A Woman Is No Man(85)

“Best for us?” The loudness of her voice startled her, but she kept going. “If you wanted what’s best for us, you would let me go to college. You wouldn’t force me to get married to a stranger. You wouldn’t risk putting me in a situation where that man might kill me, and everyone would look the other way! How could you want that life for me?”

“We would never let anyone hurt you.”

“That’s not true! You let my father hurt my mother. Here. In this very house! You and Teta knew he beat her, and you did nothing!”

“I’m sorry, Deya.” Those meaningless words again. His expression when he looked at her was one of deep sorrow. “I was wrong not to protect your mother,” he said after a moment. “I wish I could go back in time. Where we’re from, this is how it was between a husband and wife. I never for a moment thought Adam would . . . I didn’t know . . .” He stopped, his wrinkled face on the verge of crumpling into tears. Deya had never seen him cry before. “Did you know Isra used to help me make za’atar?”

Deya swallowed. “No.”

“Every Friday after jumaa prayer. She even taught me her mother’s secret recipe.” He reached inside the pantry and pulled out a few spice jars. “Do you want me to show you?”

Deya was filled with anger, but this was the first time he’d mentioned her mother in years. She needed his memories of her. She moved closer.

“The most important part of making za’atar is roasting the sesame seeds perfectly.”

Deya watched him pour the sesame seeds into an iron skillet, curious to see him the way her mother had. She wondered how Isra had felt standing beside Khaled, only a few inches between them as they roasted the sesame seeds. She pictured her smiling shyly, saying no more than a few words, perhaps afraid that Fareeda would overhear them. “Did you and my mother ever talk?” Deya asked.

“She was never much of a talker,” he said, opening a jar of marjoram leaves. “But she opened up sometimes.”

“What did she talk about?”

“Different things.” He scooped a spoonful of leaves into the mortar and began to grind them. “How much she missed Palestine.” He poured the ground marjoram on top of the sesame seeds. “How impressed she was by your curiosity.”

“She said that?”

He nodded. “She used to read to you and your sisters daily. Do you remember? Sometimes I used to hear her on the front stoop, making funny noises as she read. You all used to laugh so hard. I rarely heard Isra laugh throughout the years, but in those moments she sounded like a child.”

Deya felt her mouth go dry. “What else?”

Khaled opened a jar of sumac. The burnt-red powder had always reminded Deya of her parents. Isra had liked to sauté onions in sumac and olive oil until they turned a light purple. Then she’d place the sautéed mixture on top of warm pita bread. Msakhan. It was her father’s favorite dish. She felt sick at the thought.

Khaled sprinkled a pinch of salt into the mixture. “What exactly do you want to know?”

What did she want to know? Even the question felt like a vast oversimplification of everything she was feeling. “I’ve been lied to all these years. I don’t know what to believe anymore, what to think, what to do.”

“I knew we should’ve told you the truth right away,” Khaled said, “but Fareeda was afraid . . . We were afraid . . . We didn’t want you to get hurt, that’s all. We only wanted to protect you.”

“There’s so much I don’t know.”

He met her eyes. “There’s so much none of us know. I still don’t understand why my daughter ran away, why my son killed his wife, killed himself. My own children, and I don’t understand them.”

“But at least Sarah is alive,” Deya said. “You can ask her why she ran away. You can get answers, you just choose not to.” Khaled looked away. From his expression Deya knew he was still angry with his daughter. “Will you ever forgive her?” He didn’t look up. “She misses you, and she’s sorry—she’s sorry she ran away.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Why not? Because she’s a girl? Is that it? Because she was only a girl and she dared to shame you? Would you have forgiven my father if he were still alive? Tell me, would you have forgiven him for killing my mother?”

“It’s not that simple.”

Deya shook her head. “What does that even mean?”

“It isn’t Sarah’s fault I can’t forgive her, it’s mine. My pride won’t let me forgive her. In this her crime is less than mine, much less. In this I have failed her. I have failed all of you.”

“You talk as though it’s too late, Seedo, but it’s not. You can still forgive her. There’s still time.”

“Time?” Khaled said. “No amount of time can bring back our family’s reputation.”





Isra


Spring 1997

Are you okay?” Isra asked Sarah that evening, after Fareeda and Nadine had settled in the sala to watch their favorite show. She and Sarah would sometimes join them, but tonight they stuffed cabbage leaves in the kitchen.

“I’m fine,” Sarah said.

Isra was careful with her words. “I know you’re worried about marriage, especially now that . . .” She brought her voice to a whisper. “After Hannah died.”