Page 39 - A Woman Is No Man

“Please,” Deya said. “When the time comes, will you make sure they
marry in Brooklyn, too?” She spoke softly, hoping to elicit some sympathy.
“Can you make sure we stay together? Please.”

Fareeda nodded. Deya thought she saw the wetness of tears in her eyes.
It was an odd sight. But then Fareeda looked away, twisting her scarf with
her fingers.
“Of course,” Fareeda said. “That’s the least I can do.”

Fareeda might have forbidden Deya from speaking of her parents, but she
couldn’t erase her memories. Deya clearly remembered the day she had
learned of Adam’s and Isra’s deaths. She had been seven years old. It was a
bright autumn day, but Deya had watched the sky turn a dull silver through

her bedroom window. Fareeda had finished clearing the sufra after dinner,
washed the dishes, and slipped into her nightgown before creeping
downstairs to the basement, where they had lived with their parents. Deya
knew something was wrong the minute her grandmother appeared at the
doorway. As far back as she could remember, she had never seen Fareeda in
the basement.

Fareeda had checked to see if Amal, the youngest of the four, was
asleep in her crib, before sitting on the edge of Deya and her sisters’ bed.
“Your parents—” Fareeda took a deep breath and pushed the words out.
“They’re dead. They died in a car accident last night.”
After that, it was all a blur. Deya couldn’t remember what Fareeda said
next, couldn’t picture the looks on her sisters’ faces. She only remembered
disparate bits. Panic. Whimpering. A high-pitched scream. She had dug her

fingers into her thighs. She had thought she was going to throw up. She
remembered looking out the window and noticing that it had started to rain,
as if the universe was grieving with them.
Fareeda had stood up and, weeping, went back upstairs.

That was all Deya knew about her parents’ death, even now, more than ten
years later. Perhaps that was why she had spent her childhood with a book

in front of her face, trying to make sense of her life through stories. Books
were her only reliable source of comfort, her only hope. They told the truth
in a way the world never seemed to, guided her the way she imagined Isra
would’ve had she still been alive. There were so many things she needed to
know, about her family, about the world, about herself.