A Woman Is No Man(33)

Deya poured Fareeda a cup of chai in the sala, only half listening. She couldn’t stop thinking about the woman from Books and Beans. Should she skip school to go meet her? What if her teacher called Fareeda and said she’d missed school? What if she got lost trying to find the bookstore? What if something happened to her on the train? She’d heard stories about how dangerous the subway was, how women were often mugged, raped, even murdered in its murky corners. There was no way she could afford a cab with the measly vending-machine money Fareeda gave them. But she had to try—she needed to know why the woman had reached out. She couldn’t live with not knowing.

“I’m surprised Nasser wants to see you again,” Fareeda continued, reaching for the remote. “Seeing as you’ve managed to scare off every single suitor I’ve found you this year. Somehow the boy saw through your nonsense.”

“I’m sure you’re happy,” Deya said.

“Well, of course I’m happy.” Fareeda flicked through channels. “A good suitor is all a mother wants for her daughter.”

“Is this what you wanted for your daughter, too? Even though it meant never seeing her again?” Fareeda had married Sarah to a man from Palestine when Deya was still a small child, and she hadn’t seen her since.

“That was different,” Fareeda said. Her hands were shaking, and she set the remote down. Mentioning Sarah always hit a nerve. “You’re marrying right here in Brooklyn. You’re not going anywhere!”

“But still,” Deya said. “Don’t you miss her?”

“What does it matter? She’s gone, and that’s the way it is. I’ve told you a thousand times not to mention my children in this house. Why are you so difficult?”

Deya looked away. She wanted to stomp around the room, kick the door and walls, break the glass of the window. She wanted to scream at Fareeda. I refuse to listen to you! she’d tell her. Not until you tell me the truth about my parents! But when she drew a breath, the words dissipated. She understood her grandmother well enough to know she would never admit the truth. If Deya wanted answers, she would have to find them herself.

The next morning, at the bus stop, Deya made up her mind. She was going to the bookstore.

“Listen,” she told her sisters as they waited for the bus. “I’m not going to school today.”

“Where are you going?” Nora asked, eyeing her curiously. Deya could see Layla and Amal staring at her in disbelief.

“There’s something I have to do.” She felt the tip of the bookstore card in her jilbab pocket. “Something important.”

“Something like what?” Nora asked.

Deya scrambled for a convincing lie. “I’m going to the library to fill out college applications.”

“Without Fareeda’s permission?”

“What if you get caught?” Layla said. “Fareeda will kill you.”

“She’s right,” Amal added. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Deya looked away, toward the approaching school bus. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I know what I’m doing.”

Once the bus had disappeared around the corner, Deya plucked the bookstore card from her pocket and read the address again: 800 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

She squinted at the tiny print, realizing for the first time that the bookstore wasn’t in Brooklyn, it was in Manhattan. A mixture of panic and nausea rose inside her. She’d only been to Manhattan a handful of times, always in the back seat of Khaled’s car. How was she supposed to get there on her own? She took a deep breath. She’d have to ask for directions just as she’d planned. Nothing had changed. She walked to the nearest subway station on Bay Ridge Avenue and descended the dark steps, her heart pounding furiously, beat-beat-beat. The station was crowded with strange faces, and for a moment Deya wanted to turn around and run home. She froze, watching the people push past her, listening to the beeping sounds their cards made as they swiped them through the metal barricades. There was a glass booth at the back of the platform, with a man slumped behind the counter. Deya approached him.

“Excuse me, sir.” She pressed the business card against the glass. “Can you tell me how to get to this address?”

“Broadway?” His eyes shot to the top of his head. “Take the R train. Manhattan bound.”

She blinked at him.

“Take the R train,” he said again, slower. “Uptown toward Forest Hills–Seventy-First Avenue. Get off at Fourteenth Street–Union Square Station.”

R train. Uptown. Union Square Station. She memorized the words.

“Thank you,” she said, reaching inside her pocket for a bundle of one-dollar bills. “And how much is a train ticket?”

“Round trip?”

She sounded out the unfamiliar combination of words. “Round trip?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

“Round trip. To get to the city and back.”

“Oh.” She felt her face burn. He must think she was a fool. But it wasn’t her fault. How was she supposed to understand American lingo? Her grandparents had only allowed them to watch Arabic channels growing up.

“Yes,” she said. “Round trip, please.”