Page 45 - A Woman Is No Man

recalling memories. It was building on them and deciding which parts were
best left unsaid.
Nora didn’t need to know about the nights Deya had waited for Adam to

come home, pressing her nose against the window so hard it would still hurt
by morning. How, on the rare nights he came home before bedtime, he’d
scoop her into his arms, all while scanning the halls for Isra, waiting for her
to come greet him, too. But Isra never greeted him. She never met his eyes
when he entered the house, never even smiled. At best she’d stand in the
corner of the hall, the color rushing out of her skin, the muscles in her jaw
clenching

But other times it was worse: nights when Deya would lie in bed and
hear Adam yelling on the other side of the wall, her mother weeping, then
even more terrible sounds. A bang against the wall. A loud yelp. Adam
screaming again. Deya would cover her ears, shut her eyes, curl up in a ball,
and tell herself a story in her head until the noises faded in the background,
until she could no longer hear her mother pleading, “Adam, please . . .

Adam, stop . . .”
“What are you thinking about?” Nora asked, studying her sister’s face.
“What are you remembering?”
“Nothing,” Deya said, though she could feel her face betray her.
Sometimes Deya wondered if it was her mother’s sadness that made her
sad, if perhaps when Isra died, all her sorrows had escaped and settled in
Deya instead.

“Come on,” Nora said, sitting up. “I can see it on your face. Tell me.”
“It’s nothing. Besides, it’s getting late.”
“Pretty please. Soon you’ll be married, and then . . .” Her voice
dwindled to a whisper. “Your memories are all I have left of them.”
“Fine.” Deya sighed. “I’ll tell you what I remember.” She straightened
and cleared her throat. But she didn’t tell Nora the truth. She told her a

story.