by Etaf Rum
“Nothing,” Isra said. She sat up and wiped her face.
“Then why are you crying? Did my mother say something to upset you?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
He took a brief look at the baby basket before walking toward the window. Was Isra imagining, or had Adam’s eyes reddened over the years? The thought that he was drinking sharaab crossed her mind again but she dismissed it. Not Adam, the man who had once wanted to be a priest, who had memorized the entire Qur’an. He would never commit haraam. He must be tired or sick, or perhaps it was something she had done.
“I’m afraid that you’re upset with me,” Isra said in a soft voice. “For having another daughter.”
He sighed irritably. “I’m not upset.”
“But you don’t seem happy.”
“Happy?” He met her eyes. “What’s there to be happy about?” Isra stiffened. “All I do is work day and night like a donkey! ‘Do this, Adam! Do that, Adam! More money! We need a grandson!’ I’m doing everything I can to please my parents, but no matter what I do, I fall short. And now I’ve given them another thing to complain about.”
“I’m sorry,” Isra said, her eyes brimming with tears. “It’s not your fault. You’re a good son . . . a good father.”
He didn’t smile when she said this. Instead, he turned to leave, saying, “Some days I envy you for leaving your family behind. At least you had the chance to start a new life. Do you know what I would’ve done for an opportunity like that?”
Isra wanted to be angry at him for not seeing how much she had given up, but instead she found herself pitying him. He was only doing what was expected of him. How could she be mad at him for wanting the same things she wanted: love, acceptance, approval? If anything, this side of him only made her want to please him more. To show him that the place he could find love was with her.
Isra searched for the basket at the end of her bed, pulled her newborn daughter to her chest. She decided she would name her Nora, “light” once again, desperate for a flicker at the end of the tunnel ahead to push her forward.
When Isra returned home, all she heard from Fareeda’s lips was the word balwa over and over again—in conversations on the phone, to her best friend Umm Ahmed, to Nadine, to the neighbors, to Khaled, and worst of all, to Adam.
Isra hoped Mama wouldn’t call her daughter a balwa. She had mailed a letter back home informing Mama of Nora’s birth. The letter was brief. Isra had not seen her mother in two years. Mama was a stranger now. Isra called her on occasion, like after the month of Ramadan, to wish her Eid Mubarak, their conversations stilted and formal, but Fareeda said phone calls to Ramallah were expensive and encouraged Isra to send letters instead. But she couldn’t bring herself to write to Mama. It was anger at first that stifled her—anger at Mama for abandoning her—but now she simply didn’t have much to say.
After Nora’s birth, Isra again busied herself with routine chores. In the mornings she awoke with the sun, sending Adam off to work with a light breakfast, Tupperwares of rice and meat for lunch, and a steaming of cup of mint chai. Then her daughters would wake, Deya first, followed by Nora’s newborn whimpers, and Isra fed them breakfast. Deya was one year old, Nora only two weeks, both bottle-feeding. A tide of guilt rose in Isra’s chest whenever she mixed their formula, ashamed she wasn’t breastfeeding them. But Adam needs a son, Fareeda insisted, and Isra obeyed, hoping a son would make him happy.
But deep down was a hidden fear: Isra didn’t know if she could handle a third child. With two children now, she was beginning to discover that she was not particularly motherly. She had been too overwhelmed by the newness to realize this when she was first mothering Deya, too optimistic about what motherhood might hold. But as soon as Nora was born, Isra had found her spirit changed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cradled her children with joy, not merely out of a sense of obligation. Her emotions seesawed constantly: anger, resentment, shame, despair. She tried to justify her frustrations by telling herself that childbearing was wearisome. That had she known how constricting a second child would feel, she wouldn’t have rushed into another pregnancy (as if she’d had a choice, she thought in the back of her head, then pushed the thought away). In the evenings as she hummed Deya and Nora to sleep, a dark, desperate feeling overwhelmed her. She wanted to scream.
What were her options now? What could she do to change her fate? Nothing. All she could do was try to make the best of her situation. It wasn’t like there was any turning back. She couldn’t return to Palestine, couldn’t flip back a few chapters in the story of her life and change things. And what a foolish thought that was—even if she could go back, she had nothing to go back to. She was in America now. She was married. She was a mother. She just had to do better. She’d done everything the way her parents had wanted, so surely things would turn out for the best. After all, they’d known what life would be like. She just needed to trust them. As the Qur’an said, she needed to have more faith.
Maybe she would become a better mother with time. Maybe motherhood was something that grew on you, an acquired taste. Still, Isra wondered if her daughters could sense her failure, staring up at her with their coffee-colored eyes. She wondered if she had betrayed them.
Deya
Winter 2008
Deya straightened in her seat and stared at her aunt. “You’ve never been married?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t been in Palestine?”
Sarah shook her head.
“But why would Teta lie about that?”
Sarah looked away for the first time since they’d sat down together. “I think she was trying to cover up the shame of what I’d done,” she said.
“What did you do?”
“I ran away from home before my mother could marry me off. That’s why I never visited all these years. That’s why I had to reach out to you in secret.”
Deya stared at her in disbelief. “You ran away from Teta’s house? How?”
“I waited until the last day of senior year, and then I left. I got on the school bus and never came back. I’ve been living on my own ever since.”
“But you were so young! I could barely come to the city today without a panic attack. How did you make it?”
“It wasn’t easy,” Sarah said. “But I managed. I stayed with a friend for the first year until I could afford to live on my own. Then I rented a small apartment in Staten Island. I worked two jobs to pay for community college and changed my last name so no one could find me.”
“But what if they had found you?” Deya said. “Weren’t you afraid of what they would’ve done?”
“I was,” Sarah said. “But I was afraid of other things, too. Fear has a way of putting things in perspective.”
Deya shifted in her seat, trying to absorb the image of her aunt running away from Fareeda’s house at eighteen, her own age. It was unthinkable. She could never run away from home. No matter how much she was afraid of life in Fareeda’s house, the real world scared her much more.
“I don’t understand,” Deya said. “Is that why you reached out? To help me run away?”
“No! That’s the last thing I want for you.”
“Why?”
“Because running away was so hard,” Sarah said. “I lost everyone I loved.”
“Then why am I here?” Deya asked.
There was a moment of silence, and Sarah glanced over to the coffee bar. She stood. “Let me get us something to drink.” She returned with two vanilla lattes minutes later and handed one to Deya. “Careful,” she said as she settled back in her seat. “It’s hot.”
Deya set the mug on the table. “Tell me why I’m here.”
Sarah pursed her lips and blew on her coffee. “I already told you,” she said before taking a sip. “I want to help you make the right decision.”
“You mean about marriage?”
“That, and other things, too. I want to help you stand up for what you want.�
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Deya sighed and brought her hands to her temples, pressing her fingers against her hijab. “I’ve already tried standing up to Teta. I told her I don’t want to get married right now. That I want to go to college. But she doesn’t listen. You know that.”
“So that’s it? You’re going to give up?”
“What else can I do?”
“Stand up to her,” Sarah said. “Apply to college anyway. Turn down the suitors she finds you. Keep trying to change her mind.”
Deya shook her head. “I can’t possibly do that.”
“Why not? What are you afraid of?”
“Nothing . . . I don’t know . . .”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Sarah said, placing her mug on the table. “I think you know exactly what you’re afraid of. Tell me, what is it?”
Deya started to protest but stopped herself. “It’s nothing.”
“I know you’re trying to protect yourself, but you can trust me.”
The way Sarah saw her so clearly was unnerving. She shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with protecting myself.”
“Maybe not. But pretending nothing’s wrong is not protecting yourself. If anything, it’s much more dangerous to live pretending to be someone you’re not.”
Deya shrugged.
“Believe me, I know how you feel. I’ve been exactly where you are now. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“Well, I’ve been pretending my whole life,” Deya said. “It’s not something I can just turn off. You see, I’m a storyteller.”
“A storyteller?”
Deya nodded.
“But don’t you think stories should be used to tell the truth?”
“No, I think we need stories to protect us from the truth.”
“Is that how you plan to live your life? Pretending?”
“What else am I supposed to do?” Deya could feel her hands begin to sweat. “What’s the point of saying what I think, or asking for what I want, if it will only lead to trouble? It’s not like speaking up will get me anywhere. It’s better to just pretend everything is fine and do what I’m supposed to do.”
“Oh, Deya, that’s not true,” Sarah said. “Please give me a chance to help. To be your friend. I grew up in the same house as you did, with the same people. If anyone is going to understand you, it’s me. All I’m asking is that you give me a chance. What you choose to do in the end is up to you. I just want you to know all your options.”
Deya considered. “Are you going to be honest with me?”
“Yes,” she said with conviction.
“What about my parents? Will you tell me the truth about the car accident?”
Sarah paused. “What are you talking about?”
“The car accident that killed them. I know there’s more to it.”
Another pause. For the first time, Deya could see nervousness on Sarah’s face.
“How much do you know about your parents? About Isra?”
“Not much,” Deya said. “Teta refuses to talk about them most of the time, but last week she showed me a letter my mother wrote before she died.”
“What letter?”
“It was to her mother. Teta found it in one of her books after she died.”
“What did it say?”
Deya unpinned her hijab, feeling herself getting hot. “She wrote about how sad she was. That she wished she would die. She sounded depressed, maybe even . . .” Her voice trailed.
“Maybe what?”
“Suicidal. She sounded like she wanted to kill herself.”
“Kill herself?” There was a pause, and Deya could see that Sarah appeared to consider the possibility. “Are you sure?”
“That’s how it sounded. But Teta denied it.”
Sarah stared at her. “But why would my mother show you that letter now after all these years?”
“She said it would help me let go of the past and move on.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. How would reading that help you move on?”
Deya bit her lip. What was the point in holding back? She had already defied her grandparents to be here. She had nothing left to lose. Perhaps Sarah could even help her. “It’s because my memories are so bad,” she finally said.
“Your memories? What do you mean?”
“Teta knows I’m afraid to get married because I remember how bad things were with my parents. She thought showing me the letter would help me understand that there was something wrong with my mother. She said Mama was possessed.”
Sarah stared at her. “But there was nothing wrong with Isra.”
“Yes, there was. I remember, okay? And how would you know, anyway? You ran away. You weren’t even there.”
“I knew your mother well. I can promise you, Isra wasn’t possessed.”
“How would you know? Were you there when she died?”
Sarah dropped her gaze to the floor. “No.”
“Then you don’t know for certain.” Deya wiped sweat off her forehead.
“I don’t understand,” Sarah said. “Why do you think she was possessed?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Deya said. “Shouldn’t you be telling me what you think? Isn’t that why I’m here?”
Sarah leaned back into her seat. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Tell me everything.”
“Do you know how Isra and I became friends?” Deya shook her head. “It was because of you.”
“Me?”
Sarah smiled. “It happened when she was pregnant with you. My mother wanted a boy, of course. One day she said so to Isra, and we started talking for the first time.”
“What did my mother say?”
“She disagreed, of course. She said she’d never belittle a daughter.”
“She said that?”
“Yes. She loved you and your sisters so much.”
Deya turned to look out the window. There were tears in her eyes, and she tried to keep them from falling.
“You know she loved you,” Sarah said. “Don’t you?”
Deya kept her eyes on the glass. “She didn’t seem like she loved anyone. She was so sad all the time.”
“That doesn’t mean she didn’t love you.”
Deya met her eyes again. “What about my father?”
A pause, then, “What about him?”
“What was he like?”
“He was . . .” Sarah cleared her throat. “He was a hard worker.”
“Most men I know are hard workers. Tell me something else.”
“I honestly didn’t see him much,” Sarah said. “He was always working. He was the eldest son, and there was a lot of pressure on him.”
“Pressure from who?”
“My parents. They expected so much. Sometimes I think they pushed him . . .” Sarah paused. “He was under a lot of pressure.”
Deya was certain she was hiding something. “What about his relationship with my mother? Did he treat her well?”
Sarah shifted in her seat, tucking her long black curls behind her ears. “I didn’t see them together very often.”
“But you said you were friends with my mom. Wouldn’t you know how she felt? She didn’t talk about it?”
“Isra was a very private person. And she was raised in Palestine—she was old-fashioned in certain ways. She never would have talked to me about her relationship with him.”
“So you didn’t know that he hit her?”
Sarah froze, and from the look in her eyes, Deya was sure she had known. “You didn’t think I knew, did you?” Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but Deya cut her off. “I used to hear him screaming at her in the middle of the night. I’d hear him hitting her and her crying and trying to muffle the sound. Growing up, I used to wonder if I’d imagined it. I thought maybe I was just feeding my own sadness. That’s a disease, you know. I read about it. There are people who like to be sad, and I used to worry I was one of them. I thought maybe I was making up a story to try to mak
e sense of my life.” She met Sarah’s eyes. “But I know that’s not true. I know he used to hit her.”
“I’m so sorry, Deya,” Sarah said. “I didn’t realize you knew.”
“You said you’d tell me the truth.”
“I want to tell you everything, but it makes sense for us to get to know each other better first. I wanted to earn your trust.”
“You can’t earn my trust by lying to me.”
“I know,” Sarah said. “I’m sorry. This is hard for me to navigate as well. I haven’t talked about my family in years.”
Deya shook her head, struggling to keep her voice down. “I have enough people lying to me. I don’t need your lies, too.”
There was a clock on the opposite wall: it was nearly 2:00 p.m. Deya stood. “I have to go. My sisters will be waiting for me at the bus stop soon.”
“Wait!” Sarah stood and followed Deya out the door. “Will you come back?”
Deya didn’t answer. Outside, clouds were gathering, cool air slipping through her hijab. It seemed as though it was about to rain, and she secured her jilbab for warmth.
“You have to come back,” Sarah said.
“Why?”
“Because there’s more I need to tell you.”
“So you can lie to me again?”
“No!”
Deya met her eyes. “How do I know you’ll tell me the truth?”
“I promise, I will.” Sarah kept her face blank as she said this, but there was hesitation in her voice. Sarah wanted to tell her the truth—Deya did not doubt that. Surely Sarah had decided to be honest when she reached out to her. Only Deya didn’t believe Sarah would give up the truth so easily. Not yet. She would have to wait until Sarah was ready. What choice did she have? In her head she likened it to reading. You had to finish a story to know all the answers, and life was no different. Nothing was ever handed to you from the start.
Isra
Fall 1992
Seasons passed in a blur. Isra was pregnant with her third child. She peered into the oven, flipping over a batch of za’atar pies she had baked for lunch, while Fareeda and Nadine sipped chai at the kitchen table.
“Brew another ibrik,” Fareeda told Isra when she set the za’atar pies on a rack to cool. As Isra did, she watched Nadine place Fareeda’s hand on her swollen belly.