A Woman Is No Man(29)

“Of course,” Isra said, remembering that she hadn’t yet completed maghrib prayer. “But will you help me?”

“What?”

“Will you help me?” she said again, her voice slipping. “With our child?”

Adam stepped back slightly. “You know I have to work.”

“I just thought maybe you’d come home early some days,” Isra said in a whisper. “Maybe I’d see you more.”

He sighed. “You think I want to work day and night? Of course not. But I have no choice. My parents depend on me to support the family.” He stroked Isra’s face with the back of his hand. “You understand that, right?” She nodded.

“Good.” His eyes shifted to the stove, distracted by a cloud of steam. “Now what’s for dinner?”

“Spinach and meat pies,” said Isra, feeling slightly embarrassed. It was ludicrous of her to expect Adam to leave work to help her. Had any man she’d ever known helped his wife raise children? Motherhood was her responsibility, her duty.

She moved closer to Adam, hoping he would say something more. But without another word, he walked toward the stove, pulled a spinach pie off the plate, and began to chew.

“No, no, no,” Fareeda said one evening after tasting the cup of chai Isra had made her during her soap opera’s commercial break. “What is this?”

“What’s wrong?” said Isra.

“This chai is bitter.”

Isra took a step back. “I brewed it just the way you like, with three springs of maramiya and two spoonfuls of sugar.”

“Well, it tastes horrible.” She handed Isra back the cup. “Just pour it out.”

Be grateful, Isra wanted to say. Be grateful that a pregnant woman is making you tea and cooking and cleaning while you sit here watching television. “I’m sorry,” she said instead. “Let me make you another cup.”

Fareeda gave a burdened smile. “You don’t have to.”

“No, no, I want to,” Isra said. “I do.”

In the kitchen, Isra picked the greenest sprigs of maramiya from the sage plant on the windowsill. She placed a tea packet into the kettle only after the water had boiled over twice, making sure the sugar crystals had dissolved. She wanted the chai to be perfect. Yet even as she strove to please, she remembered all the times she’d overspiced her brothers’ falafel sandwiches, when they yelled at her for not ironing their school uniforms properly, the time she’d murmured “I hate you” under her breath when Yacob beat her. But Isra would spend her life with Fareeda. She needed her love, and she would do what was necessary to earn it.

“Where’s Sarah?” Fareeda asked when Isra handed her the fresh cup of chai. “Is she in her room?”

“I think so,” Isra said.

“La hawlillah,” Fareeda muttered. “What am I going to do with that girl?”

Isra said nothing. She had learned to recognize when Fareeda was only talking to herself. Sarah was a sensitive subject for Fareeda. On days when Isra was up early enough to pray fajr, she would find Fareeda standing in the hall, arms crossed, studying Sarah’s outfit to make sure it was appropriate for school. “Behave yourself,” Fareeda would say, almost spitting. “And no talking to boys, understood?”

“I know, Mama,” Sarah would always respond. Later, after school, Fareeda ensured that every second of Sarah’s time was spent making up for her time in school. Isra knew how it felt to be the only girl in a house of men, a placemat beneath their feet, but she wondered how Sarah felt about it. From the rebellious look on Sarah’s face whenever Fareeda spoke, Isra sensed her resentment.

“Sarah!” Fareeda shouted from the base of the stairs. “Come down here!”

“Coming!” Sarah called back.

“Go see what’s taking her so long,” Fareeda told Isra when Sarah still hadn’t come a minute later. Isra did as she was told. At the top of the staircase, she could see Sarah in her room. She was reading, holding the book to her face like a shield, inhaling the words as if they were fueling her somehow. Isra was mesmerized by the sight.

“What is she doing?” Fareeda yelled from the bottom of the staircase.

“I don’t know,” Isra lied.

“Sure you don’t.” Fareeda stomped up the staircase.

“Sarah . . . ,” Isra whispered in an attempt to warn her. But it was too late. Fareeda was already at the top of the stairs.

“I knew it!” She stormed into the room and snatched the book from Sarah’s hand. “Why didn’t you come downstairs like I asked?”

“I wanted to finish the chapter.”

“Finish the chapter?” Fareeda placed her hand on her hips. “And what makes you think some book is more important than learning how to cook?”

Sarah let out a sigh, and Isra felt her stomach drop. In her head she could hear Mama’s voice saying that books had no use, that all a woman needed to learn was patience, and no book could teach her that.

“Tell me,” Fareeda said, moving closer to Sarah. “Will books teach you how to cook and clean? Will they help you find a husband? Will they help you raise children?”

“There’s more to life than having a husband and children,” Sarah said. “I never hear you telling Ali to stop studying or put down his books. How come he’s allowed to go to college? Why don’t you ever pressure him about marriage?”