A Woman Is No Man(11)

“Fine. But can I tell you something?” She turned back toward him. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

She forced a smile, wishing she could trust him. But she didn’t think she knew how.

Fareeda hurried into the kitchen as soon as Nasser left, her almond brown eyes wide and questioning: Did Deya like him? Did she think he’d liked her? Would she agree to the marriage proposal? Deya had said no to a few proposals, her answer ripe on the tip of her tongue. But mostly the suitor was first to withdraw his offer. On these occasions, after the parents had politely informed them that a match had not been made and Fareeda had cried and slapped her face, her grandmother had only become more persistent. A few phone calls, and she had found a new suitor by the end of the week.

But this time was different. “Looks like you didn’t scare this one away,” Fareeda said with a grin from the kitchen doorway. She was wearing the red-and-gold dress she wore when suitors visited, with a cream scarf draped loosely around her head. She moved closer. “His parents said they’d like to visit again soon. What do you think? Did you like Nasser? Should I tell them yes?”

“I don’t know,” Deya said, shoving a wet rag across the kitchen table. “I need some time to think about it.”

“Think about it? What’s there to think about? You should be thankful you even have a choice in the matter. Some girls aren’t that lucky—I certainly never was.”

“This isn’t a choice,” Deya mumbled.

“Why, of course it is!” Fareeda ran her fingers against the kitchen table to make sure it was clean. “My parents never asked me if I wanted to marry your grandfather. They just told me what to do, and I did it.”

“Well, I don’t have parents,” Deya said. “Or uncles or aunts, or anyone besides my sisters for that matter!”

“Nonsense. You have us,” Fareeda said, though she didn’t meet her eyes.

Deya’s grandparents had raised Deya and her three sisters since she was seven years old. For years it had just been the six of them, not the large extended family that was the norm in Arab households. Growing up, Deya had often felt the sting of loneliness, but it stung the most on Eid celebrations, when she and her sisters would sit at home, knowing there was no one coming to visit them on the most important holiday. Her classmates would boast about the festivities they attended, the family members who gave them gifts and money, while Deya smiled, pretending that she and her sisters did those things, too. That they had uncles and aunts and people who loved them. That they had a family. But they didn’t know what it meant to have a family. All they had were grandparents who raised them out of obligation, and each other.

“Nasser would make a fine husband,” Fareeda said. “He’ll be a doctor someday. He’ll be able to give you everything you need. You’d be a fool to turn him down. Proposals like this don’t come around every day.”

“But I’m only eighteen, Teta. I’m not ready to get married.”

“You act like I’m selling you off to slavery! Every mother I know is preparing her daughter for marriage. Tell me, do you know anyone whose mother isn’t doing exactly the same thing?”

Deya sighed. Her grandmother was right. Most of her classmates sat with a handful of men every month, yet none of them seemed to mind. They slicked on makeup and plucked their brows, as though eagerly waiting for a man to scoop them away. Some were already engaged, wrapping up their final year of high school as if by force. As if they’d found something in the prospect of marriage so fulfilling that no amount of education could compare. Deya would often look at them and wonder: Isn’t there more you want to do? There must be more. But then her thoughts would shift, and uncertainty would kick in. She’d start to think maybe they had it right after all. Maybe marriage was the answer.

Fareeda moved closer, shaking her head. “Why are you making this so difficult? What more do you want?”

Deya met her eyes. “I already told you! I want to go to college!”

“Ya Allah.” She drew out her words. “Not this again. How many times do I have to tell you? You’re not going to college in this house. If your husband allows you to get an education after marriage, that’s his decision. But my job is to secure your future by making sure you and your sisters are married off to good men.”

“But why can’t you secure my future by letting me go to college? Why are you letting some strange man control my fate? What if he turns out like Baba? What if—”

“Not another word,” Fareeda said, her upper lip twitching. “How many times have I told you not to mention your parents in this house?” From the expression on her face, Deya could tell Fareeda wanted to slap her. But it was true. Deya had seen enough of her mother’s life to know it wasn’t the life she wanted.

“I’m afraid, Teta,” Deya whispered. “I don’t want to marry a man I don’t know.”

“Arranged marriages are what we do,” Fareeda said. “Just because we live in America, that doesn’t change how things are.” She shook her head, reaching inside the cabinet for a teakettle. “If you keep turning down proposals, the next thing you know, you’ll be old and no one will want to marry you, and then you’ll spend the rest of your life in this house with me.” She caught Deya’s eyes. “You’ve seen other girls who’ve disobeyed their parents, refusing to get married, or worse, getting divorced, and look at them now! Living at home with their parents, their heads hanging in shame! Is that what you want?”