Page 78 - A Woman Is No Man

“Deya?”
“Yes.”
Silence. Then, “I can’t believe it’s you.” Deya could hear nervousness in

the woman’s voice.
She realized her hands were shaking, and she pressed the cell phone
against her hijab. “Who is this?”
“This is . . .” The woman trailed off. Adrenaline poured through Deya.
“Who are you?” Deya asked again.
“I don’t know where to begin,” the woman said. “I know this must seem
strange, but I can’t tell you who I am over the phone.”

“What? Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
Deya’s heart thumped so hard she thought she could hear its echo in the
bathroom stall. It all seemed like something out of a mystery novel, not real
life.
“Deya,” the woman said. “Are you there?”

“Yes.”
“Listen—” Her voice was low now, and Deya could hear the dinging of
a cash register in the background. “Can we meet in person?”
“In person?”
“Yes. Can you come to the bookstore?”
Deya considered. The only times she ever left the house alone were
when Fareeda needed something urgently, like refreshments to serve

unexpected visitors. She would hand Deya exact change and tell her to
hurry to the deli on the corner of Seventy-Third Street for a box of Lipton
tea, or to the Italian bakery on Seventy-Eighth Street for a tray of rainbow
cookies. Deya thought of the breeze against her hair as she strolled up the
block on those rare occasions. The smell of pizza, the distant jingle of an
ice cream truck. It felt good to walk the streets alone, powerful. Usually

Khaled and Fareeda accompanied Deya and her sisters everywhere—to
their favorite pizzeria, Elegante on Sixty-Ninth Street, to the Bagel Boy on
Third Avenue, sometimes even to the mosque on Fridays, crammed in the
back of Khaled’s ’76 Chevy, eyes fastened to the floor whenever they
passed a man. But on those rare walks alone, drifting down Fifth Avenue
past men and women, Deya didn’t have to lower her gaze; no one was
watching. Yet she did so instinctively. Her eyes would not stay up even

when she willed them to.