KHAWF’S WORDS WEIGH HEAVILY ON ME THROUGHOUT the day. My heart is at war, trying to latch on to wisps of happiness. Hope is a ghost roaming my body.
The occasional person congratulates me as I go on with my rounds.
Glimmers of joy spark briefly, but it’s like trying to hold on to fog. Nour hugs me tightly again, and I try to absorb her delight.
“I knew he liked you!” Nour exclaims, walking beside me.
“You did?”
“Yes. He always looks at you while you work. Not in a creepy way… I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. “Like you’re the only one who exists.”
I blush. “Oh. I didn’t think anyone saw that.”
“It’s been a nice distraction from all the patients running in constantly. I mean it’s a miracle we have our wits!”
“You know, in the West and other places where people have normal lives, the medical staff can get therapy for what they see while dealing with their patients.”
“What a strange word! How do you pronounce it? The-ra-pee?” she asks sarcastically.
I crack a genuine smile. “Alhamdulillah our humor is alive and well.”
“It’ll take more than that to break us.” She winks before hurrying over to a crying child.
I watch her go, her words striking a chord. When I look into my heart, I expect to find it in shambles courtesy of Khawf’s words and the military’s actions, but I don’t. Perhaps that was the case at the beginning, but now there’s a candle lit in the darkness, illuminating my path. It promises a life.
“Congratulations, Salama,” Am says from behind me, and I jump. He’s wearing a worn-out brown jacket and there’s the shadow of stubble on his
face.
“Thank you,” I say, but it tastes like sawdust in my mouth.
“Does the happy groom know about your broken moral compass?” His
smile is anything but kind.
I go still. “Are you threatening me?”
He raises his hands. “God, no! We have an agreement. But I do think I’m within my rights to scare you after you nearly destroyed my life.”
He holds out his hand, and I fish for the Panadol tablet in my pocket, then drop it in his palm. But before he walks away, I find the courage to say, “How’s Samar?”
He stops, his back rigid, and pivots toward me. His eyes have gone murky brown with displeasure.
“I thought I told you this was a business—”
“I don’t care,” I interrupt. Acid roils in my stomach, but I power through. “I may have done something horrible, but I still have a conscience.”
A vein pulses on his forehead, then he answers slowly, “She’s fine.
Sutures are removed. No infection.”
I let out a relieved sigh from deep within my gut, the acid’s strength subduing.
“She has a scar,” Am says. “That way we’ll always remember you and your conscience.”
He walks away and my stomach resumes digesting itself before I dash to retch into the sink.
Kenan and his siblings are standing in front of the hospital steps when I walk out at the end of my shift. Yusuf has a beat-up Spider-Man backpack and he’s pawing the pebbles with his shoe, while Kenan holds Lama’s hand, her pink Barbie backpack frayed at the edges. Kenan’s bag is black.
My heart expands when I see them, and I hurry down the steps.
“Hey,” I say, and Kenan smiles at me. “Long time no see.”
I step to his side to brush Lama’s light brown hair. “I missed you.”
She beams, swinging the hand that’s holding Kenan’s.
I turn to Yusuf, who’s still staring at the ground. “I missed you too, Yusuf.”
He refuses to look at me, and another pebble clatters against the steps. I look at Kenan, confused. He’d been in a lighter mood after the ceremony; I had thought he would carry it with him throughout the day.
Kenan shakes his head sadly and in a low voice says, “He’s upset we left our apartment. Too much change happening today.”
“Oh.”
Kenan reaches over with his free hand and ruffles his brother’s hair.
Yusuf swats at his hand but there’s no mistaking the concealed delight in his eyes—he’s happy his older brother is giving him attention.
“You’re fine?” he asks, and Yusuf shrugs.
Kenan sighs, turns to me, and picks Lama up. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Our neighborhood has become one of the hardest spots to defend after the chemical attack. I don’t think we could have stayed much longer.”
I press a hand against my mouth, shocked. My eyes travel to the pale orange skies and I search for the planes. “Let’s go.”
Lama’s chatter fills up the silence as we make our way back; it looks like she has gotten over her shyness. I walk to her side and she looks at me.
Despite being a shade darker, her eyes hold the same intensity Kenan’s do.
“How old are you?” she suddenly asks.
An amused smile tilts my lips up. “Eighteen.”
She frowns, trying to calculate how much older that is than her.
“Kenan’s nineteen,” she finally says.
“I know.”
“And you married him,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I did.”
“Why? He’s always on his laptop. Sometimes I have to yell three times before he hears me.”
She says it in such a solemn tone I burst out laughing, and Kenan’s shoulders shake with his own suppressed laughter. Yusuf surges forward
and grabs the hem of Kenan’s sweater.
“Why are you laughing?” Lama demands.
I reach over and brush her cheek. “I’m sorry. You’re just so cute.”
Her nose scrunches as she debates with herself whether she should analyze this more or accept the compliment. She decides on the latter.
I look at Yusuf and smile. “I like your backpack. Spider-Man is really cool. Is he your favorite superhero?”
For the first time since I’ve met him, Yusuf’s eyes brighten up and he nods once before pressing his lips together and clutching the straps. He breaks my heart. It’s clear he’s been forced to grow up so suddenly that he’s holding on to anything resembling the innocence he lost. Normally by thirteen he would have thrown away his Spider-Man backpack for video games and meeting his friends for a football match in one of the alleys. His emotional growth is a plant that people forgot to water, so it tries to capture any moisture it can.
A crowd emerges from my neighborhood. Young men, women, and teenagers, all carrying various signs and banners for a protest, and Kenan’s eyes trail after them. His jaw clenches and I immediately touch his elbow, trying desperately to tether him back to me. Back to the promise he’s made.
The fiery gaze disappears when he looks down at me, and I can breathe again. I press a hand against my ring. His eyes fall on the movement and his gaze traces my scars.
My home looms in the distance and I take out my keys. My nerves suddenly come alive when I unlock the door as I realize that Kenan and I
will be living under the same roof.
Together.
Where will he sleep? Layla will let me use her bedroom for Lama and Yusuf. Maybe she’ll stay with me in mine, and Kenan can take the couch.
He’ll be footsteps away from me. Just one hallway over.
“Layla,” I call out when I walk in, banishing the butterflies from my stomach. “I’m home and Kenan and his siblings are here!”
Silence answers me and the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.
She’s fine. I’m just a paranoid mess of a person who treats each bout of silence as danger.
“Come in,” I say to Kenan. “Layla’s probably still sleeping.”
They shuffle inside and Kenan closes the door behind them. Everything feels too real. Kenan’s height fills the narrow hallway and Yusuf peeks from behind his brother curiously. Kenan sets Lama on her feet and tells them both to take off their shoes while I go look for Layla.
When I walk into the living room, I see her sitting on the couch with a faraway look on her face. She’s staring at her sea painting like she’s trying to separate each brushstroke. Her hair dangles in waves over her shoulders,
one hand resting on her stomach.
“Layla!” I say loudly, and she jumps.
“Salama! You scared me!”
“I was just calling you. Everything okay?”
She smiles but it looks haunting. “I’m good.”
I take a step closer. “Are you sure? Why are you looking at me like that?”
She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Nostalgia for the good days.
Remember when I painted that?” She nods at the sea painting.
“Of course.”
She smiles lightly. “Remember how much I hated it when I was done?”
“The colors are all wrong!” she cried out, navy-blue streaks on her forehead and cheeks. She’d been painting for the last seven hours, not moving from her seat to drink or eat. Her daisy-printed apron was smeared with an assortment of blue and gray shades. She’d called me in a panic, barely able to get two words through the phone. “The shades! Ugh. It’s garbage!”
I laughed, looking around the living room. Paint was flecked over the latex put down to protect the floors. The rest of the furniture had been stacked against the wall to make room for Layla’s creativity. She stood in the center of the hurricane, tearfully holding up the canvas, her hair tied up in a messy bun.
“Are you kidding me?” I exclaimed, stepping over to her, careful not to kick the opened acrylic paint set. “Look at it!”
“I am!” she wailed. “It took seven hours of my life, Salama!”
I grabbed the canvas from her and set it over the mantelpiece. I made her stand in the middle, facing it. “No you’re not. Close your eyes.”
She did.
“Think of a storm deciding whether it’ll rage through the sea. The middle of nowhere. No ship in sight. No human being. Imagine the colors no human would ever see. The storm will bellow and tear across the waves and no one will be there to witness it. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe the clouds will break and the sun will shine.”
She took a deep breath.
“Now open your eyes.”
I smiled. “You captured something no one has ever seen before. Your
imagination did that.”
She turned to me, beaming. “Thank you.”
“Do you remember that?” Layla asks again from the couch, and a
strange lump forms in my throat.
“Yes.”
“You made it one of my favorite paintings.” There’s something in her voice I can’t decipher. Something melancholy.
“Then why do you look so sad?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not. I want you to know how incredible you are. How you touch people’s lives.”
“Salama?” Kenan says from behind me, and I immediately jump in front of Layla, hiding her from him. His brows are furrowed, his eyes glued to my face.
“Kenan!” I scold. “What are you doing? Layla’s not wearing her hijab!”
“Layla?” he echoes.
“Yes!” I wave him away. “Layla, put on a scarf or something.”
“I don’t have anything,” she answers glumly.
“Find something!” I say, exasperated.
Kenan’s confusion deepens, and then his lips part. “Salama.”
I peek over my shoulder to check if Layla’s found a shawl or a tablecloth. She rummages through the cushions, pouting.
“Salama.” Kenan’s voice comes out firmer, and I look at him.
“What?” I snap. “Why are you still here?”
He hesitates. “I came over because I heard you talking and no one was answering. I thought something had happened.”
Now I’m confused. “What? I’m talking to Layla.”
He steps toward me gently as if approaching a wounded deer. “No, you’re not.”
My arms fall heavily to my sides. “Excuse me?”
Kenan reaches for my hands, enveloping them in his warm ones.
“Salama, no one’s here. There’s no Layla. I can’t see her.”
