A Woman Is No Man(30)

“Because marriage is what’s important for girls,” Fareeda snapped. “Not college. You’re almost a teenager. It’s time you grew up and learned this now: A woman is not a man.”

“But it’s not fair!” Sarah shouted.

“Don’t backtalk to me,” Fareeda said, lifting her open palm. “Another word, and I’ll slap you.”

Sarah recoiled from her mother’s hand. “But Mama,” she said, softer this time, “it really isn’t fair.”

“Fair or not, that’s the way of the world.” She turned to leave. “Now go downstairs and help Isra in the kitchen.”

Sarah sighed, pulling herself off the bed.

“Let’s go!” Fareeda said. “I don’t have all day.”

In the kitchen, Isra and Sarah stood with their backs to one another, each with a rag in hand. Sarah was a short, slim girl with golden skin and wild, curly hair that dropped past her shoulders. Usually she said very little when they cleaned together, though sometimes she’d catch Isra’s eyes and sigh loudly.

In the months that Isra had lived there, she and Sarah had barely spoken to one another. As soon as Sarah came home from school, the first thing she did was sneak into her room to drop off her backpack. Isra realized now she was likely hiding her books. Then Sarah would join her in the kitchen to help set the sufra, or wash dishes, or fold any extra laundry Isra had not already finished. Some evenings they sat together in the sala with Fareeda and watched her favorite Turkish soap operas. Sarah sipped mint chai and ate tea biscuits, and, when Fareeda wasn’t looking, cracked roasted watermelon seeds using only her front teeth, a habit Fareeda usually forbade to stop Sarah from ruining her perfect smile.

Now Isra felt sorry for Sarah as she watched her scurry around the kitchen, wiping counters, washing dishes, and rearranging the cups in the cupboard. Is this what she had looked like back home, in Mama’s house, running in circles until all the housework was done?

“So, how are you feeling?” Fareeda asked Isra, squatting in front of the oven to watch a batch of sesame cookies bake. It was her third batch this week.

“Alhamdulillah,” Isra said, “I feel good.”

Fareeda removed the batch of cookies from the oven. “Have you been having morning sickness?”

“No,” Isra said, unsure.

“That’s a good sign.” Isra noticed that Sarah had stopped what she was doing to listen to her mother. “How about cravings?” Fareeda said. “Have you been craving sweets?”

Isra considered the question. “Not more than usual.”

Fareeda pinched the edge of a cookie, popped it in her mouth. Her eyes widened as the taste settled on her tongue. “That’s also a good sign.”

“A good sign of what?” Sarah interrupted. Her face looked almost yellow in the warm evening light cast through the window, and in that instant Isra couldn’t help picture Fareeda’s open palm against her cheek. She wondered how often Sarah was hit.

“Well,” Fareeda said, “according to old wives’ tales, a woman who has morning sickness and craves sweets is carrying a girl.”

Sarah said nothing but frowned at her mother.

“But you aren’t experiencing either,” Fareeda told Isra with a grin. “So you must be carrying a boy!”

Isra didn’t know what to say. She felt a twist in her core. Maybe she did have morning sickness after all.

“Why the sour face?” said Fareeda, reaching for another cookie. “You don’t want a boy?”

“No, I—”

“A boy is better, trust me. They’ll care for you when you’re older, carry on the family name—”

“Are you saying you weren’t happy when you had me?” Sarah asked sharply. “Because I wasn’t a precious boy?”

“I’m not saying that,” Fareeda said. “But everyone wants a boy. You ask anyone, and they’ll tell you.”

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t get it. Girls are the ones that help their mothers. Omar and Ali don’t do anything for you.”

“Nonsense. Your brothers would give me an arm and a leg if I needed.”

“Sure they would,” Sarah said, rolling her eyes.

Listening to Sarah, Isra wondered if this was what it meant to be an American: having a voice. She wished she knew how to speak her mind, wished she could’ve said those things to Mama: that girls were just as valuable as boys, that their culture was unfair, and that Mama, as a woman, should’ve understood that. She wished she could’ve told Mama that she was sick of always being put second, of being shamed, disrespected, abused, and neglected unless there was cleaning or cooking to be done. That she resented being made to believe she was worthless, just another thing a man could claim at will.

“Don’t mind what Mama says,” Sarah whispered to Isra when Fareeda left the kitchen.

Isra looked up, startled to hear Sarah speak to her directly. “What do you mean?”

“Your child is a blessing no matter what, even if it’s a girl.”

Isra tugged on the edges of her nightgown and looked away. She remembered uttering those very same words to Mama when she was pregnant: It’s a blessing no matter what. She didn’t want to be one of those women who didn’t want a daughter, didn’t want to be like Mama, who told Isra she had cried for days after she was born.