A Woman Is No Man(43)

Then one night a neighbor told her that Khaled was an alcoholic, that he purchased a liter of whiskey most mornings from the corner dukan, and that he sipped on the bottle until he got home. Each liter cost fifteen shekels, almost half of Khaled’s daily earnings. Something inside Fareeda had snapped. A liter of whiskey a day! Fifteen shekels! And after everything she had done for him, scraping to feed their children in the refugee camp, slaving in the fields, bearing him sons, even . . . She stopped, trembling at the memory. No. Enough was enough.

“I won’t allow you to spend our hard-earned money on sharaab,” Fareeda had told Khaled that night, her eyes so wide she knew she must have looked possessed. He wouldn’t look at her, but she stared him down. “I’ve endured many things for your sake”—her voice quivered—“but I won’t endure this. From now on, I want to know what you do with our money.”

The next thing she knew, Khaled had slapped her. “Who do you think you are talking to me like that?”

Fareeda stared at him. “I’m the reason this family has food to eat.” Her voice was surprisingly clear. She didn’t recognize it as her own.

Another slap. “Shut your mouth, woman!”

“I won’t shut my mouth unless you stop drinking,” she said, unwavering. “If you don’t, I’ll tell your children the truth! I’ll tell them that we barely have enough food because their father is an alcoholic. I’ll tell everyone! Your reputation will be ruined, and your children will never respect you.”

Khaled had shifted back, his head heavy with whiskey, his knees unable to hold him. He lifted his head and let out a shuddering exhale. When he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came. If it wasn’t for his pride, Fareeda was certain he would have cried. From that day on, Khaled had brought home his wages to her. Something essential between them had shifted.

“Oh, for goodness sake!” Fareeda said now, not meeting Khaled’s eyes. “Let’s not get into this mess in front of our new daughter-in-law.” She bit into a chicken thigh and turned to face Adam. “Listen, son, you’ve been handling everything for years. Your brothers know nothing about business. It’ll only take you a few months to get the store up and running, and then Omar can take over.”

Adam sighed. He looked over to Omar, who sat quietly at the opposite end of the table, eyes fixed on his plate. After a moment had passed, Omar lifted his head to find Adam still watching him and, flushing deeply, said, “Thank you, brother.”

Fareeda refilled Omar’s plate. “We’re family,” she said. “There’s no need to thank your brother. Why, if everyone went around saying thank you for every little thing they were supposed to do, we wouldn’t get anything done, would we?” She scooped a spoonful of rice onto Ali’s plate. “Eat up, son. Look at how thin you’re getting.” Then she turned to Nadine, who sat with her hands in her lap. “You too, dear. Come on.” Nadine smiled and reached for her spoon.

Fareeda could feel Isra staring at her. “You need to eat, too, Isra. You haven’t gained much weight this pregnancy.”

Isra nodded and refilled her plate. Though Fareeda hadn’t mentioned it, she was worried about the gender. Why hadn’t Isra asked the doctor for an ultrasound while she was gone? Because she was an idiot, Fareeda thought, scooping another serving of rice onto her plate. But she should stop worrying and enjoy this moment with her sons. Yes, she should savor it. It was a reminder of how far she had come since that day. How long had it been—thirty years? Longer? She’d tried so hard to forget. For a long time Fareeda had believed she was cursed, haunted by the jinn. But then Adam had been born, and then Omar and Ali, and her memory of what happened began to fade, bit by bit, until it was almost gone. Like a bad dream. But then Sarah was born—a daughter—and the memories Fareeda thought she had put to rest burned a hole inside her anew. How much she hated looking at Sarah, how much she hated to remember. She had hoped her memories would fade when Sarah got older. Only they hadn’t. And now it was Deya who reminded her.

Please, God, Fareeda thought, staring at Isra’s belly. Don’t let this one be another girl.





Isra


Winter 1991

It was a girl.

The delivery room was quiet, and Isra lay beneath the thin hospital sheet, cold and bare, staring at the midnight December sky though the window. She longed for company, but Adam had said he needed to return to work. She had hoped that children would bring them closer, but they had not. In fact, it seemed as if each pregnancy pushed him farther away, as if the more her belly grew, the wider the space between them became.

She began to cry. What was it that moved her to tears? She wasn’t sure. Was it that she had disappointed Adam once again? Or was it because she couldn’t be happy as she looked at her newborn daughter?

She was still crying when Adam returned to visit her the next morning. “What’s wrong?” he asked, startling her.

“Nothing,” Isra said. She sat up and wiped her face.

“Then why are you crying? Did my mother say something to upset you?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

He took a brief look at the baby basket before walking toward the window. Was Isra imagining, or had Adam’s eyes reddened over the years? The thought that he was drinking sharaab crossed her mind again but she dismissed it. Not Adam, the man who had once wanted to be a priest, who had memorized the entire Qur’an. He would never commit haraam. He must be tired or sick, or perhaps it was something she had done.