A Woman Is No Man(52)

“Thank you, son. Inshallah your turn soon.”

Adam smiled but said nothing. He leaned into the sofa, closed his eyes, inhaled another puff of smoke. Isra fixated on the long, sleek hookah rope in his hands, the shiny silver tip clutched between his lips. Every time he let out a rush of smoke, the room fogged, and she disappeared from sight. Standing there, she wished she could disappear like that forever.

That night, Adam entered their bedroom without saying a word. He shook his head, mumbling something under his breath, and all Isra could think was how slender he looked standing there, thinner than she had ever seen him. His fingers appeared longer, pointier than usual, and it seemed as though the veins on his hands had either multiplied or become engorged. He moved closer to her, lifting his eyes to meet hers. It gave her a strange feeling.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked in a low voice. Her compliance eased her on days like this, when she felt as though she was useless. If she couldn’t give him a son, the least she could do was be a good wife and please him.

He stared at her. She looked away. She knew that if he looked at her too closely, the thoughts—fear, anger, defiance, loneliness, confusion, helplessness—would burst from her and the tears would rush out of her eyes and she’d collapse right there in front of him. And Isra couldn’t have that. It was one thing to think, another thing entirely to speak your mind.

“I’m sorry,” Isra whispered. Adam continued to stare. The look in his eyes was unsteady, like he was under a spell and trying hard to focus. He took a few steps closer, and she took a few steps back into the corner of the room, trying not to flinch. He hated when she flinched. She wondered if Nadine flinched when Omar touched her. But Nadine was different, she thought. She must have been loved in her life that she knew how to love and be loved in return.

Adam reached out to touch her. He traced the outline of her face, almost as if daring her to move. But she kept still. She closed her eyes, waited for him to stop, to step away and go to bed. But then, all at once, it came.

He slapped her.

What terrified Isra most was not the force of his palm against her face. It was the voice inside her head telling her to be still—not the stillness itself, but the ease of it, how naturally it came to her.





Deya


Winter 2008

I still can’t believe you ran away,” Deya told Sarah the next day at the bookstore. Upon emerging from the subway at Union Square, she had taken off her hijab and tucked it in her backpack, felt the cool breeze run through her hair, the winter sun on her skin. “You left everything you knew. I wish I was brave like you.”

“I’m not as brave as you think,” Sarah said.

Deya studied her aunt from across the small table. Sarah wore a flowered miniskirt with thin stockings, long black boots, and a fitted cream blouse. Her hair was wrapped in a loose bun. “Yes, you are,” Deya said. “I could never run away. I’d be terrified out here alone.” She met Sarah’s eyes. “How did you leave? Weren’t you afraid?”

“Of course I was afraid. But I was more afraid of staying.”

“Why?”

“I was afraid of what my parents would do if they found out . . .” Her words faded.

“Found out what?”

Sarah looked down at her fingers. “I don’t know how to say this. I’m worried you’ll think less of me.”

“It’s okay. You can tell me.” Deya could see hesitation in her aunt’s face as she turned toward the window.

“I had a boyfriend,” Sarah finally said.

“A boyfriend? Is that why you ran away?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Then why?”

Sarah stared out the window.

“Come on, tell me.”

She drew a breath and started again. “The truth is, I wasn’t a virgin.”

Deya stared at her with wide eyes. “In Teta’s house? How . . . how could you?” Sarah’s face grew red, and she looked away. “I’m sorry—I’m not trying to judge you or anything. It’s just, all I can think of is Teta’s face. Seedo beating you. Maybe even a knife at your throat. Our reputation would’ve been ruined if people found out.”

“I know,” Sarah said quietly. “That’s why I ran. I was terrified what would happen when everyone found out. I was scared of what my parents would do.”

Deya said nothing. She couldn’t picture herself in Sarah’s shoes, couldn’t imagine losing her virginity. She would never have the nerve to go that far with a man, to disobey her grandparents so severely, but it wasn’t just that. The act itself seemed far too intimate. She couldn’t imagine letting anyone close enough to touch her skin, much less peel her clothes back, touch her deep inside. She flushed.

“Is that why you don’t think you’re brave?” Deya asked. “Because you didn’t have the courage to face your family after what you’d done? Because you chose to run away instead?”

“Yes.” Sarah looked up to meet Deya’s eyes. “Even though I was afraid for my life, I shouldn’t have run. I should’ve confronted my mother about what I’d done. It’s not that I wasn’t strong enough to face my parents—I was. Books were my armor. Everything I’d ever learned growing up, all my thoughts, dreams, goals, experiences, it all came from the books I read. It was like I went around collecting knowledge, plucking it from pages and storing it up, waiting for a chance to use it. I could’ve stood up to my parents, but I let fear control my decisions, and instead of facing them, I ran. I was a coward.”