A Woman Is No Man(50)
“But that was a long time ago in Palestine,” Deya said. “We live in America now. Isn’t that why you came here? For a better life? Well, why can’t that mean a better life for us, too?”
“We didn’t come here so our daughters could become Americans,” Fareeda said. “Besides, American women get married, too, you know. If not at your age, then soon enough. Marriage is what women do.”
“But it’s not fair!”
Fareeda sighed. “I never said it was, daughter.” Her voice was soft, and she reached out to touch Deya’s shoulder. “But this country is not safe for girls like you. I only want your protection. If you’re afraid to rush into marriage, that’s fine. I understand. You can sit with Nasser as often as you’d like if it makes you feel better. Would that help?”
As if sitting with a stranger a few more times could help alleviate the uncertainty she felt about everything in the wake of her grandparents’ lies. But at least she’d bought herself more time to figure out what to do. “I guess.”
“Good,” Fareeda said. “But promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You need to let the past go, daughter. Let your mother go.”
Deya refused to meet Fareeda’s eyes as she went back downstairs to change.
Later that night, after Deya and her sisters ate dinner and retreated to their rooms, Deya told Nora about her visit with Sarah. She had planned to keep the story to herself at first, but she knew Nora would suspect something was going on when she skipped school again. Nora said nothing the whole time she spoke, listening with the same calm interest as when Deya told her a story, turning to the doorway every now and then to make sure Fareeda wasn’t there.
“She must have something important to tell you,” Nora said when Deya finished speaking. “Or else she wouldn’t have risked reaching out.”
“I don’t know. She says she wants to help me, but I feel like she’s hiding something.”
“Even if she is, there must be a reason she reached out. She’ll have to tell you eventually.”
“I’ll make sure to find out tomorrow.”
“What? You’re skipping school again? What if you get caught?”
“I won’t get caught. Besides, don’t you want to know what she has to say? Teta has been lying to us all these years. If she lied about Sarah, what else is she lying about? We deserve the truth.”
Nora gave her a long, hard stare. “Just be careful,” she said. “You don’t know this woman. You can’t trust her.”
“Don’t worry. I know.”
“Oh, right,” Nora said with a crooked smile. “I forgot who I was talking to.”
Isra
Summer–Fall 1993
Summer again. Isra’s fourth in America. In August she’d given birth to her third daughter. When the doctor declared the baby a girl, a darkness had washed over her that even the morning light through the window could not relieve. She’d named her Layla. Night.
Adam made no effort to conceal his disappointment this time around. He’d barely spoken to her since. In the evenings, when he’d returned from work, she would sit and watch him eat the dinner she had prepared him, eager to meet his faraway gaze. But his eyes never met hers, and the clinking of his spoon against his plate was the only sound between them.
After Layla’s birth, Isra had not prayed two rak’ats thanking Allah for his blessings. In fact, she hardly completed her five daily prayers in time. She was tired. Every morning she woke up to the sound of three children wailing. After sending Adam off to work, she made the beds, swept the basement floor, folded a load of laundry. Then she entered the kitchen, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, to find Fareeda hovering over the stove, the teakettle whistling as she announced the day’s chores.
Sunset, and Isra had yet to pray maghrib. Downstairs, she opened her dresser and took out a prayer rug. Normally she laid the rug facing the kiblah, the eastern wall where the sun rose. But today she tossed the prayer rug on the mattress and threw herself on the bed. She took in the four bare walls, the thick wooden bedposts, the matching dresser. There was a black sock jamming the bottom drawer—Adam’s drawer. The one she only opened to put clean socks and underwear inside. But that was enough to know he kept a layer of personal things at the bottom. She rolled off the bed and leaped toward the dresser in a single step. She crouched down and froze, fingers inches from it. Did she dare open it? Would Adam want her rummaging through his things? But how would he find out? And besides, what good had obedience done her? She had been so good for so long, and where was she now? More miserable than ever. She reached for the drawer and pulled it open. One by one, she placed Adam’s socks and underwear on the floor beside her. Underneath was a folded blanket, which she removed as well, and beneath it lay several stacks of hundred-dollar bills, two packs of Marlboro cigarettes, a half-empty black-and-white composition notebook, three pens, and five pocket lighters. Isra sighed in disgust—what had she expected? Gold and rubies? Love letters to another woman? She placed everything back where it was, shoved the drawer shut, and returned to the bed.
Sprawled across her prayer rug, she couldn’t stop thinking. Why hadn’t Allah given her a son? Why was her naseeb so terrible? Surely she had done something wrong. That must be why Adam couldn’t love her. She could tell from the way he touched her at night, huffing and puffing, looking at anything but her. She knew she could never please him. His appetite was fierce, aggressive, and she could never seem to quench it. And worse, not only had she deprived him of a son, but she had given him three daughters instead. She didn’t deserve his love. She wasn’t worthy.