A Woman Is No Man(79)

“A choice? What for?”

“I don’t know. I’m just afraid they won’t be happy.”

“What kind of nonsense is this? Have you forgotten where you came from? Do you think we’re American?”

“No! That’s not what I meant.”

But Adam wasn’t listening. “Is that the sort of woman you’ve become, after everything I’ve done for you? It’s not enough that you’ve birthed four daughters for me to take care of, but now I have to worry about how you want to raise them—”

“No! You don’t have to worry.”

“Is that so?” Adam stepped toward her, and she shrunk back against the headboard, feeling the room close in on her.

“Please, Adam, I swear, I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up!”

She turned from him, but he smashed her head into the headboard. Then he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into their daughters’ bedroom.

“Stop, please! The girls—”

“What’s the matter? You don’t want them to see? Maybe it’s time they see what it means to be a woman.”

“Please, Adam, they shouldn’t see this.”

“Why not? Don’t you walk around sad all the time, anyway? Are you trying to scare them off marriage? Is that your plan?”

He grabbed her by the sides of her face and twisted her head so she had a full view of her daughters in bed. His hands moved to her neck, holding her still. “Do you see these girls? Do you?” She struggled to catch her breath. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she managed to choke out.

“Listen closely, because I won’t say this again. My daughters are Arabs. Are we clear? Arabs. If I ever hear any talk of choices again, I’ll make sure they wake up to your screams. I’ll make sure they see what happens when a woman disobeys her husband. Fahmeh? Do you understand me?”

Isra nodded, gasping for air, until Adam released his grip. He left to shower without another word.

Isra cupped her hand to the side of her head and felt blood.

Later she would think it was her books that had made her do it. All the feelings that had silenced her for so long—denial, shame, fear, unworthiness—were no longer enough. As soon as she heard the water running, she went back into the girls’ bedroom. She opened the window. The cool air was harsh against her skin. She climbed out. As soon as her feet hit the cement, she ran.

Where was she heading? She didn’t know. She ran down Seventy-Second Street and onto Fifth Avenue, pausing only to catch her breath. It was midnight, and all the shops were closed with the exception of a deli on the corner of Seventy-Third Street, a pool hall on Seventy-Ninth, a Rite Aid on Eighty-First. Where was she going? What would she do when she got there? A gust of wind blew into her face, and she slowed as her body began to shake, but she pushed herself forward nonetheless, forced her legs to keep moving. The cold air burned against her open wound, but she kept running. This is what her life had come down to, she thought. This is what all her patience had amounted to. Where had she gone wrong? And what was she supposed to do now? What were her options? Palestine or America—wherever she looked, she was only reminded of how powerless she was. All she’d wanted in this life was to find happiness, and now it was clear that she never would, and just thinking of that fact made her want to stand dead in the middle of the road until someone ran her over.

She stopped again to catch her breath on Eighty-Sixth Street, in front of Century 21, a department store that covered half the block. She had been inside with Khaled and Fareeda once, but she couldn’t remember why they’d gone. Perhaps Fareeda had needed shoes. She walked down the street, searching for something, anything, to soothe her, but her body only shook with more force the farther she walked from home. The sky was charcoal, without a single star in sight. Around her people rushed by, even at this late hour. Teenagers laughed, men in tattered clothes lay on the pavement. They stared at her, and she looked away. She had the sensation that she was looking down at herself from the sky, as though she were a tiny infant in the middle of the massive street. She pressed her feet into the concrete and tried to ground herself.

She paced in circles and began to weep. She crossed the street and paced in circles again. What should she do? Where could she go? She had no money, no job, no education, no friends, no family. And what would happen to her daughters without her? They couldn’t be raised without a mother. She couldn’t leave them alone with Adam and Fareeda. She had to go back.

But she couldn’t go back, not to him, not now. She could picture Adam now, his eyes bulging, his jaw clenching and unclenching. She could feel his fingers around her arms, squeezing tight. Feel him shoving her against the wall, pulling her hair, slapping her across the face. Feel his fingers around her throat, her skin starting to numb, could see the room going white. No. She couldn’t face him.

She walked down Eighty-Sixth Street, stopping in front of a pharmacy. It was open, to her relief, and she sat on the front stoop. The stinging along the side of her head was easing. She pressed her fingers against her temples. She was cold, and she wept. She wept tears of all sorts—anger, fear, sorrow, but mostly regret. How could she have been so naive to think she could ever be happy? She should’ve listened to Mama. Happiness was something people made up in books, and she had been foolish to believe she could ever find it in the real world.