Page 182 - A Woman Is No Man

Deya

Winter 2008

Something doesn’t make sense,” Deya told Sarah one Friday afternoon,

after her aunt had finished telling her yet another story about Isra. They sat
huddled by the window, sipping on vanilla lattes Sarah had brewed for
them.
“What?” Sarah asked.
Deya set her cup down. “If my mother loved books so much, why didn’t
she want a better life for us?”
“She did,” Sarah said. “But there was only so much she could do.”

“Then why did she stop us from going to school?”
Sarah looked at her, startled. “What are you talking about?”
“She said we had to stop going to school,” Deya said, feeling her
stomach twist at the memory. “She even called me a sharmouta.”
“Isra would’ve never said that word, especially to you.”
“But she did say it. I remember.”

“The Isra I knew never would’ve uttered that word,” Sarah said. “Was
this after I left?”
“I think so,” Deya said, suddenly uncertain. She had been so young. Her
memories were so fragmented.
“Do you remember why she said it?”
“Not really.”
“Do you remember when?”

“It must’ve been right before the car accident . . . I don’t know . . . I
mean, the memory is clear, but I’m not certain of the exact—”
“Tell me then,” Sarah interrupted. “Tell me everything you remember.”

Outside the sky was dark gray, as Deya and Nora rode the school bus home.
When they reached their stop, Mama was waiting for them, as she always
did. Her belly was slightly bigger than usual, and Deya wondered if Mama

was pregnant again. She imagined a fifth child in their narrow bedroom.