by Etaf Rum
“Umm . . . can I speak to the manager? My name is Deya.”
“Deya?”
“Yes.”
Silence. Then, “I can’t believe it’s you.” Deya could hear nervousness in the woman’s voice.
She realized her hands were shaking, and she pressed the cell phone against her hijab. “Who is this?”
“This is . . .” The woman trailed off. Adrenaline poured through Deya.
“Who are you?” Deya asked again.
“I don’t know where to begin,” the woman said. “I know this must seem strange, but I can’t tell you who I am over the phone.”
“What? Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
Deya’s heart thumped so hard she thought she could hear its echo in the bathroom stall. It all seemed like something out of a mystery novel, not real life.
“Deya,” the woman said. “Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“Listen—” Her voice was low now, and Deya could hear the dinging of a cash register in the background. “Can we meet in person?”
“In person?”
“Yes. Can you come to the bookstore?”
Deya considered. The only times she ever left the house alone were when Fareeda needed something urgently, like refreshments to serve unexpected visitors. She would hand Deya exact change and tell her to hurry to the deli on the corner of Seventy-Third Street for a box of Lipton tea, or to the Italian bakery on Seventy-Eighth Street for a tray of rainbow cookies. Deya thought of the breeze against her hair as she strolled up the block on those rare occasions. The smell of pizza, the distant jingle of an ice cream truck. It felt good to walk the streets alone, powerful. Usually Khaled and Fareeda accompanied Deya and her sisters everywhere—to their favorite pizzeria, Elegante on Sixty-Ninth Street, to the Bagel Boy on Third Avenue, sometimes even to the mosque on Fridays, crammed in the back of Khaled’s ’76 Chevy, eyes fastened to the floor whenever they passed a man. But on those rare walks alone, drifting down Fifth Avenue past men and women, Deya didn’t have to lower her gaze; no one was watching. Yet she did so instinctively. Her eyes would not stay up even when she willed them to.
“I can’t,” Deya finally said. “My grandparents don’t let me leave the house alone.”
There was a long pause. “I know.”
“How do you know what my grandparents are like? And how do you know where I live?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone. We have to meet.” She paused. “Maybe you could skip school. Is it possible?”
“I’ve never skipped school before,” Deya said. “And even if I could, how would I know it’s safe? I don’t know you.”
“I would never hurt you.” The woman spoke softly now, and Deya thought her voice sounded familiar. “Believe me, I would never hurt you.”
She knew that voice. But was it her mother’s? Once again, the thought was absurd, but Deya considered. She remembered clearly the last time she had heard Isra’s voice.
“I’m sorry,” Isra had whispered, again and again. I’m sorry. Ten years later, and Deya still didn’t know what her mother had been sorry for.
“Mama?” The words left Deya’s lips in a rush.
“What?”
“Is that you, Mama? Is it?” Deya sank inside the bathroom stall. This woman could be her mother. She could. Maybe she was back. Maybe she was different. Maybe she was sorry.
“Oh, Deya! I’m not your mother.” The woman’s voice was shaking. “I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to upset you.”
Deya heard herself sob before she realized she was crying. The next thing she knew, tears were rushing down her cheeks. How low and desperate she felt, how much she wanted her mother—she’d had no idea until that moment. She swallowed her tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know my mother is dead. I know they’re both dead.” Silence on the line. “Who are you?” Deya finally said.
“Listen, Deya,” the woman said. “There’s something I need to tell you. Figure out a way to come to the bookstore. It’s important.” When Deya said nothing, the woman spoke again. “And please,” she said. “Please, whatever you do, don’t tell your grandparents about this. I’ll explain everything when I see you, but don’t tell anyone. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Thank you,” the woman said. “Have a good day—”
“Wait!” Deya blurted.
“Yes?”
“When am I supposed to meet you?”
“Anytime. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Isra
Spring 1990
One cool April morning, six weeks after arriving in America, Isra woke to find her face duller than clay. She studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. There was a deathly smoothness to her skin tone, and she brought her hands to her face, rubbed the dark bags under her eyes, tugged on a dry string of hair. What was happening to her?
Days passed before she felt it: a spool of yarn unraveling deep inside her belly. Then a tightness in her core. Then a warm sensation bubbling in the back of her throat. She rinsed her mouth, hoping to wash away the metallic taste on her tongue, but no amount of water would remove it.
There was a handful of white sticks in the bathroom drawer, pregnancy tests Fareeda had placed there for her to take every month, and Isra trembled as she took off the white wrapping. She could still remember the look on Fareeda’s face the month before, when Isra had asked, blushing deeply, if she had any maxi pads. Without a word, Fareeda had sent Khaled to the convenience store, but Isra could tell from the twitch in her right eye, the sudden shift in the room, that she was not happy.
“I’m pregnant,” Isra whispered when she met Fareeda in the kitchen, holding up the white stick as if it were fine glass.
Fareeda looked up from a bowl of dough and smiled so widely Isra could see the gold tooth in the back of her mouth. “Mabrouk,” she said, wetness filling her eyes. “This is wonderful news.”
Isra felt a deep happiness at the sight of Fareeda’s smile. She had not felt this way in so long she hardly recognized the warm feeling inside her.
“Come, come,” Fareeda said. “Sit with me while I bake this bread.”
Isra sat. She watched Fareeda as she floured the dough, wrapped it in cloth, and set it in a corner. Fareeda reached for another bundle of dough, stored beneath a thick towel, and pressed her index finger against it. “It’s ready,” she said, stretching the sticky gob of wheat between her fingers. “Pass me the baking pan.”
Fareeda cut the dough into individual knots and arranged each one on the pan. Then she drizzled them with olive oil and popped them in the oven. Isra watched quietly as the bread baked, not knowing what to say or do. Fareeda was humming to herself, plucking the steaming loaves from the oven before they burned. Isra wished she could store her cheeriness in a bottle. The last time Fareeda had smiled widely enough for Isra to see her gold tooth had been when Adam had given her a bundle of bills, five thousand dollars. It was extra money the deli had made that month, and he had told Fareeda he wanted her to have it. Isra could still remember the bulge in Fareeda’s eyes at the sight of the money, the way she gripped it close to her chest before disappearing into her bedroom. But now Isra could see, from the approving glimmer in Fareeda’s eyes, that her pregnancy was far more important than money. She stared inside the oven, feeling her stomach rise and fall with the swelling and collapsing of every knot of pita. Was this happiness she felt? She thought it must be.
Adam came home early that day. From the kitchen Isra heard him take off his shoes and enter the sala, where Fareeda was watching her evening show. “Salaam, Mother,” he said. Isra listened as Fareeda kissed him on both cheeks and congratulated him.
Was he happy? Isra couldn’t tell. She had spent the afternoon worrying about how he would react to the news, wondering whether he wanted a child now, or if he would’ve preferred to wait a couple of years until they could better afford it. More than once, Fareeda had mentioned that Adam was helping them pay for Ali’s colleg
e tuition, so how would they have enough money to cover the expense of a newborn? When she’d asked, Fareeda had merely smiled and said, “Don’t worry about that. With food stamps and Medicaid, you can have as many children as you want.”
Adam hummed a melody from an Abdel Halim song as he walked to the kitchen, grinning when he met Isra’s eyes. “I can’t believe I’m going to be a father,” he said.
Isra exhaled in relief. “Mabrouk,” she whispered. “Congratulations.”
He pulled her to him, wrapping one arm around her waist and placing his hand on her belly. She tried to keep from flinching. She still wasn’t used to his touch. Sometimes she thought it was strange to be a girl like her, to go from a man never touching her to the full force of a husband inside her. It was a sudden transition, and she wondered when she would become accustomed to it, or if she would ever come to crave it like women were supposed to.
“You have to be careful now,” Adam said, stroking her flat stomach. “I don’t want anything to happen to our child.”
Isra studied him, shocked by the softness of his voice, the way the lines around his eyes multiplied when he smiled. Maybe he would spend more time with her now. Maybe all he needed was a child after all.
“Life will change now, you know,” Adam said, looking down on her. “Having children, a family . . .” He paused, tracing his finger against her belly as though he were writing across it. “It changes everything.”
Isra met his eyes. “How?”
“Well, for one thing, there will be more work for you to do. More washing and cooking, more running around. It’s tough really.” When Isra said nothing, staring at him with wide eyes, he added, “But children are the pleasure of life, of course. Just like the Qur’an says.”
“Of course,” Isra said, remembering that she hadn’t yet completed maghrib prayer. “But will you help me?”
“What?”
“Will you help me?” she said again, her voice slipping. “With our child?”
Adam stepped back slightly. “You know I have to work.”
“I just thought maybe you’d come home early some days,” Isra said in a whisper. “Maybe I’d see you more.”
He sighed. “You think I want to work day and night? Of course not. But I have no choice. My parents depend on me to support the family.” He stroked Isra’s face with the back of his hand. “You understand that, right?” She nodded.
“Good.” His eyes shifted to the stove, distracted by a cloud of steam. “Now what’s for dinner?”
“Spinach and meat pies,” said Isra, feeling slightly embarrassed. It was ludicrous of her to expect Adam to leave work to help her. Had any man she’d ever known helped his wife raise children? Motherhood was her responsibility, her duty.
She moved closer to Adam, hoping he would say something more. But without another word, he walked toward the stove, pulled a spinach pie off the plate, and began to chew.
“No, no, no,” Fareeda said one evening after tasting the cup of chai Isra had made her during her soap opera’s commercial break. “What is this?”
“What’s wrong?” said Isra.
“This chai is bitter.”
Isra took a step back. “I brewed it just the way you like, with three springs of maramiya and two spoonfuls of sugar.”
“Well, it tastes horrible.” She handed Isra back the cup. “Just pour it out.”
Be grateful, Isra wanted to say. Be grateful that a pregnant woman is making you tea and cooking and cleaning while you sit here watching television. “I’m sorry,” she said instead. “Let me make you another cup.”
Fareeda gave a burdened smile. “You don’t have to.”
“No, no, I want to,” Isra said. “I do.”
In the kitchen, Isra picked the greenest sprigs of maramiya from the sage plant on the windowsill. She placed a tea packet into the kettle only after the water had boiled over twice, making sure the sugar crystals had dissolved. She wanted the chai to be perfect. Yet even as she strove to please, she remembered all the times she’d overspiced her brothers’ falafel sandwiches, when they yelled at her for not ironing their school uniforms properly, the time she’d murmured “I hate you” under her breath when Yacob beat her. But Isra would spend her life with Fareeda. She needed her love, and she would do what was necessary to earn it.
“Where’s Sarah?” Fareeda asked when Isra handed her the fresh cup of chai. “Is she in her room?”
“I think so,” Isra said.
“La hawlillah,” Fareeda muttered. “What am I going to do with that girl?”
Isra said nothing. She had learned to recognize when Fareeda was only talking to herself. Sarah was a sensitive subject for Fareeda. On days when Isra was up early enough to pray fajr, she would find Fareeda standing in the hall, arms crossed, studying Sarah’s outfit to make sure it was appropriate for school. “Behave yourself,” Fareeda would say, almost spitting. “And no talking to boys, understood?”
“I know, Mama,” Sarah would always respond. Later, after school, Fareeda ensured that every second of Sarah’s time was spent making up for her time in school. Isra knew how it felt to be the only girl in a house of men, a placemat beneath their feet, but she wondered how Sarah felt about it. From the rebellious look on Sarah’s face whenever Fareeda spoke, Isra sensed her resentment.
“Sarah!” Fareeda shouted from the base of the stairs. “Come down here!”
“Coming!” Sarah called back.
“Go see what’s taking her so long,” Fareeda told Isra when Sarah still hadn’t come a minute later. Isra did as she was told. At the top of the staircase, she could see Sarah in her room. She was reading, holding the book to her face like a shield, inhaling the words as if they were fueling her somehow. Isra was mesmerized by the sight.
“What is she doing?” Fareeda yelled from the bottom of the staircase.
“I don’t know,” Isra lied.
“Sure you don’t.” Fareeda stomped up the staircase.
“Sarah . . . ,” Isra whispered in an attempt to warn her. But it was too late. Fareeda was already at the top of the stairs.
“I knew it!” She stormed into the room and snatched the book from Sarah’s hand. “Why didn’t you come downstairs like I asked?”
“I wanted to finish the chapter.”
“Finish the chapter?” Fareeda placed her hand on her hips. “And what makes you think some book is more important than learning how to cook?”
Sarah let out a sigh, and Isra felt her stomach drop. In her head she could hear Mama’s voice saying that books had no use, that all a woman needed to learn was patience, and no book could teach her that.
“Tell me,” Fareeda said, moving closer to Sarah. “Will books teach you how to cook and clean? Will they help you find a husband? Will they help you raise children?”
“There’s more to life than having a husband and children,” Sarah said. “I never hear you telling Ali to stop studying or put down his books. How come he’s allowed to go to college? Why don’t you ever pressure him about marriage?”
“Because marriage is what’s important for girls,” Fareeda snapped. “Not college. You’re almost a teenager. It’s time you grew up and learned this now: A woman is not a man.”
“But it’s not fair!” Sarah shouted.
“Don’t backtalk to me,” Fareeda said, lifting her open palm. “Another word, and I’ll slap you.”
Sarah recoiled from her mother’s hand. “But Mama,” she said, softer this time, “it really isn’t fair.”
“Fair or not, that’s the way of the world.” She turned to leave. “Now go downstairs and help Isra in the kitchen.”
Sarah sighed, pulling herself off the bed.
“Let’s go!” Fareeda said. “I don’t have all day.”
In the kitchen, Isra and Sarah stood with their backs to one another, each with a rag in hand. Sarah was a short, slim girl with golden skin and wild, curly hair that dropped past her shoulders. Usually she said very little when they clea
ned together, though sometimes she’d catch Isra’s eyes and sigh loudly.
In the months that Isra had lived there, she and Sarah had barely spoken to one another. As soon as Sarah came home from school, the first thing she did was sneak into her room to drop off her backpack. Isra realized now she was likely hiding her books. Then Sarah would join her in the kitchen to help set the sufra, or wash dishes, or fold any extra laundry Isra had not already finished. Some evenings they sat together in the sala with Fareeda and watched her favorite Turkish soap operas. Sarah sipped mint chai and ate tea biscuits, and, when Fareeda wasn’t looking, cracked roasted watermelon seeds using only her front teeth, a habit Fareeda usually forbade to stop Sarah from ruining her perfect smile.
Now Isra felt sorry for Sarah as she watched her scurry around the kitchen, wiping counters, washing dishes, and rearranging the cups in the cupboard. Is this what she had looked like back home, in Mama’s house, running in circles until all the housework was done?
“So, how are you feeling?” Fareeda asked Isra, squatting in front of the oven to watch a batch of sesame cookies bake. It was her third batch this week.
“Alhamdulillah,” Isra said, “I feel good.”
Fareeda removed the batch of cookies from the oven. “Have you been having morning sickness?”
“No,” Isra said, unsure.
“That’s a good sign.” Isra noticed that Sarah had stopped what she was doing to listen to her mother. “How about cravings?” Fareeda said. “Have you been craving sweets?”
Isra considered the question. “Not more than usual.”
Fareeda pinched the edge of a cookie, popped it in her mouth. Her eyes widened as the taste settled on her tongue. “That’s also a good sign.”
“A good sign of what?” Sarah interrupted. Her face looked almost yellow in the warm evening light cast through the window, and in that instant Isra couldn’t help picture Fareeda’s open palm against her cheek. She wondered how often Sarah was hit.
“Well,” Fareeda said, “according to old wives’ tales, a woman who has morning sickness and craves sweets is carrying a girl.”
