A Woman Is No Man(94)
She stood up, moving closer to him. “I know Sarah running away has been terrible, but I don’t want our daughters to suffer because of it.”
“What are you saying, woman?”
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Isra said, trying to keep her voice steady. “But I’m worried about our daughters. I’m afraid of what kind of life we’re going to give them. I’m scared of losing them, too. But I don’t think it’s wise to take them out of public school.”
Adam stared at her. Isra wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but from the bulge in his eyes, she was sure he was drunk. He crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed her.
“Adam, stop! Please. I’m only thinking of our daughters.”
But he didn’t stop. In one smooth movement, he shoved her against the wall and slammed his fists against her body over and over, her stomach, sides, arms, head. Isra shut her eyes, and then, when she thought it was over, Adam grabbed her by the hair and slapped her, the force of his palm knocking her to the floor.
“How dare you question me?” Adam said, his jaw quivering. “Never speak of this again.” Then he left, disappearing into the bathroom.
On her knees on the floor, she could barely breathe. Blood leaked from her nose and down her chin. But she wiped her face and told herself she would take a beating every night if it meant standing up for her girls.
Deya
Fall 2009
Deya stands on the corner of Seventy-Third Street, in front of the Brooklyn Public Library. Her hair dances in the fall breeze, and she scans the stash of syllabi in her hands. Required reading: The Yellow Wallpaper. The Bell Jar. Beloved. She thinks of Fareeda, the look on her face when Deya received her acceptance letter and scholarship from New York University. She had put off telling her in case she hadn’t gotten in, despite Sarah’s insistence. There was no point in bringing up the matter if she didn’t even get an offer. But then she’d had no more excuses. She’d found Fareeda seated at the kitchen table, a cup of chai in hand.
“I got accepted into a college in Manhattan,” Deya had told her, keeping her voice steady. “I’m going.”
“Manhattan?” She could see fear in Fareeda’s eyes.
“I know you’re worried about me out there, but I’ve navigated the city on my own every time I’ve visited Sarah. I promise to come home straight after class. You can trust me. You need to trust me.”
Fareeda eyed her. “What about marriage?”
“Marriage can wait. After everything I know now, do you think I’m just going to sit here and let you marry me off? Nothing you say will change my mind.” Fareeda started to object, but Deya cut her off. “If you don’t let me go, then I’ll leave. I’ll take my sisters and go.”
“No!”
“Then don’t stand in my way,” Deya said. “Let me go.” When Fareeda said nothing, she added, “Do you know what Sarah told me the last time I saw her?”
“What?” Fareeda whispered. She still had not seen her grown daughter.
“She told me to learn. She said this was the only way to make my own naseeb.”
“But, daughter, we don’t control our naseeb. Our destiny comes for us. That’s what naseeb means.”
“That’s not true. My destiny is in my hands. Men make these sorts of choices all the time. Now I’m going to as well.”
Fareeda shook her head, blinking back tears. Deya had expected her to protest, to wail and argue and beg and refuse. But to her surprise, Fareeda did nothing of the sort.
“She wants to see you, you know,” Deya whispered. “She’s sorry, and she wants to come back home. But she’s afraid . . . she’s afraid you haven’t changed.”
Fareeda looked away, wiping tears from her eyes. “Tell her I’ve changed, daughter. Tell her I’m sorry.”
Deya walks between the library bookshelves now. They are thick and tall, each one twice as wide as her. She thinks about the stories stacked across the shelves, leaning against one another like burdened bodies, supporting the worlds within each other. There must be hundreds of them, thousands even. Maybe her story is in here somewhere. Maybe she will finally find it. She runs her fingers along the hardcover spines, inhales the smell of old paper, searching. But then it hits her, like falling into water.
I can tell my own story now, she thinks. And then she does.
Isra
Fall 1997
Isra didn’t know the precise moment the fear overcame her so completely, but once it did it had hit her with a force so strong she couldn’t eat or sleep for days. Since Adam had beaten her to a pulp over the girls’ schooling, she had become increasingly afraid for her daughters and their futures. She wished she had listened to Sarah and found the courage to go with her. But she had no time to waste on such thinking now. She had to save her daughters. They had to leave.
Isra looked at her silver wristwatch—3:29 p.m. She didn’t have much time. Fareeda was visiting Umm Ahmed, and Nadine was in the shower. They had to hurry. She gathered her daughters’ birth documents, as well as all the money from Adam’s drawer, and then went upstairs to take the money and gold hidden beneath Fareeda’s mattress. She had practiced these motions in her head for days, and they went more smoothly than she had anticipated. I should’ve left with Sarah, she thought for the hundredth time as she secured Layla and Amal in the stroller. She took a deep breath and opened the front door.