I LAY ON THE COUCH, IN LAYLA’S SPOT, FOR MOST of the evening. Kenan asked if I wanted privacy, but I don’t. Not now. I’ve been alone for the past five months and the thought of it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand with horror. Alone. I talked to thin air. I laughed with thin air. I cried with thin air. Now I fill up my eyes and ears with real, breathing people.
Lama and Yusuf have a simple dinner of canned tuna, and I almost smack myself at my naivete. Layla never ate with me; I always assumed she ate when I was at the hospital. That should have tipped me off. All her touches, her mannerisms, were echoes of ones in my strongest memories of her. Everything about her was my memories magnified until she became solid.
My heart is at ease, knowing she’s in Heaven. My regret is that I wasn’t there in her final moments.
I remember the last day I had with her. The real her.
We were sitting on the Arabian rug in the living room right in front of the couch, and she was laughing herself silly about the time our car got stuck in the sand in the suburbs.
“You thought Hamza would kill you for ruining his car,” she giggled, clutching her stomach. She was three months into her pregnancy and her bump was small.
I grinned. “I overestimated the sand’s depth.”
Layla and I wanted to be spontaneous and drive out of the city toward my grandparents’ summer house. I thought I’d take a shortcut, but we ended up stuck in a ditch with the evening fast approaching.
Her eyes twinkled. “I loved that day. Sure we had to endure Hamza yelling at us for half an hour before he pulled the car out, but remember how the stars looked?”
They were hanging from the dark sky like lemons, ripe for the taking and so near. “I do.”
“I hope we can see them like that again.” Layla patted her stomach over the blanket I’d tucked around her. “If not in Syria, then somewhere else.”
She wanted to leave but was too afraid to form the words. I rub my forehead exhaustedly and sink into the pillow that somehow still has her daisy scent. My hijab hangs loosely from my head, wrapped around my neck. I’m too shy to take it off just yet. But I do pull my necklace out and run my wedding ring up and down the chain.
“Hey,” Kenan says in a low voice. He’s standing at the living room door.
“Hey.”
“Lama and Yusuf are asleep on your bed.” He looks flustered, which in turn makes me flustered. He’s been inside my room, and I can’t for the life of me recall whether I left it in disarray. I hope not.
He kneels in front of me and I instinctively clutch the blankets closer.
“I’m so sorry about Layla,” he whispers.
A lump forms in my throat and I extend my hand. He immediately holds it, and I press his hand against my cheek, relishing its solid feel. His fingers are calloused, proof of a hard life, but they’re warm with the blood running in his veins. “I’m okay. Maybe it’s shock, but… I think it’s acceptance.
She’s all right, and that’s all I ever wanted for her.”
He brushes my cheek, smiling lightly, and I melt into his touch. But a thought has struck me.
“Why am I leaving now?” I whisper, and he pauses. “My whole reason was to honor Hamza’s wishes. And now… I’ve lost Mama and Layla. I didn’t keep my promise.”
Kenan threads his fingers through mine, brings my hands to his lips, and
kisses them. “Salama, you can’t stay.”
His eyes are full of terror.
“You knew you were hallucinating Khawf; but you thought Layla was alive,” he murmurs. “I’m worried for you. Staying here, in the place where she died, it’ll only make it worse. You won’t be able to help anyone if you don’t help yourself first.”
I close my eyes for a few seconds, remembering my hallucination beside the wreckage of my home. When my brain reconstructed my neighborhood back to life.
“I’m not leaving Syria without you,” Kenan continues. “You said it yourself, the fight isn’t just here. You are needed outside just as much as I am. And I can’t sit back and watch you be in pain like this and not know how to help.”
His tone is beseeching, his expression desperate. Mirroring mine when I asked him to stop recording. I can’t do this to him. Staying wouldn’t benefit any of us. It would mean I’d continue breaking my promise to Hamza. I’m still alive and he’d want me to stay that way.
“Okay,” I whisper.
His face sags with relief. But there’s a look in his eyes that makes me believe he has more to say. I wait, but instead he fishes something from his pocket and hands me a folded piece of paper. “I drew you something else.”
My heart soars but I don’t open it. An uneasy feeling pricks my nerves and my stomach flips. Kenan had been more than understanding about Khawf, never wavering. But I had warned him about Khawf. Layla is another story.
“Kenan, what are you thinking?” I ask quietly. My palms sweat.
He glances at me and his Adam’s apple dips. “What you went through with Layla, I get it. I’ve wished every day to be able to see my parents again. And I’ve seen what PTSD has done to me, to Lama, and especially to Yusuf. I can deal with what I know, and I’ve taught myself how to help.
Lama’s wounds, Yusuf’s shock, my nightmares. But Salama, I’m scared of what I don’t know.” He lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know what to say or do to help you. I’ve reached the limit of what I can do.”
I brush his hair back and his eyelashes flutter. He’s so young and stretched so thin between three people and an entire country. “You being here is enough.” I smile. “I promise. You ground me.”
He smiles back. Tentatively at first, and then it becomes genuine. “When we get to Germany, we’ll find help.”
He again thinks it could happen. And it might. So I nod.
“Let me see what you drew,” I say, and I open it to see a sketch of… me.
He drew me as Sheeta with her yellow blouse and pink trousers. My hijab is a pale pink and I’m sitting atop an airplane’s wing. And beside me…
“Oh my God, is this you?” I exclaim.
He smiles shyly. “Yeah. As Pazu.”
He takes out another piece of paper. “This is another sketch for our story. I detailed the house our protagonist would live in. I was thinking the community would build them on trees. Like a whole village suspended in the air.”
“Growing crops and flowers on the tree’s branches. So the tree would supply its own nutrients to the growing plants!”
He beams. “That’s an amazing idea.”
We spend the rest of the evening slowly building up our story, adding elements.
Kenan drifts off before me, his head nodding, until I get off the couch so he can stretch out properly. He protests for a bit, but ultimately sleep weighs his eyelids down. I tuck the blanket around him, and the nostalgia of having done that for Layla when she was alive—and in my hallucinations—makes tears prick my eyes.
He looks peaceful in his sleep, the worry lines around his eyes smoothed. His eyelashes are so impossibly long that they brush his cheekbones.
I stare at him for a few more minutes, my heart expanding with love for him.
“We’ll be okay,” I whisper, letting the night capture my wish. We’re owed that at least. A life of not scanning rooftops, of not being relieved the ceiling didn’t cave in on us during the night.
He and I are owed a love story that doesn’t end in tragedy.
With my bed and the couch both occupied, the only place left is Layla and Hamza’s room. I pause in front of the door, my fingers over the handle.
I take in a deep breath and open it with a click.
A rush of cold air greets me. The room still has hints of Layla’s daisy scent and Hamza’s cologne. Or maybe it’s a hallucination.
I don’t turn on the lights, instead letting my corneas and lenses adapt to the darkness. I run a finger over the forgotten furniture. A thick layer of dust lines the bedspread, commode, closet, and nightstand. I haven’t set foot
inside in five months. The room has become a relic, belonging to memories, never wanting to be revived. Or probably it’s impossible to revive. Just like Layla. Like Hamza.
I sit on their bed, feeling oddly comforted. As if echoes of them are here.
I close my eyes for a brief second and I know that when I open them he’ll
be standing in front of me.
And he is.
The red dots on Khawf’s shoulders look like poppies in their shade and shape, and his eyes are blue ice chips gleaming in the darkness. He gives me a lopsided smirk.
“You knew,” I whisper. There’s no shock in me. My head scar and everything it represents—my grief, my PTSD—has created layers in my subconscious that I never thought were possible.
He shrugs. “It was quite amusing to see the degree of your delusions.”
I don’t say anything; I look at the window on the side. The curtains aren’t drawn tight, which allows a bit of the moon’s light to filter through.
Soon enough we’ll be safe. And I won’t have to look out the windows and pretend the world isn’t on fire.
Khawf takes a step toward me, and I tear my gaze back to him.
“What do you believe in, Salama?” he asks quietly. A shadow flits across his face, a secret smile dancing on his lips.
My mouth goes dry. “What do you mean?”
He takes out a cigarette. The white tube flickers, becoming almost translucent before going back to opaque. “You believe in your faith. You believe in yourself. In Kenan. In Layla, when she was alive. You believe this revolution will be a success with the people sacrificing their hearts.”
“Yes.”
He takes a drag. “Did you believe in Layla the hallucination?”
I nod.
“Do you believe in me?” His smile widens.
My brows furrow. “You’re right in front of me. Of course I do.”
He taps the cigarette, ash falling, but it disappears midway. His gaze is far away. He looks at me, but it feels like he’s seeing beyond me. “I am. But I won’t always be.”
I straighten up. I know he won’t always be in my life. But hearing him say it both saddens and elates me. “How?” I ask.
He flicks the cigarette away and moves toward the window. “Fear and dread run high in Syria. They’re enhanced in you, which is why you see me.
It’s safe to presume you won’t have these same horrors in Germany. So why would I follow you there?”
I stand, putting the pieces together. “You mean… when I get on that boat —when I leave—”
“I leave,” he finishes for me. He turns around and we stare at each other for a few minutes.
In this moment, he looks so solid, as if he were cut from the night and made into flesh and bones.
“Where would you go?” I find myself asking the silliest of questions, but Khawf doesn’t laugh. His face is solemn, his eyes ancient.
He closes the gap between us, and I raise my chin to look at him.
“Everywhere,” he answers and then disappears when I blink.
