Page 50 - A Woman Is No Man

gown, should’ve begged and hollered as her father secured her in the
taxicab to the airport. But she was a coward. She turned away. This is the
only familiar face I’ll ever see again, Isra thought. And she couldn’t stand

the sight of it.

Upstairs, the earthy smell of sage filled the kitchen. Fareeda was brewing a
kettle of chai. She stood over the stove, back hunched, staring absently at
the steam. Watching her, Isra found herself thinking of the maramiya plant
in her mother’s garden, how Mama would cut off a few leaves every
morning to brew in their chai because it helped with Yacob’s indigestion.
Isra wondered if Fareeda grew a maramiya plant, too, or if she used dried
sage from the market instead.

“Can I help you with something, hamati?” Isra asked as she walked
over to the stove. It was the first time she had called Fareeda mother-in-law.
“No, no, no,” Fareeda said, shaking her head. “Don’t call me hamati.
Call me Fareeda.”
Growing up, Isra had never heard a married woman called by her first
name. Her mother was always referred to as Umm Waleed, mother of her

eldest son Waleed, and never Sawsan. Even her aunt Widad, who had never
borne a son, was not called by her first name. People called her Mart Jamal,
Jamal’s wife.
“I don’t like that word,” Fareeda said, reading the confusion on her face.
“It makes me feel old.”
Isra smiled, resting her eyes on the boiling tea.
“Why don’t you set the sufra?” Fareeda said. “I’m making us something

to eat.”
“Where’s Adam?”
“He left for work.”
“Oh.” Isra had expected him to stay home today, to take her for a walk
around the neighborhood perhaps, introduce her to Brooklyn. Who went to
work the day after his wedding?

“He had to run an errand for his father,” Fareeda said. “He’ll be home
soon.”
Why couldn’t his brothers run the errand instead? Isra wanted to ask,
but she was afraid of saying the wrong thing. She cleared her throat and
said, “Did Omar and Ali go with him?”