A Woman Is No Man(65)

“I’m only twenty-one,” Isra said, startled by the defiance in her tone. “And I already have three children. Why can’t I wait a little?”

“Why wait? Why not just get them out of the way?”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to raise another kid right now.”

Fareeda scoffed. “Three or four, what difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference to me. I’m the one who has to raise them.”

Fareeda glared, and Isra looked away. Not from shame, but rather to conceal her pleasure. She couldn’t believe she had spoken her mind and defied Fareeda for the first time in years.

“Still eating?” Adam asked when he approached them.

Isra passed him a small smile, but Fareeda wasted no time. She cleared her throat and began. “Tell your wife,” she said. “Tell her it’s time to get pregnant again.”

Adam sighed. “She’ll get pregnant soon, Mother. Don’t worry.”

“You’ve been saying that for months! You’re not getting any younger, you know. And neither is Isra. What do you think will happen if you get a fourth girl? You think you’re going to just stop trying for a son? Of course not! That’s why it’s important to hurry.”

Adam fumbled inside his pocket for a pack of Marlboro Red. “You think I don’t want a son? I’m trying my best.”

“Well, keep trying.”

“I will, Mother.”

“Good.”

Adam looked away, squeezing the pack of cigarettes tight. Even though he was looking out toward the river, Isra could see it in his eyes: he would beat her tonight. She stared at him, hoping she was wrong, that he wouldn’t take out his anger on her. But the signs were all too familiar now. First, he’d beat her loud and hard, shaking with rage. Then he’d reach out to touch her again, only slightly softer this time, pushing himself inside her. She’d shut her eyes tight, clench her fists, and keep still in hopes she might just disappear.





Deya


Winter 2008

Something doesn’t make sense,” Deya told Sarah one Friday afternoon, after her aunt had finished telling her yet another story about Isra. They sat huddled by the window, sipping on vanilla lattes Sarah had brewed for them.

“What?” Sarah asked.

Deya set her cup down. “If my mother loved books so much, why didn’t she want a better life for us?”

“She did,” Sarah said. “But there was only so much she could do.”

“Then why did she stop us from going to school?”

Sarah looked at her, startled. “What are you talking about?”

“She said we had to stop going to school,” Deya said, feeling her stomach twist at the memory. “She even called me a sharmouta.”

“Isra would’ve never said that word, especially to you.”

“But she did say it. I remember.”

“The Isra I knew never would’ve uttered that word,” Sarah said. “Was this after I left?”

“I think so,” Deya said, suddenly uncertain. She had been so young. Her memories were so fragmented.

“Do you remember why she said it?”

“Not really.”

“Do you remember when?”

“It must’ve been right before the car accident . . . I don’t know . . . I mean, the memory is clear, but I’m not certain of the exact—”

“Tell me then,” Sarah interrupted. “Tell me everything you remember.”

Outside the sky was dark gray, as Deya and Nora rode the school bus home. When they reached their stop, Mama was waiting for them, as she always did. Her belly was slightly bigger than usual, and Deya wondered if Mama was pregnant again. She imagined a fifth child in their narrow bedroom. She wondered where the baby would sleep, if Baba would buy another crib, or if it would sleep in Amal’s crib, and if Amal would share the bed with her and Nora. The baby’s face was in her head, already big and swelling bigger, suffocating her. She took a deep breath and loosened the backpack from her shoulders.

She touched Mama’s arm when she reached her, earning a quick smile before Isra looked away. It was the same smile Isra always gave her, just the slightest curve of the lips.

Behind her, she could hear her classmates calling from the bus. “Bye, Deya! See you tomorrow!”

Deya turned to wave goodbye. When she turned back, Mama’s eyes were intently fixed on her face.

“Why are those boys speaking to you?” Mama said. It was strange to hear words leave her mouth with such force.

“They’re in my class, Mama.”

“Why are you talking to boys in your class?”

“They’re my friends.”

“Friends?”

Deya nodded and lowered her eyes to the ground.

“You can’t be friends with boys! Did I raise a sharmouta?”

Deya stumbled back, struck by the word. “No, Mama, I didn’t do anything—”

“Uskuti! You know you’re not allowed to speak to boys! What were you thinking? You’re an Arab girl. Do you understand? An Arab girl.” But Deya didn’t understand. “Listen to me, Deya. Open your ears and listen.” Her voice lowered to a tight whisper. “Just because you were born here, that doesn’t make you an American. As long as you live in this family, you will never be an American.”