IT’S LAYLA’S IDEA TO USE LEMONS TO FIGHT SEASICKNESS when we’re on the boat.
“Of course,” I say. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
She laughs, glancing at the three sets of clothes she’s deciding between.
“That’s because I’m not the one experiencing the blossom of love. Now more than ever, it seems, with Kenan joining us.”
I ignore her and go over the checklist, aware of the bulkiness in my pocket where Kenan’s drawing sits. A heavy coat. Passport and school certificate. At the beginning of the uprising, I started carrying my passport everywhere in case anything happened or we had to flee at the last second.
I count the other necessities. Eight cans of tuna and three cans of beans.
One strip of Panadol. A couple of bandages. Four water bottles.
“You don’t have to say anything for me to know.” Layla flops on the couch after finally settling on a navy-blue dress and thick wool stockings.
“You were never able to hide secrets from me. Perks of knowing you all my life.”
My fingers tighten over the snugly rolled dollars as Samar’s frail, bloodied body flashes in front of my eyes. I command myself not to vomit, even though I haven’t eaten more than five spoonfuls of lentil soup. “Is there anything else we’re missing?” I ask, and I focus on the fact that Kenan will be on that boat with me.
She lets out a sigh and nods toward a USB stick sitting beside me on the
floor.
I pick it up.
“It has our family photos. We’ll have Hamza with us there. And our parents too.”
A lump lodges in my throat. “When did you do this?”
She shakes her head. “Hamza did. The first week of the revolution.”
I press a hand over my mouth and look away, tears burning my eyes.
What are they doing to you, Hamza?
“He knew this was going to happen,” Layla whispers. “Or at the very least, he suspected.”
“He was always the smart one,” I whisper back.
I glance at Layla. Tears decorate her eyes like sapphires. She holds out her hands and I take them.
“Alhamdulillah,” she says. “With whatever happens to us, to him, I will cling to our faith.”
I nod, my throat slick with secrets and regrets.
The next morning, as soon as I step inside the hospital, I make a beeline toward Am. He’s stationed in the main atrium, looking out the window.
“Am,” I say, and his gaze snaps to me.
“Salama.”
I pull out one Panadol tablet and drop it in his hand. “I need a place for one more person.”
He stares at me with disbelief. “And next week there’ll be another one.
And another and another.”
“No,” I force out. “Just this one.”
He waves the tablet in front of me. “You only have so much leverage, Salama. The Panadol won’t be enough for a discount.”
“You’re already getting my gold!”
He half shrugs and flicks the cigarette butt to the ground before grinding it under the heel of his boot. “Not enough. What’s more important? Gold or a person’s life?”
I want to scoff, to strike him across the face for the hypocrisy coating his
tongue. Instead, I mutter, “A ring.”
He mulls it over. “Fine.”
The faraway sound of a crash makes us both start, but the moment passes and outside, a few birds take to the cloud-speckled sky.
Am fiddles with a cigarette. When he looks at me again, it’s like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“What?” I say defensively, folding my arms.
“Have you always been so”—he gestures at me—“hollow?”
Self-consciously, I fuss with my hijab, tugging it across my other shoulder. I’m sure it would delight him to know that the guilt of what I’ve done has turned me into skin and bone. But before I can answer, Dr. Ziad calls my name and I turn around to see him waving me over, a frantic look in his eyes.
I hurry to him, my heart beating wildly in my throat.
“Doctor, what is it?” I ask, and he glances around quickly before leading me to a corner of the atrium.
“Did you hear what happened yesterday in Karam el-Zeitoun?” His
voice is hushed, a strangle of pain.
My mouth goes dry and I shake my head.
“The military… they mass—” He stops, pain glazing his eyes, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “Women and children with slit throats.
None left alive. Not a single gunshot. The children… they were—” He loses his composure once more, his eyes glistening, and mine burn with tears. “They were hit with blunt objects, and one girl was severely mutilated. The neighborhoods beside them heard the screams. The Free Syrian Army confirmed it to me just now.”
My stomach churns and I manage to whisper, “What… we’re next, aren’t we?”
He runs a hand through his hair and straightens his back, all traces of horror fading from his expression. He’s our head doctor—from him we get our strength. If he crumbles, we all fall. “The FSA was able to get vital intel about an attack planned nearby for this morning and they’ve warned all the hospitals. It’s worse than anything we’ve had.”
“Worse than missiles?” I ask, unable to imagine what else they could use.
He nods and I notice the vessels in his eyes are more pronounced—
redder.
“Like what?”
He takes a deep breath that gets lost somewhere in his lungs. “Attacks that violate the Geneva Convention.”
I frown. “So everything they’ve done up till now is legal?”
“No, of course not!” he exclaims, rubbing his eyes, and his hands tremble. “But this is taboo.” Sweat glistens on his forehead.
“What are you talking about?” My voice comes out strangled.
“It may not happen,” he says, but I can hear the lie in his tone.
“Doctor, this is the regime we’re talking about. If they want, they could drop a nuke on us.” I laugh humorlessly and press a hand to my forehead.
Gardenias. Alleviate depression and anxiety and stress. Gardenias.
Gardenias. Gardenias.
His eyes flit from the doors to me and back again. “Salama, I consider you my daughter. So please, don’t run away from the hospital if this happens. None of us are prepared to deal with it, but we’re going to be fine.”
“If what happens?” I nearly shout. “What did the Free Syrian Army tell you?”
But he doesn’t have to tell me. A scream rips the air, and I turn around, shocked. I’ve never heard a scream like that in my life. The doors open to a horde of victims swarming in, but I don’t see any injuries.
“What’s happening?” I shriek, trying to understand.
Dozens of casualties on stretchers or on the ground are convulsing like someone electrocuted them.
Teenagers with their heads stretched back, arms and legs shaking uncontrollably.
Little children with foam at their mouths, looking up, trying to make sense of what’s happening to them.
My feet are rooted to the ground. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t understand.
“Chemical attack,” I hear Dr. Ziad say. “They’ve finally used sarin.”
