A Woman Is No Man(47)

“I want to tell you everything, but it makes sense for us to get to know each other better first. I wanted to earn your trust.”

“You can’t earn my trust by lying to me.”

“I know,” Sarah said. “I’m sorry. This is hard for me to navigate as well. I haven’t talked about my family in years.”

Deya shook her head, struggling to keep her voice down. “I have enough people lying to me. I don’t need your lies, too.”

There was a clock on the opposite wall: it was nearly 2:00 p.m. Deya stood. “I have to go. My sisters will be waiting for me at the bus stop soon.”

“Wait!” Sarah stood and followed Deya out the door. “Will you come back?”

Deya didn’t answer. Outside, clouds were gathering, cool air slipping through her hijab. It seemed as though it was about to rain, and she secured her jilbab for warmth.

“You have to come back,” Sarah said.

“Why?”

“Because there’s more I need to tell you.”

“So you can lie to me again?”

“No!”

Deya met her eyes. “How do I know you’ll tell me the truth?”

“I promise, I will.” Sarah kept her face blank as she said this, but there was hesitation in her voice. Sarah wanted to tell her the truth—Deya did not doubt that. Surely Sarah had decided to be honest when she reached out to her. Only Deya didn’t believe Sarah would give up the truth so easily. Not yet. She would have to wait until Sarah was ready. What choice did she have? In her head she likened it to reading. You had to finish a story to know all the answers, and life was no different. Nothing was ever handed to you from the start.





Isra


Fall 1992

Seasons passed in a blur. Isra was pregnant with her third child. She peered into the oven, flipping over a batch of za’atar pies she had baked for lunch, while Fareeda and Nadine sipped chai at the kitchen table.

“Brew another ibrik,” Fareeda told Isra when she set the za’atar pies on a rack to cool. As Isra did, she watched Nadine place Fareeda’s hand on her swollen belly.

“Do you feel it kicking?” Nadine said.

“Yes!”

Isra could see Nadine smirking, and she hid her face inside the cabinet. In the beginning, when Nadine first arrived, Isra had thought she would finally have a friend, a sister even. But they barely spoke, despite the small efforts Isra made to befriend her.

“Come, come,” Fareeda said when Isra had set the kettle on the stove. “Sit with us.”

Isra sat. She could feel Fareeda studying her belly, trying to make out the child inside. The look in her eyes sent a prick of fear down Isra’s spine. Not a day had passed when Fareeda had not mentioned the child’s gender, how they needed a grandson, how Isra had disgraced them in the community. Some days Fareeda would dangle a necklace over the globe of Isra’s belly, trying to discern the baby’s gender. Other days she would read the grounds of Isra’s Turkish coffee.

“It’s a boy this time,” Fareeda said, studying a spot on Isra’s stomach, calculating whether the baby sat high or low, wide or narrow. “I can feel it.”

“Inshallah,” Isra whispered.

“No, no, no,” Fareeda said. “It’s a boy for sure. Look how high your belly sits.”

Isra looked. It didn’t seem high to her, but she hoped Fareeda was right. Dr. Jaber had offered to tell Isra on her last visit, but Isra had refused. She didn’t see any reason to suffer prematurely. At least now, not knowing the gender, she had a bit of hope to move her forward. She wouldn’t be able to push the baby out if she knew it was a girl.

“We’ll name him Khaled,” Fareeda said, standing up. “After your father-in-law.”

Isra wished she wouldn’t do that, bring her hopes up for a boy. What if it was another girl—what would Fareeda do? Isra could still remember the look on Fareeda’s face the night Nora was born, one hand swept across her forehead, a pained sigh escaping her. And here Isra was again, with another child on the way. Soon she would have three children when she still felt like a child herself. But what choice did she have? Fareeda had insisted she get pregnant before Nadine. “It’s your duty to bear the first grandson,” she’d said. Only now Nadine was pregnant, too, and might still bear a son before Isra.

“Please, Allah,” Isra whispered, a prayer she’d been muttering for weeks. “Please give me a son this time.”

Nadine squinted her bright blue eyes and laughed. “Don’t worry, Fareeda,” she said, tracing her fingers across her slim belly. “Inshallah you’ll have a little Khaled sooner or later.”

Fareeda beamed. “Oh, inshallah.”

Later that evening, Fareeda asked Isra to teach Sarah how to make kofta. A single ray of light fell through the kitchen window as they gathered the ingredients on the counter: minced lamb, tomatoes, garlic, parsley.

Sarah sighed. Her eyes were round and her lips sat in a quiet sneer, as though she had sensed something foul. She sighed again, reaching for the minced lamb. “How do you do this all day?”

Isra looked up. “Do what?”

“This.” She motioned to the kofta balls. “It would drive me crazy!”

“I’m used to it. And you might as well get used to it too. It will be your life soon enough.”