A Woman Is No Man(53)

Deya didn’t quite agree with her aunt. She would’ve run away too had she been in Sarah’s shoes. Staying after she’d committed such a sin would have been unthinkable, unwise even—she would have risked getting killed. Deya passed her aunt a comforting smile. In an attempt to lighten the conversation, she said, “I never knew you loved to read so much. But I guess it should’ve been obvious, seeing where you work and all.”

“You caught me,” Sarah said with a grin.

“Fareeda didn’t mind your books?”

“Oh, she did!” Sarah laughed. “But I hid them from her. Did you know Isra loved to read, too? We used to read together.”

“Really? I remember she used to read to us all the time.”

Sarah smiled. “You remember that?”

“It’s one of the only good memories I have of her. Sometimes I think that’s why I love to read so much.”

“You like to read, too?”

“There’s nothing else in the world I’d rather do.”

“Well, in that case, you’re more than welcome to any of these.” Sarah gestured at the shelves piled high with books.

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” Deya said, feeling her cheeks burn. “You’re so lucky.”

“For what?”

“To have all these books. All these stories all around.”

“I am lucky,” Sarah said. “Books have always kept me company when I felt most alone.”

“You sound like me.”

Sarah laughed. “Well, guess what?”

“What?”

“You’re not alone anymore.”

Deya curled into her seat, unsure of what to say. She knew she should feel excited, connected even. But all she felt was fear, the need to retreat inside herself. Why couldn’t she let her guard down? Why couldn’t she believe that someone could actually care about her? She wasn’t sure of the precise reason, but if her own family was willing to throw her away to the first man who asked, then why should she expect more from anyone else? She shouldn’t. She was only being safe, she reasoned. She was only protecting herself.

“You know what’s strange?” Deya said after a moment.

“What’s that?”

“What are the odds that me, you, and my mother would all love to read?”

“It’s not strange at all,” Sarah said. “It’s the loneliest people who love books the most.”

“Is that why you loved reading? Because you were lonely?”

“Something like that.” Sarah looked toward the window. “Growing up in that family was hard, being treated differently than my brothers because I was a girl, waking up every morning knowing my future was limited. Knowing I was so different from most of the other kids at school. It was more than loneliness. Sometimes I think it was the opposite of loneliness, too, like there were too many people around me, forced connections, that I needed a little isolation to think on my own, to be my own person. Does that make sense?”

Deya nodded, hearing herself in Sarah’s words. “And now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you happy?”

Sarah paused for a moment then said, “I don’t care about being happy.” Deya’s surprise must have been written across her face because Sarah continued, “Too often being happy means being passive or playing it safe. There’s no skill required in happiness, no strength of character, nothing extraordinary. Its discontent that drives creation the most—passion, desire, defiance. Revolutions don’t come from a place of happiness. If anything, I think it’s sadness, or discontent at least, that’s at the root of everything beautiful.”

Deya listened, captivated. “Are you sad, then?”

“I was sad for a long time,” Sarah said without meeting her eyes. “But I’m not anymore. I’m grateful to have accomplished something with my life. I spend my days doing something I love.” She gestured to the books.

“Do you think you would’ve had this life if you’d stayed? If you’d gotten married?”

Sarah hesitated before replying. “I’m not sure. I think a lot about the kind of life I would’ve had if I’d stayed. Would I have been able to go to college? Would I have managed a bookstore in the city? Probably not, at least not ten years ago . . . But it seems like things have changed.” She paused to think. “But then again, maybe they haven’t changed that much. I don’t know. It just depends . . .”

“On what?”

“On the family you’re from. I know many Arab families who firmly believe in educating their women, and I’ve met some who graduated from college and have good jobs. But I think in my case, if I’d married a man my parents chose for me, who thinks the way my parents think, then he probably wouldn’t have let me go to college or work. He would’ve wanted me to stay at home and raise children instead.”

“You know, this isn’t making me feel better,” Deya said, thinking of the pitiful possibilities of her life. “If I’m going to be forced to stay at home and have children, then why shouldn’t I run away?”

“Because it’s the cowardly thing to do.”