Page 158 - A Woman Is No Man

lipstick at Isra’s wedding, a bright and upbeat shade. But the dark shade of
maroon, the deepness of it, suited her much more.
“Here,” Fareeda said, her fingers finally producing what she had been

searching for. She pumped a few drops of liquid foundation onto the back
of her hand. Isra winced when Fareeda touched her skin, but she didn’t
seem to notice. She continued smearing the makeup on Isra’s face, coat
after coat over the bruises, until satisfied. “There,” she said. Isra risked a
peek at herself in the mirror: every inch of shame, every shade of blue and
purple and red, had disappeared.
As she turned to leave, Fareeda grabbed her elbow and pulled her close,

thrusting the bottle of foundation into her hands. “What happens between a
husband and wife must stay between them. Always. No matter what.”

The next time Adam left bruises, Isra covered them herself. She had hoped
Fareeda might notice her efforts, that it might bring them closer somehow,
maybe even back to the way things were in the beginning, before Deya was
born. But if Fareeda did notice, she didn’t let on. In fact, she pretended as if
nothing had happened, as though Adam had never hit Isra, as though

Fareeda had never covered her bruises. It bothered Isra, but she willed
herself to remain calm. Fareeda was right. What happened between a
husband and wife must stay between them, not from fear or respect, as Isra
had initially thought, but shame. She couldn’t have Sarah or Nadine
suspecting anything. How foolish would she look if they knew Adam beat
her? If she were back home, where a husband beating his wife was as
ordinary as a father beating his child, Isra might have had someone to talk

to. But Sarah was practically an American, and Nadine had Omar wrapped
around her finger. Isra had to pretend nothing was wrong.
But pretending only worked on the outside. Inside, Isra was filled with a
paralyzing shame. She knew there must be something dark stemming from
within her to make the men in her life do these terrible things—first her
father and now her husband. Everywhere she looked, the view was dreary

and dismal, as gray as the black-and-white Egyptian movies she and Mama
had loved to watch. Isra remembered clearly the colors of her childhood—
the pink sabra fruit, the olive trees, the pale blue skies, even the wide,
grassy cemetery—and she understood with dread that color was only seen
by worthy eyes.