A Woman Is No Man(78)

“You know,” Fareeda said after a moment, “Arabs use the term majnoon to mean madness, but if you break the word apart, what do you see?” Deya only looked at her. “The word jinn,” Fareeda said, settling back in her seat. “Madness is derived from the jinn, an evil spirit inside you. Therapy and medicine can’t fix that.”

“Are you serious? That’s your explanation for everything? You think you can just blame this on the jinn? That’s not good enough. This isn’t some story, where you can tie up everything as you please at the end. This isn’t make-believe.”

“If only it were make-believe,” Fareeda said.

“That still doesn’t explain why you tried to cover for him,” Deya said. “How could you? You won’t even forgive your own daughter when all she ever did was run away! You’re such a hypocrite!”

Fareeda tightened her grip around the teacup. Outside, the sky was dark, only the glow of a few lampposts visible through the window. She stared absently at the darkness as she considered Deya’s words. Why had she never really blamed Adam—had forgiven him, even? Sarah hadn’t killed anyone, hadn’t left her with four girls to look after. And yet it was true, she had never been able to forgive her. She and Khaled had erased Sarah from their lives completely, as if they had never had a daughter, as if she had committed the grossest of crimes. She was so afraid of the shame the family would face that she had never even questioned it. Deya was right: she was a hypocrite. An ocean of sadness rushed through her, and she began to weep.

For a long time Fareeda wept. Though she had buried her face in her hands, she could feel Deya’s eyes on her, waiting for an explanation, an answer. If only life were so simple.





Isra


Winter 1996

Isra couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard Deya whispering, You always look sad. She wept silently in her bed. How would her daughters remember their childhood? What would they think of her? These questions had occupied most of her thinking lately. Some days she thought she should apologize for all the kisses she’d never given them, all the times she’d looked over their shoulders while they spoke, for slapping them when she was angry, for not saying “I love you” often enough. Other days—days that were becoming increasingly rare—she would comfort herself with the hope that everything could still be okay, or—rarer still—that everything had been okay all along, that there was nothing wrong with her mothering, that she was only doing what was best for her daughters. What would she do with them when they got older? Would she force them down her same path?

“I need to talk to you,” Isra told Adam when he returned from work that night. From the edge of the bed, she watched him slip out of his work clothes, waiting for him to respond. But he said nothing. “Won’t you say something?” she asked. “You’ve barely said a word to me since Amal was born.”

“What do you want me to say?”

She could smell the beer on him every night now. Perhaps that’s why he beat her more regularly. But sometimes it was her fault. Sometimes she provoked him. Isra thought back to the previous night, when she had put an extra spoonful of coriander in the mulukhiya to irritate him. “What’s wrong?” she had asked innocently as he spat out his food. When he shook his head angrily, pushing the bowl away, she kept a straight face, but inside she had been ecstatic at her small revenge. If overseasoning his food was the only thing within her power, then she would do that for as long as she could.

“I want to talk to you,” Isra said. “About our daughters.”

“What about them?”

“Deya said something today, something that worries me.”

His eyes shifted to her. “What did she say?”

“She said . . .” Her voice trailed off. “She said I always look sad.”

“Well, she’s right. You mope around the house like you’re dying.”

Isra blinked at him.

“It’s true. What does this have to do with me?”

“I don’t know,” Isra said. “But ever since Amal was born, you’ve been—”

“Are you blaming me? After everything I’ve done for you?”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“Nothing, I’m sorry. It’s just lately I’ve been afraid . . .”

He shook his head, walking over to open his drawer. “Afraid of what, exactly?”

Isra opened her mouth to respond, but the fear overwhelmed her, and no words would come out. What exactly was she afraid of? Being a bad mother? Scarring her daughters the way her parents had scarred her? Being too lenient, not teaching them the truth about the world? She was afraid of so many things. How could she explain it?

Adam sighed. “Well, are you going to say something?”

“I’m just worried about the kind of lives our daughters will have. If they’ll have any choices.”

He stared at her. “What kind of choices?”

“I just wonder if they’ll be expected to be married at a young age.”

“Well, of course,” he said sharply. “What else would they do?”

She looked away, but she could feel his eyes on her skin. “I was hoping maybe we wouldn’t rush them into marriage. That maybe we could, you know, give them a choice.”