Page 143 - A Woman Is No Man

Isra

Summer–Fall 1993

Summer again. Isra’s fourth in America. In August she’d given birth to her

third daughter. When the doctor declared the baby a girl, a darkness had
washed over her that even the morning light through the window could not
relieve. She’d named her Layla. Night.
Adam made no effort to conceal his disappointment this time around.
He’d barely spoken to her since. In the evenings, when he’d returned from
work, she would sit and watch him eat the dinner she had prepared him,
eager to meet his faraway gaze. But his eyes never met hers, and the

clinking of his spoon against his plate was the only sound between them.
After Layla’s birth, Isra had not prayed two rak’ats thanking Allah for
his blessings. In fact, she hardly completed her five daily prayers in time.
She was tired. Every morning she woke up to the sound of three children
wailing. After sending Adam off to work, she made the beds, swept the
basement floor, folded a load of laundry. Then she entered the kitchen,

sleeves rolled up to the elbows, to find Fareeda hovering over the stove, the
teakettle whistling as she announced the day’s chores.

Sunset, and Isra had yet to pray maghrib. Downstairs, she opened her
dresser and took out a prayer rug. Normally she laid the rug facing the
kiblah, the eastern wall where the sun rose. But today she tossed the prayer
rug on the mattress and threw herself on the bed. She took in the four bare
walls, the thick wooden bedposts, the matching dresser. There was a black
sock jamming the bottom drawer—Adam’s drawer. The one she only

opened to put clean socks and underwear inside. But that was enough to
know he kept a layer of personal things at the bottom. She rolled off the bed
and leaped toward the dresser in a single step. She crouched down and
froze, fingers inches from it. Did she dare open it? Would Adam want her
rummaging through his things? But how would he find out? And besides,

what good had obedience done her? She had been so good for so long, and