Page 81 - A Woman Is No Man

Isra

Spring 1990

One cool April morning, six weeks after arriving in America, Isra woke to

find her face duller than clay. She studied her reflection in the bathroom
mirror. There was a deathly smoothness to her skin tone, and she brought
her hands to her face, rubbed the dark bags under her eyes, tugged on a dry
string of hair. What was happening to her?
Days passed before she felt it: a spool of yarn unraveling deep inside
her belly. Then a tightness in her core. Then a warm sensation bubbling in
the back of her throat. She rinsed her mouth, hoping to wash away the

metallic taste on her tongue, but no amount of water would remove it.
There was a handful of white sticks in the bathroom drawer, pregnancy
tests Fareeda had placed there for her to take every month, and Isra
trembled as she took off the white wrapping. She could still remember the
look on Fareeda’s face the month before, when Isra had asked, blushing
deeply, if she had any maxi pads. Without a word, Fareeda had sent Khaled

to the convenience store, but Isra could tell from the twitch in her right eye,
the sudden shift in the room, that she was not happy.
“I’m pregnant,” Isra whispered when she met Fareeda in the kitchen,
holding up the white stick as if it were fine glass.
Fareeda looked up from a bowl of dough and smiled so widely Isra
could see the gold tooth in the back of her mouth. “Mabrouk,” she said,
wetness filling her eyes. “This is wonderful news.”

Isra felt a deep happiness at the sight of Fareeda’s smile. She had not
felt this way in so long she hardly recognized the warm feeling inside her.
“Come, come,” Fareeda said. “Sit with me while I bake this bread.”
Isra sat. She watched Fareeda as she floured the dough, wrapped it in
cloth, and set it in a corner. Fareeda reached for another bundle of dough,

stored beneath a thick towel, and pressed her index finger against it. “It’s
ready,” she said, stretching the sticky gob of wheat between her fingers.
“Pass me the baking pan.”