
I sort through the problems, trying to decide which will distract me enough from my pain and won’t be a burden on Layla.
“I think,” I whisper, “I might like Kenan.”
Her fingers still and I brace myself for her inevitable shrieks of joy, but she doesn’t do that. I glance up to see a sad smile on her lips.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“Cry?” I joke weakly even though I’m trying my best to stifle the tears in my ducts. Now that the words are out in the open, they refuse to be ignored any longer. It seems I’ll be leaving Syria hurt in every possible way.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
