A Woman Is No Man(28)

“Okay.”

“Thank you,” the woman said. “Have a good day—”

“Wait!” Deya blurted.

“Yes?”

“When am I supposed to meet you?”

“Anytime. I’ll be waiting for you.”





Isra


Spring 1990

One cool April morning, six weeks after arriving in America, Isra woke to find her face duller than clay. She studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. There was a deathly smoothness to her skin tone, and she brought her hands to her face, rubbed the dark bags under her eyes, tugged on a dry string of hair. What was happening to her?

Days passed before she felt it: a spool of yarn unraveling deep inside her belly. Then a tightness in her core. Then a warm sensation bubbling in the back of her throat. She rinsed her mouth, hoping to wash away the metallic taste on her tongue, but no amount of water would remove it.

There was a handful of white sticks in the bathroom drawer, pregnancy tests Fareeda had placed there for her to take every month, and Isra trembled as she took off the white wrapping. She could still remember the look on Fareeda’s face the month before, when Isra had asked, blushing deeply, if she had any maxi pads. Without a word, Fareeda had sent Khaled to the convenience store, but Isra could tell from the twitch in her right eye, the sudden shift in the room, that she was not happy.

“I’m pregnant,” Isra whispered when she met Fareeda in the kitchen, holding up the white stick as if it were fine glass.

Fareeda looked up from a bowl of dough and smiled so widely Isra could see the gold tooth in the back of her mouth. “Mabrouk,” she said, wetness filling her eyes. “This is wonderful news.”

Isra felt a deep happiness at the sight of Fareeda’s smile. She had not felt this way in so long she hardly recognized the warm feeling inside her.

“Come, come,” Fareeda said. “Sit with me while I bake this bread.”

Isra sat. She watched Fareeda as she floured the dough, wrapped it in cloth, and set it in a corner. Fareeda reached for another bundle of dough, stored beneath a thick towel, and pressed her index finger against it. “It’s ready,” she said, stretching the sticky gob of wheat between her fingers. “Pass me the baking pan.”

Fareeda cut the dough into individual knots and arranged each one on the pan. Then she drizzled them with olive oil and popped them in the oven. Isra watched quietly as the bread baked, not knowing what to say or do. Fareeda was humming to herself, plucking the steaming loaves from the oven before they burned. Isra wished she could store her cheeriness in a bottle. The last time Fareeda had smiled widely enough for Isra to see her gold tooth had been when Adam had given her a bundle of bills, five thousand dollars. It was extra money the deli had made that month, and he had told Fareeda he wanted her to have it. Isra could still remember the bulge in Fareeda’s eyes at the sight of the money, the way she gripped it close to her chest before disappearing into her bedroom. But now Isra could see, from the approving glimmer in Fareeda’s eyes, that her pregnancy was far more important than money. She stared inside the oven, feeling her stomach rise and fall with the swelling and collapsing of every knot of pita. Was this happiness she felt? She thought it must be.

Adam came home early that day. From the kitchen Isra heard him take off his shoes and enter the sala, where Fareeda was watching her evening show. “Salaam, Mother,” he said. Isra listened as Fareeda kissed him on both cheeks and congratulated him.

Was he happy? Isra couldn’t tell. She had spent the afternoon worrying about how he would react to the news, wondering whether he wanted a child now, or if he would’ve preferred to wait a couple of years until they could better afford it. More than once, Fareeda had mentioned that Adam was helping them pay for Ali’s college tuition, so how would they have enough money to cover the expense of a newborn? When she’d asked, Fareeda had merely smiled and said, “Don’t worry about that. With food stamps and Medicaid, you can have as many children as you want.”

Adam hummed a melody from an Abdel Halim song as he walked to the kitchen, grinning when he met Isra’s eyes. “I can’t believe I’m going to be a father,” he said.

Isra exhaled in relief. “Mabrouk,” she whispered. “Congratulations.”

He pulled her to him, wrapping one arm around her waist and placing his hand on her belly. She tried to keep from flinching. She still wasn’t used to his touch. Sometimes she thought it was strange to be a girl like her, to go from a man never touching her to the full force of a husband inside her. It was a sudden transition, and she wondered when she would become accustomed to it, or if she would ever come to crave it like women were supposed to.

“You have to be careful now,” Adam said, stroking her flat stomach. “I don’t want anything to happen to our child.”

Isra studied him, shocked by the softness of his voice, the way the lines around his eyes multiplied when he smiled. Maybe he would spend more time with her now. Maybe all he needed was a child after all.

“Life will change now, you know,” Adam said, looking down on her. “Having children, a family . . .” He paused, tracing his finger against her belly as though he were writing across it. “It changes everything.”

Isra met his eyes. “How?”

“Well, for one thing, there will be more work for you to do. More washing and cooking, more running around. It’s tough really.” When Isra said nothing, staring at him with wide eyes, he added, “But children are the pleasure of life, of course. Just like the Qur’an says.”