A Woman Is No Man(67)

“I don’t get it. You said you would help me understand the past, but you can’t even explain why my mother wrote that letter. What if something happened to her after you left? How would you know? You weren’t with her.”

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said again, looking down at the floor. “I think about it every day. I wish I’d never left her.”

Now that Deya had started to unleash the words she’d held at bay these weeks, she couldn’t stop them. “Did you even try to help her? If you knew Baba beat her, why didn’t you do something? I thought she was your friend.”

“She was my friend, my sister.”

“Then why didn’t you take her with you? Why did you leave her? Why did you leave all of us?”

“She wouldn’t come with me.” Sarah’s eyes were filled with tears. “I begged her to come, but she wouldn’t leave. Maybe I should’ve tried harder. It’s something I have to live with. But I’m here to help you now.” She wiped tears from her face. “Please, Deya. For her sake. She’d want me to help you.”

“Then help me! Tell me what to do.”

“I can’t tell you what to do. If you don’t decide for yourself, then what’s the point? It won’t matter what you do if it’s not your own choice. It has to come from inside you. That’s the only way I can help. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. It’s not that simple.”

“But it is. You’re letting fear cloud your thoughts. Dig deep inside yourself. What do you want?”

“I want to make my own decisions. I want to have a choice.”

“Then do it! Starting now.”

Deya shook her head. “You make it sound so easy, but it’s not. That’s what you don’t understand.”

“There are many things you can say to me, but you can’t say I don’t understand. I never said it was easy. But it’s what you have to do.”

Deya sighed and rubbed her temples. Her body ached, her head hurt. She had no idea what to do, or where to begin. She stood to leave. “I have to go.”





Isra


Spring 1995

A year passed and Isra was pregnant again. Her fourth pregnancy. After completing her chores, she spent her days curled againt the basement window, a book in her hands, hoping to silence the gnawing fear of giving birth to another girl. But no amount of reading had alleviated her angst. In fact, it seemed as if the more she read, the more her worries grew, and her belly along with it, so that she got bigger and bigger and the walls around her narrower and narrower, hemming her in.

“Are you okay?” Sarah asked Isra one night as they stood over the stove, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. They were cooking mujaddara, and the air smelled of lentils and rice, sautéed onions and cumin. Sarah put down the stirring spoon and met her eyes. “You haven’t been yourself lately.”

“I’m just tired,” Isra said, stooping slightly, one hand under her belly. “This baby is wearing me out.”

“No,” Sarah said. “I can tell something else is wrong. Is it Adam? Is he hitting you?”

“No . . .” Isra looked away.

“Then what is it?”

“I really don’t know what’s wrong . . . ,” Isra said, averting her gaze. “I’m just a little worried.”

“About what?”

“You’ll think it’s stupid.”

“No, I won’t. I promise. What is it?”

“I’m worried about the baby,” Isra whispered. “What if it’s another girl? What will your family do? What will Adam do?”

“They can’t do anything,” Sarah said. “Having a girl isn’t in your control.” She moved closer and touched Isra’s shoulder. “And you never know, you might be carrying a boy this time.”

Isra sighed. “Even if I have a boy, I don’t know how I’ll raise four children. Where will I find the time? What if I can’t read anymore?”

“You can always find time to read,” Sarah said. “Soon Deya will be in school, and it won’t be so bad. And I’ll be here to help you.”

“You don’t understand.” Isra sighed again, pressing her fingers against her temples. “I know it sounds selfish, but I was finally starting to feel like a person, like I had a purpose, like there was something else in my life besides raising children all day and waiting for Adam to come home.” She stopped, startled by her words. “Not that I don’t like being a mother. I love my children, of course I do. But for so long I haven’t had anything to call my own. All I have is a husband who barely comes home and beats me when he does, and children who depend on me for everything. And the worst part is, I have nothing to give them! I never thought it would be like this.” The feeling she had now, that this was all her life would ever be, caught her by surprise. She began to cry.

“Please don’t cry,” Sarah said, wrapping her arms around Isra and squeezing tight. “You’re a good mother. You’re doing your best for your daughters, and they’re going to see that one day. I know this is hard, but you’re not alone. I’m right here. You have me. I promise.”

“I have something to cheer you up,” Sarah told her when they retreated to the basement after dinner. She spread a pile of books across the floor. “There are so many good books in here. I don’t even know where to start. There’s Anna Karenina, Lolita, The Stranger . . . Oh, and Kafka, I think you’d love his—”