Page 110 - A Woman Is No Man

“Thank you so much,” she said, feeling a heat rise in her cheeks as he
walked past her. She was pathetic. She didn’t know where she was going,
couldn’t even look a man in the eye without turning into a bright red

crayon. Not only was she not an American, but she could barely even count
herself as a person, feeling as small as she did at that moment. But she
shoved these thoughts away, saved them for another time when she would
sit and think of just how tiny she felt on the city streets. She started down
the street in the direction the man had pointed.

Books and Beans stood at the end of an inconspicuous block on Broadway.
Except for the black-trimmed door and windows, the entire bookstore was
painted a bright, moroccan blue, standing out from the red-brick-faced

shops around it. Through the glass, Deya could see a display of books
within the dim space, illuminated by amber-shaded lamps. She stared at the
windows for what felt like hours before building up the courage to walk in.
Deya stepped into the bookstore and waited for her eyes to adjust to the
darkness. Inside was a single room, much longer than it was wide. The
walls were lined with black shelves and filled with hundreds of books that

towered up to the ceiling. Velvet tufted chairs sat snugly in odd corners of
the room, providing a soft contrast to the exposed brick walls, and a cash
register stood near the entrance, lit by the dim flicker of a lamp. Beside the
register sat a plump white cat.
Slowly, she made her way down the center aisle. A few people floated
between the shelves, their faces hidden in shadows. She must be in here
somewhere, Deya thought, running her fingers across the spines of old

books, inhaling the scent of worn paper. Marveling at the rich selection, she
found herself drifting toward a set of chairs near the back of the shop,
wanting desperately to curl up against a window and crack open a book.
But then she saw a shadow move from beside a pile of unorganized books.
A person was staring at her. A woman.
Deya approached her. When she was close enough, the woman’s face

emerged from the darkness. Now she was certain: it was the same woman
who had dropped off the envelope. She was staring at Deya’s hijab and
school uniform, smiling. Clearly the woman knew who she was.
But Deya still didn’t recognize her. She studied her face closely, hoping
against hope that it was her mother. It was possible. Like Isra, the woman
had deep black hair and fair olive skin. Yet her hair fell wild and wavy over