A Woman Is No Man(36)
And it worked. Four months later, Isra was pregnant again.
On the car ride home from Dr. Jaber’s office, Fareeda sat in the passenger seat. Beside her, Khaled tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, humming a melody by the Egyptian singer Umm Kulthum. Fareeda had a full view of Isra in the rearview mirror, holding Deya tightly in the back seat as she stared out the window, watching a flock of pigeons peck crumbs on the sidewalk. Fareeda turned to face her.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Fareeda said. “I knew you’d get pregnant soon if you didn’t breastfeed.”
Isra smiled. “I hope Adam will be happy.”
“Of course he will.”
“But what if he doesn’t want another baby right now?”
“Nonsense. Children are the glue that keep a husband and wife together.”
“But what if—” Isra paused, taking a breath. “What if it’s another girl?”
“No, no, no,” Fareeda said, settling back in her seat. “It’ll be a boy this time. I can feel it.”
Khaled raised an incredulous eyebrow. “You feel it?”
“Yes, I can! A woman’s instinct.”
“Sure you can,” he said, laughing. “I don’t know why you’re still obsessing over sons. Alhamdulillah, we have plenty.”
“Oh, really?” Fareeda turned to him. “And where was this kindness when I was getting pregnant, or did you forget the torture you put me through?”
He looked away, red-faced.
“Now you have nothing to say, do you?”
“Bikafi.” Khaled fixed her with a glare. “Enough.”
Fareeda shook her head. How could he be so insensitive after all these years, after everything he had put her through? After everything she had done for him? Because of him. She took a breath and pushed the thoughts away. Fareeda understood her place in the world. The wounds of her childhood—poverty, hunger, abuse—had taught her that the traumas of the world were inseparably connected. She was not surprised when her father came home and beat them mercilessly, the tragedy of the Nakba bulging in his veins. Nor was she surprised when he married her off to a man who beat her, too. How could he not, when they were so poor that their lives were filled with continuous shame? She knew that the suffering of women started in the suffering of men, that the bondages of one became the bondages of the other. Would the men in her life have battered her had they not been battered themselves? Fareeda doubted it, and it was this awareness of the hurt behind the hurt that had enabled her to see past Khaled’s violence over the years and not let it destroy her. There was no point in moping around. She had decided early on in her marriage to focus only on the things she could control.
She ripped her eyes away from Khaled and returned her gaze to the rearview mirror. “Don’t listen to him,” she told Isra. “Inshallah, you’ll have a son this time.”
But Isra still seemed worried.
Fareeda sighed. “And if it is a girl, and it won’t be, but if, God forbid, it is, then it won’t be the end of the world.”
Isra met her eyes in the glass. “It won’t?”
“No,” Fareeda said. “You’ll get pregnant again, that’s all.” Isra was lucky. As if anyone had ever been so kind to her.
“Let’s go.” Fareeda stood in the kitchen doorway and peered down at Isra, who was on her knees, in a faded pink nightgown, reaching for a cobweb beneath the fridge. They had just finished mopping the floors, kneading the dough, and putting a pot of okra stew on the stove to simmer.
“Where are we going?” Isra asked.
Fareeda straightened the hemline of her navy-blue thobe, pulling it down over her pudgy midsection. “We’re going to visit my friend Umm Ahmed,” she said. “Her daughter-in-law just gave birth to a baby boy. Umm Ahmed’s very first grandson.”
Isra’s hands drifted toward her belly. Forcefully, she pulled them away. Fareeda knew the subject made her uncomfortable. Watching Isra tug on the edges of her nightgown, she even felt sorry for the girl. Perhaps she shouldn’t put so much pressure on her, but how else were they to secure their lineage in this country? How else were they to secure their income in the future? Besides, it wasn’t as if Isra was the only woman in the world shamed for bearing a girl. It had always been this way, Fareeda thought. It might not be fair, but she didn’t make the rules. It was just the way it was. And Isra was no exception.
Outside the air was crisp, the tips of their noses stinging from the leftover winter wind. Fareeda led the way, and Isra followed with Deya in her stroller. It hadn’t occurred to Fareeda until that moment that neither of them had left the house since the visit to Dr. Jaber. The weather had been too cold. Khaled had gotten their weekly groceries alone, driving to Fifth Avenue on Sunday mornings to get halal meat from the butcher shop, and on Fridays, after jumaa prayer, to Three Guys from Brooklyn in search of the zucchini and eggplants Fareeda liked. She couldn’t wait to accompany him again now that the weather was warming up. Fareeda didn’t like to admit it, had never even said it out loud, but in the fifteen years she had lived in America, she could easily count the number of times she had done anything outside their home without Khaled. She couldn’t drive or speak English, so even when she did leave the house, poking her head uneasily from the door before venturing out, it was only for a stroll around the corner to visit one of her Arab neighbors. Even now, walking only a few blocks to Umm Ahmed’s house, Fareeda found herself glancing behind her, wanting to turn back. At home, she knew where her bed was, how many tugs were needed to start the furnace, how many steps it took to cross the hall into the kitchen. There, she knew where the clean rags were, how long it took to preheat the oven, how many dashes of cumin to sprinkle in the lentil soup. But here, on these streets, she knew nothing. What would happen if she got lost? What if someone assaulted her? What would she do? Fifteen years in this country, and she still didn’t feel safe.