A Woman Is No Man(27)

Thinking of it now, that was the only time Deya could remember ever asking anyone to do something for her. It wasn’t like her to ask for favors—she never wanted to be an inconvenience, a bother. But it was the only way now. In the lunchroom, she gritted her teeth and approached Meriem. Meriem gave her a small smile as she handed her the phone, and Deya tried not to flush in embarrassment as she rushed to the nearest bathroom. Inside, she turned away from her reflection in the mirrors. The face of a coward. The face of a fool. She entered a bathroom stall, closed the door behind her. She could feel her heart beating against her chest as she dialed the number. After four rings, someone picked up. “Hello,” came a woman’s voice.

Deya coughed. Her mouth had gone dry. “Umm, hi.” She tried to keep her voice from cracking. “Is this Books and Beans?”

“Yes.” A brief pause. “Can I help you?”

“Umm . . . can I speak to the manager? My name is Deya.”

“Deya?”

“Yes.”

Silence. Then, “I can’t believe it’s you.” Deya could hear nervousness in the woman’s voice.

She realized her hands were shaking, and she pressed the cell phone against her hijab. “Who is this?”

“This is . . .” The woman trailed off. Adrenaline poured through Deya.

“Who are you?” Deya asked again.

“I don’t know where to begin,” the woman said. “I know this must seem strange, but I can’t tell you who I am over the phone.”

“What? Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

Deya’s heart thumped so hard she thought she could hear its echo in the bathroom stall. It all seemed like something out of a mystery novel, not real life.

“Deya,” the woman said. “Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Listen—” Her voice was low now, and Deya could hear the dinging of a cash register in the background. “Can we meet in person?”

“In person?”

“Yes. Can you come to the bookstore?”

Deya considered. The only times she ever left the house alone were when Fareeda needed something urgently, like refreshments to serve unexpected visitors. She would hand Deya exact change and tell her to hurry to the deli on the corner of Seventy-Third Street for a box of Lipton tea, or to the Italian bakery on Seventy-Eighth Street for a tray of rainbow cookies. Deya thought of the breeze against her hair as she strolled up the block on those rare occasions. The smell of pizza, the distant jingle of an ice cream truck. It felt good to walk the streets alone, powerful. Usually Khaled and Fareeda accompanied Deya and her sisters everywhere—to their favorite pizzeria, Elegante on Sixty-Ninth Street, to the Bagel Boy on Third Avenue, sometimes even to the mosque on Fridays, crammed in the back of Khaled’s ’76 Chevy, eyes fastened to the floor whenever they passed a man. But on those rare walks alone, drifting down Fifth Avenue past men and women, Deya didn’t have to lower her gaze; no one was watching. Yet she did so instinctively. Her eyes would not stay up even when she willed them to.

“I can’t,” Deya finally said. “My grandparents don’t let me leave the house alone.”

There was a long pause. “I know.”

“How do you know what my grandparents are like? And how do you know where I live?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone. We have to meet.” She paused. “Maybe you could skip school. Is it possible?”

“I’ve never skipped school before,” Deya said. “And even if I could, how would I know it’s safe? I don’t know you.”

“I would never hurt you.” The woman spoke softly now, and Deya thought her voice sounded familiar. “Believe me, I would never hurt you.”

She knew that voice. But was it her mother’s? Once again, the thought was absurd, but Deya considered. She remembered clearly the last time she had heard Isra’s voice.

“I’m sorry,” Isra had whispered, again and again. I’m sorry. Ten years later, and Deya still didn’t know what her mother had been sorry for.

“Mama?” The words left Deya’s lips in a rush.

“What?”

“Is that you, Mama? Is it?” Deya sank inside the bathroom stall. This woman could be her mother. She could. Maybe she was back. Maybe she was different. Maybe she was sorry.

“Oh, Deya! I’m not your mother.” The woman’s voice was shaking. “I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to upset you.”

Deya heard herself sob before she realized she was crying. The next thing she knew, tears were rushing down her cheeks. How low and desperate she felt, how much she wanted her mother—she’d had no idea until that moment. She swallowed her tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know my mother is dead. I know they’re both dead.” Silence on the line. “Who are you?” Deya finally said.

“Listen, Deya,” the woman said. “There’s something I need to tell you. Figure out a way to come to the bookstore. It’s important.” When Deya said nothing, the woman spoke again. “And please,” she said. “Please, whatever you do, don’t tell your grandparents about this. I’ll explain everything when I see you, but don’t tell anyone. Okay?”