A Woman Is No Man(32)

“Are you sure? I know a few English novels you’d like.”

“Really,” Isra said. “I won’t have time to read with a newborn, anyway.”

“Suit yourself.”

Isra meant what she said about not having time to read. In fact, lately she had begun to wonder if she was ready to be a mother. It wasn’t just how busy Fareeda kept her, but she worried she had nothing to give to a child. How could she teach a child about the world when she knew nothing of the world herself? Would she be a good mother—and what did a good mother look like? For the first time in her life, Isra wondered if she wanted to be like Mama. She wasn’t sure. She hated how easily Mama had abandoned her to a strange family in a foreign country. But deep down, Isra knew Mama had only done what Yacob wanted—she’d had no choice. Or had she? Had her mother had a choice all along? Isra wasn’t sure, and later that evening she found herself sitting by the window thinking about the choices she might soon have to make as a mother. She hoped she would make the right ones.

That night, Adam came home from work before the sun had set. He appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing faded black trousers and a blue collared shirt. Isra didn’t notice him standing there at first, as she stared absently at the orange sky through the window. But then he cleared his throat and said, “Let’s go out.”

Isra tried to hide her excitement. The only time she left the house was occasionally on Sundays, when Khaled and Fareeda went grocery shopping and took Sarah with them. When they didn’t take Sarah, Fareeda would ask Isra to stay behind to look after her, afraid to leave her in the house unsupervised. Adam hadn’t taken Isra out since her first night in Brooklyn.

Outside the air was crisp, the streetlamps already glowing. They strolled together down Fifth Avenue, past the butcher shops, supermarkets, bakeries, and dollar stores. The streets were just as lively as they had been the first time Isra had walked them. Traffic congested the roads, and crowds of pedestrians swept in and out of the shops and eateries. The sidewalks were worn and dirty, and the air smelled faintly of raw fish, which Adam said came from the Chinese fish market at the corner of the block. Every now and then, dark green gates framed wide staircases that descended into the sidewalks.

“These are called subway stations,” Adam said, promising to take her on the train soon. Isra walked closely beside him, one hand over her plump belly, the other dangling freely. She wished he would hold her hand, but he sucked on a cigarette and stared ahead.

They crossed the street to a shop called Elegante’s, where Adam bought Isra a slice of pizza. He said it was the best pizzeria in town. Isra had never tasted anything like it. She bit into the warm, thin bread slathered in cheese, sucked the savory sauce from her fingertips. She marveled at the rich combination of flavors, the comfort they brought her even though they were brand-new.

“Did you like it?” Adam asked when she had finished.

“Yes,” she said, licking the last bit of sauce from the corners of her mouth.

Adam laughed. “Do you have room for dessert?” She nodded eagerly.

He bought her an ice cream cone from a Mister Softee truck. Vanilla swirl with rainbow sprinkles. Isra devoured it. The ice cream they sold in her village dukan—strawberry sorbet or mulberry fruit served plainly on a stick—was nothing like this. This was creamy and so rich.

Adam watched her eat with a proud smile, as though she were a child. “Another?”

She brought both hands to her belly. “Alhamdullilah. I’m full.”

“Good.” He reached into his pocket for a cigarette. “I’m glad.” Isra blushed.

They turned to walk home. Isra held her breath as Adam blew cigarette smoke into the air. He was nothing like the men she’d read about in books. No faris, or prince charming. He was always restless, even after a long day’s work, fidgeting with his dinner or biting his fingertips. He was prone to absentmindedness, a faraway look in his eyes. He clenched his teeth when he was irritated. He always smelled like smoke. Still, she thought, she liked his smile, the way a dozen lines crinkled around his eyes and brought his face to life. She also liked the sound of his voice, slightly melodious, perfect for calling the adhan, or so she imagined—she had never seen him pray.

Back outside the house, he turned to look at her. “Did you enjoy our walk?”

“I did.”

He took a long drag of his cigarette before crushing it against the sidewalk. “I know I should take you out more often,” he said. “But I’m so busy at work. I don’t know where the time goes between the deli and my store in the city.”

“I understand,” Isra said.

“Some days it feels like time is slipping through my fingers like water, as though one day I’ll wake up to find it all gone.” He stopped, reaching out to touch her belly. “But it will be worth it, you know. Our children won’t have to struggle like we did. We’ll give them a good life.”

Isra looked at him for a moment, feeling, for the first time, grateful for his hard work. She smiled and placed both hands on her belly, her fingers grazing his. “Thank you for everything you do,” she said. “Our children will be proud.”





Deya


Winter 2008

I just got off the phone with Nasser’s mother,” Fareeda told Deya when she returned from school that afternoon. Her eyes were full of satisfaction. “He’s coming to see you again tomorrow.”