A Woman Is No Man(75)

“There you go again with your smart remarks.” Fareeda’s eyes were bulging. She snatched the book from Sarah’s fingers, flung it across the room. “Just wait!” she said, turning to leave. “Just wait until I find a man to take you off my shoulders. Wallahi, I don’t care if he’s old and fat. I’m giving you away to the first man who agrees to take you!”

Isra turned to Sarah, expecting to find her caved into the sofa, but her friend had sprung gracefully to her feet and was scanning the floor for her book. Catching Isra’s eyes, she said, “There is nothing in the world I hate more than that woman.”

“Shhh,” Isra said. “She’ll hear you.”

“Let her.”

When she’d finished brewing a kettle of chai to calm Fareeda’s nerves, Isra retreated downstairs to read. Beside her, Deya scribbled in a coloring book. Nora and Layla played with Legos. Amal slept in her crib. Watching them as they scattered across the room, glancing over to her every now and then, Isra felt a jolt of helplessness deep within her. She had to do something, anything, to help her daughters.

“Mama,” Deya said. Isra smiled. Inside she wanted to scream. “My teacher said we have to read this for homework.” Deya handed Isra a Dr. Seuss book. Isra took the book from her hands and signaled for her to sit. As she read, she could see Deya’s eyes widen in curiosity and excitement. She reached out and stroked her daughter’s face. Nora and Layla listened with half an ear each, building a bridge of Legos around her. Amal slept peacefully.

“I love when you read to me,” Deya said when Isra had finished.

“You do?”

Deya nodded slowly. “Can you always be this way?”

“What way?” Isra asked.

Deya stared at her feet. “Happy.”

“I am happy,” Isra said.

“You always look sad.”

Isra swallowed hard, tried to steady her voice. “I’m not sad.”

“You’re not?”

“I promise I’m not.”

Deya frowned, and Isra knew she was unconvinced. Isra felt a sense of failure rising in her. She had tried her best to shelter her daughters from her sadness, the way she wished Mama had sheltered her. She had made sure they were asleep when Adam came home, made sure they never saw him hit her. Sadness was like a cancer, she thought, a presence that staked its claim so quietly you might not even notice it until it was too late. She hoped her other daughters didn’t see. Maybe Deya could even forget. She was still young, after all. She wouldn’t remember these days. Isra could still learn to be a good mother. Maybe she could still save them. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

“I’m not sad,” Isra said again, with a smile this time. “I have you.” She pulled her daughter in for a hug. “I love you, habibti.”

“I love you, too, Mama.”





Fareeda


Winter 2008

The sun faded beyond the bare trees, a sliver of it visible from the kitchen window as Fareeda washed the last of the day’s dishes. One of the girls should be washing these, she thought, carefully arranging the wet plates in the dish rack. But they had hurried to the basement after dinner, feigning sickness, leaving Fareeda no choice but to do the dishes herself. “I’m the one who’s sick,” she mumbled to herself. An old woman washing dishes—it was disgraceful! With four teenage girls in the house, she should have been giving orders like a queen. But she still had to cook and clean, still had to pick up after them. She shook her head. Fareeda couldn’t understand how her granddaughters had turned out so unlike her, so unlike their mother. Surely it was America. One quick wipe of the kitchen table, and these girls thought they were done. As if things could be washed so easily. They didn’t understand you needed to scrub hard, crouched on hands and knees, until the house was spotless. These spoiled American children knew nothing about real work.

When she was done, Fareeda retired to her bedroom. Brushing her hair, she wondered when she had last fallen asleep beside Khaled. It had been so many years she couldn’t remember. She didn’t even know where he was tonight—likely at the hookah bar, playing cards. Not that it mattered. He rarely looked at her most nights, staring absently ahead as he ate his dinner in silence, not even thanking her for the food she had labored over all day. The younger Khaled would’ve had some remark to fault her cooking, saying the rice was overcooked, or the vegetables oversalted, or that there was not enough green pepper in the ful. But now he hardly spoke at all. She wanted to shake him. What had happened to the man who used to break belts across her skin? Who never went a day without insulting her? But that man had faded over the years. When had it begun? When had he first started to lose the spark in his eyes, the iron grip he had around his life? She thought it was the day they came to America. She hadn’t noticed it then, the transformation had been too gradual. But she saw it now, looking back. She remembered the day they’d left Palestine. How Khaled had shook as he locked the door of their shelter, weeping while he waved goodbye to his family and friends as their cab drove away. How, at the Tel Aviv airport, he had stopped several times to catch himself, his knees buckling beneath him. How he had worked day and night in a foreign country where he didn’t even speak the language, just to ensure they were fed. The loss of his home had broken his spirit. She hadn’t seen it then, hadn’t recognized that his world was slowly unraveling. But maybe that’s the way of life, Fareeda thought. To understand things only after they had passed, only once it was too late.