Читать книгу A Woman is No Man - Etaf Rum - Страница 11

BROOKLYN

Winter 2008

Deya Ra’ad stood by her bedroom window and pressed her fingers against the glass. It was December, and a dust of snow covered the row of old brick houses and faded lawns, the bare plane trees lining the sidewalk, the cars parallel-parked down Seventy-Second Street. Inside her room, alongside the spines of her books, a crimson kaftan provided the only other color. Her grandmother, Fareeda, had sewn this dress, with heavy gold embroidery around the chest and sleeves, specifically for today’s occasion: there was a marriage suitor in the sala waiting to see Deya. He was the fourth man to propose to her this year. The first had barely spoken English. The second had been divorced. The third had needed a green card. Deya was eighteen, not yet finished with high school, but her grandparents said there was no point prolonging her duty: marriage, children, family.

She walked past the kaftan, slipping on a gray sweater and blue jeans instead. Her three younger sisters wished her luck, and she smiled reassuringly as she left the room and headed upstairs. The first time she’d been proposed to, Deya had begged to keep her sisters with her. “It’s not right for a man to see four sisters at once,” Fareeda had replied. “And it’s the eldest who must marry first.”

“But what if I don’t want to get married?” Deya had asked. “Why does my entire life have to revolve around a man?”

Fareeda had barely looked up from her coffee cup. “Because that’s how you’ll become a mother and have children of your own. Complain all you want, but what will you do with your life without marriage? Without a family?”

“This isn’t Palestine, Teta. We live in America. There are other options for women here.”

“Nonsense.” Fareeda had squinted at the Turkish coffee grounds staining the bottom of her cup. “It doesn’t matter where we live. Preserving our culture is what’s most important. All you need to worry about is finding a good man to provide for you.”

“But there are other ways here, Teta. Besides, I wouldn’t need a man to provide for me if you let me go to college. I could take care of myself.”

At this, Fareeda had lifted her head sharply to glare at her. “Majnoona? Are you crazy? No, no, no.” She shook her head with distaste.

“But I know plenty of girls who get an education first. Why can’t I?”

“College is out of the question. Besides, no one wants to marry a college girl.”

“And why not? Because men only want a fool to boss around?”

Fareeda sighed deeply. “Because that’s how things are. How they’ve always been done. You ask anyone, and they’ll tell you. Marriage is what’s most important for women.”

Every time Deya replayed this conversation in her head, she imagined her life was just another story, with plot and rising tension and conflict, all building to a happy resolution, one she just couldn’t yet see. She did this often. It was much more bearable to pretend her life was fiction than to accept her reality for what it was: limited. In fiction, the possibilities of her life were endless. In fiction, she was in control.

For a long time Deya stared hesitantly into the darkness of the staircase, before climbing, very slowing, up to the first floor, where her grandparents lived. In the kitchen, she brewed an ibrik of chai. She poured the mint tea into five glass cups and arranged them on a silver serving tray. As she walked down the hall, she could hear Fareeda in the sala saying, in Arabic, “She cooks and cleans better than I do!” There was a rush of approving sounds in the air. Her grandmother had said the same thing to the other suitors, only it hadn’t worked. They’d all withdrawn their marriage proposals after meeting Deya. Each time Fareeda had realized that no marriage would follow, that there was no naseeb, no destiny, she had smacked her own face with open palms and wept violently, the sort of dramatic performance she often used to pressure Deya and her sisters to obey her.

Deya carried the serving tray down the hall, avoiding her reflection in the mirrors that lined it. Pale-faced with charcoal eyes and fig-colored lips, a long swoop of dark hair against her shoulders. These days it seemed as though the more she looked at her face, the less of herself she saw reflected back. It hadn’t always been this way. When Fareeda had first spoken to her of marriage as a child, Deya had believed it was an ordinary matter. Just another part of growing up and becoming a woman. She had not yet understood what it meant to become a woman. She hadn’t realized it meant marrying a man she barely knew, nor that marriage was the beginning and end of her life’s purpose. It was only as she grew older that Deya had truly understood her place in her community. She had learned that there was a certain way she had to live, certain rules she had to follow, and that, as a woman, she would never have a legitimate claim over her own life.

She put on a smile and entered the sala. The room was dim, every window covered with thick, red curtains, which Fareeda had woven to match the burgundy sofa set. Her grandparents sat on one sofa, the guests on the other, and Deya set a bowl of sugar on the coffee table between them. Her eyes fell to the ground, to the red Turkish rug her grandparents had owned since they emigrated to America. There was a pattern embossed across the edges: gold coils with no beginnings or ends, all woven together in ceaseless loops. Deya wasn’t sure if the pattern had gotten bigger or if she had gotten smaller. She followed it with her eyes, and her head spun.

The suitor looked up when she neared him, peering at her through the peppermint steam. She served the chai without looking his way, all the while aware of his lingering gaze. His parents and her grandparents stared at her, too. Five sets of eyes digging into her. What did they see? The shadow of a person circling the room? Maybe not even that. Maybe they saw nothing at all, a serving tray floating on its own, drifting from one person to the next until the teakettle was empty.

She thought of her parents. How would they feel if they were here with her now? Would they smile at the thought of her in a white veil? Would they urge her, as her grandparents did, to follow their path? She closed her eyes and searched for them, but she found nothing.

Her grandfather turned to her sharply and cleared his throat. “Why don’t you two go sit in the kitchen?” Khaled said. “That way you can get to know each other.” Beside him, Fareeda eyed Deya anxiously, her face revealing its own message: Smile. Act normal. Don’t scare this man away, too.

Deya recalled the last suitor who had withdrawn his marriage proposal. He had told her grandparents that she was too insolent, too questioning. That she wasn’t Arab enough. But what had her grandparents expected when they came to this country? That their children and grandchildren would be fully Arab, too? That their culture would remain untouched? It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t Arab enough. She had lived her entire life straddled between two cultures. She was neither Arab nor American. She belonged nowhere. She didn’t know who she was.

Deya sighed and met the suitor’s eyes. “Follow me.”

She observed him as they settled across from each other at the kitchen table. He was tall and slightly plump, with a closely shaved beard. His pecan hair was parted to one side and brushed back from his face. Better-looking than the other ones, Deya thought. He opened his mouth as if to speak but proceeded to say nothing. Then, after a few moments of silence, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m Nasser.”

She tucked her fingers between her thighs, tried to act normal. “I’m Deya.”

There was a pause. “I, um . . .” He hesitated. “I’m twenty-four. I work in a convenience store with my father while I finish school. I’m studying to be a doctor.”

She gave a slow, reluctant smile. From the eager look on his face, she could tell he was waiting for her to do as he did, recite a vague representation of herself, sum up her essence in one line. When she didn’t say anything, he spoke again. “So, what do you do?”

It was easy for her to recognize that he was just being nice. They both knew a teenage Arab girl didn’t do anything. Well, except cook, clean, and catch up on the latest Turkish soap operas. Maybe her grandmother would have allowed her and her sisters to do more had they lived back home, in Palestine, surrounded by people like them. But here, in Brooklyn, all Fareeda could do was shelter them at home and pray they remained good. Pure. Arab.

“I don’t do much,” Deya said.

“You must do something. You don’t have any hobbies?”

“I like to read.”

“What do you read?”

“Anything. It doesn’t matter what it is, I’ll read it. Trust me, I have the time.”

“And why is that?” he asked, knotting his brows.

“My grandmother doesn’t let us do much. She doesn’t even like it when I read.”

“Why not?”

“She thinks books are a bad influence.”

“Oh.” He flushed, as though finally understanding. After a moment he asked, “My mother said you go to an all-girls Islamic school. What grade are you in?”

“I’m a senior.”

Another pause. He shifted in his seat. Something about his nervousness eased her, and she let her shoulders relax.

“Do you want to go to college?” Nasser asked.

Deya studied his face. She had never been asked that particular question the way he asked it. Usually it sounded like a threat, as though if she answered yes, a weight would shift in the scale of nature. Like it was the worst possible thing for a girl to want.

“I do,” she said. “I like school.”

He smiled. “I’m jealous. I’ve never been a good student.”

She fixed her eyes on him. “Do you mind?”

“Mind what?”

“That I want to go to college.”

“No. Why would I mind?”

Deya studied him carefully, unsure whether to believe him. He could be pretending not to mind in order to trick her into thinking he was different than the previous suitors, more progressive. He could be telling her exactly what he thought she wanted to hear.

She straightened in her seat, avoiding his question. Instead she asked, “Why aren’t you a good student?”

“I’ve never really liked school,” he said. “But my parents insisted I apply to med school after college. They want me to be a doctor.”

“And do you want to be a doctor?”

Nasser laughed. “Hardly. I’d rather run the family business, maybe even open my own business one day.”

“Did you tell them that?”

“I did. But they said I had to go to college, and if not for medicine, then engineering or law.”

Deya looked at him. She had never known herself to feel anything besides anger and annoyance during these arrangements. One man had spent their entire conversation telling her how much money he earned at his gas station; another man had interrogated her about school, whether she intended to stay home and raise children, whether she would be willing to wear the hijab permanently and not only as part of her school uniform.

Still, Deya had questions of her own. What would you do to me if we married? Would you let me pursue my dreams? Would you leave me at home to raise the children while you worked? Would you love me? Would you own me? Would you beat me? She could have asked those questions aloud, but she knew people only told you what you wanted to hear. That to understand someone, you had to listen to the words they didn’t say, had to watch them closely.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Nasser asked.

“Nothing, it’s just that . . .” She looked at her fingers. “I’m surprised your parents forced you to go to college. I’d assumed they’d let you make your own choices.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You know.” She met his eyes. “Because you’re a man.”

Nasser looked at her curiously. “Is that what you think? That I can do anything I want because I’m a man?”

“That’s the world we live in.”

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. It was the closest Deya had ever sat to a man, and she leaned back in her seat, pressing her hands between her thighs.

“You’re strange,” Nasser said.

She could feel her face flush, and she looked away. “Don’t let my grandmother hear you say that.”

“Why not? I meant it as a compliment.”

“She won’t see it that way.”

There was a pause, and Nasser reached for his teacup. “So,” he said after taking a sip. “How do you imagine your life in the future?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you want, Deya Ra’ad?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. As if it mattered what she wanted. As if it were up to her. If it were up to her, she’d postpone marriage for another decade. She’d enroll in a study-abroad program, pick up and move to Europe, perhaps Oxford, spending her days in cafés and libraries with a book in one hand and a pen in the other. She’d be a writer, helping people understand the world through stories. But it wasn’t up to her. Her grandparents had forbidden her to attend college before marriage, and she didn’t want to ruin her reputation in the community by defying them. Or worse, be disowned, banned from seeing her sisters, the only home and family she had ever known. She was already abandoned and alone in so many ways; to lose her remaining roots would be too much to bear. She was afraid of the life her grandparents had planned for her, but even more afraid of the unknown. So she tucked her dreams away, did as she was told.

“I just want to be happy,” she told Nasser. “That’s all.”

“Well, that’s simple enough.”

“Is it?” She met his eyes. “If so, then why haven’t I seen it?”

“I’m sure you have. Your grandparents must be happy.”

Deya tried to keep from rolling her eyes. “Teta spends her days complaining about her life, how her children abandoned her, and Seedo barely comes home. Trust me. They’re miserable.”

Nasser shook his head. “Maybe you’re judging them too harshly.”

“Why? Are your parents happy?”

“Of course they are.”

“Do they love each other?”

“Of course they love each other! They’ve been married for over thirty years.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Deya scoffed. “My grandparents have been married for over fifty years, and they can’t stand the sight of each other.”

Nasser said nothing. From the expression on his face, Deya knew he found her pessimism unpleasant. But what should she have said to him instead? Should she have lied? It was already enough she was forced to live a life she didn’t want to live. Should she really begin a marriage with lies? When would it end?

Eventually Nasser cleared his throat. “You know,” he said. “Just because you can’t see the happiness in your grandparents’ life, that doesn’t mean they’re not happy. What makes one person happy doesn’t always work for someone else. Take my mother—she values family over everything. As long as she has my father and her children, she’s happy. But not everyone needs family, of course. Some people need money, others need companionship. Everyone is different.”

“And what do you need?” Deya asked.

“What?”

“What do you need to be happy?”

Nasser bit the inside of his lip. “Financial security.”

“Money?”

“No, not money.” He paused. “I want to have a stable career and live comfortably, maybe even retire young.”

She rolled her eyes. “Work, money, same thing.”

“Maybe so,” he said, blushing. “Why, what’s your answer?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not fair. You have to answer the question. What would make you happy?”

“Nothing. Nothing would make me happy.”

He blinked at her. “What do you mean, nothing? Surely something must make you happy.”

She turned to look out the window, feeling his eyes follow her face. “I don’t believe in happiness.”

“That’s not true. Maybe you just haven’t found it yet.”

“It is true.”

“Is it because—” He stopped. “Do you think it’s because of your parents?”

She could tell he was trying to meet her eyes, but she kept them fixed on the window. “No,” she lied. “Not because of them.”

“Then why don’t you believe in happiness?”

He would never understand, even if she tried to explain. She turned to face him. “I just don’t believe in it, that’s all.”

He looked back at her with a glum expression. She wondered what he saw, whether he knew that if he opened her up, he would find, right behind her ribs, only a fist of rot and mud.

“I don’t think you really mean that,” he eventually said, smiling at her. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you’re just pretending to see how I’d react. You wanted to see if I’d make a run for it.”

“Interesting theory.”

“I think it’s true. In fact, I bet you do it often.”

“Do what?”

“Push people away so they won’t hurt you.” She looked away. “It’s okay. You don’t have to admit it.”

“There’s nothing to admit.”

“Fine. But can I tell you something?” She turned back toward him. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

She forced a smile, wishing she could trust him. But she didn’t think she knew how.

Fareeda hurried into the kitchen as soon as Nasser left, her almond brown eyes wide and questioning: Did Deya like him? Did she think he’d liked her? Would she agree to the marriage proposal? Deya had said no to a few proposals, her answer ripe on the tip of her tongue. But mostly the suitor was first to withdraw his offer. On these occasions, after the parents had politely informed them that a match had not been made and Fareeda had cried and slapped her face, her grandmother had only become more persistent. A few phone calls, and she had found a new suitor by the end of the week.

But this time was different. “Looks like you didn’t scare this one away,” Fareeda said with a grin from the kitchen doorway. She was wearing the red-and-gold dress she wore when suitors visited, with a cream scarf draped loosely around her head. She moved closer. “His parents said they’d like to visit again soon. What do you think? Did you like Nasser? Should I tell them yes?”

“I don’t know,” Deya said, shoving a wet rag across the kitchen table. “I need some time to think about it.”

“Think about it? What’s there to think about? You should be thankful you even have a choice in the matter. Some girls aren’t that lucky—I certainly never was.”

“This isn’t a choice,” Deya mumbled.

“Why, of course it is!” Fareeda ran her fingers against the kitchen table to make sure it was clean. “My parents never asked me if I wanted to marry your grandfather. They just told me what to do, and I did it.”

“Well, I don’t have parents,” Deya said. “Or uncles or aunts, or anyone besides my sisters for that matter!”

“Nonsense. You have us,” Fareeda said, though she didn’t meet her eyes.

Deya’s grandparents had raised Deya and her three sisters since she was seven years old. For years it had just been the six of them, not the large extended family that was the norm in Arab households. Growing up, Deya had often felt the sting of loneliness, but it stung the most on Eid celebrations, when she and her sisters would sit at home, knowing there was no one coming to visit them on the most important holiday. Her classmates would boast about the festivities they attended, the family members who gave them gifts and money, while Deya smiled, pretending that she and her sisters did those things, too. That they had uncles and aunts and people who loved them. That they had a family. But they didn’t know what it meant to have a family. All they had were grandparents who raised them out of obligation, and each other.

“Nasser would make a fine husband,” Fareeda said. “He’ll be a doctor someday. He’ll be able to give you everything you need. You’d be a fool to turn him down. Proposals like this don’t come around every day.”

“But I’m only eighteen, Teta. I’m not ready to get married.”

“You act like I’m selling you off to slavery! Every mother I know is preparing her daughter for marriage. Tell me, do you know anyone whose mother isn’t doing exactly the same thing?”

Deya sighed. Her grandmother was right. Most of her classmates sat with a handful of men every month, yet none of them seemed to mind. They slicked on makeup and plucked their brows, as though eagerly waiting for a man to scoop them away. Some were already engaged, wrapping up their final year of high school as if by force. As if they’d found something in the prospect of marriage so fulfilling that no amount of education could compare. Deya would often look at them and wonder: Isn’t there more you want to do? There must be more. But then her thoughts would shift, and uncertainty would kick in. She’d start to think maybe they had it right after all. Maybe marriage was the answer.

Fareeda moved closer, shaking her head. “Why are you making this so difficult? What more do you want?”

Deya met her eyes. “I already told you! I want to go to college!”

“Ya Allah.” She drew out her words. “Not this again. How many times do I have to tell you? You’re not going to college in this house. If your husband allows you to get an education after marriage, that’s his decision. But my job is to secure your future by making sure you and your sisters are married off to good men.”

“But why can’t you secure my future by letting me go to college? Why are you letting some strange man control my fate? What if he turns out like Baba? What if—”

“Not another word,” Fareeda said, her upper lip twitching. “How many times have I told you not to mention your parents in this house?” From the expression on her face, Deya could tell Fareeda wanted to slap her. But it was true. Deya had seen enough of her mother’s life to know it wasn’t the life she wanted.

“I’m afraid, Teta,” Deya whispered. “I don’t want to marry a man I don’t know.”

“Arranged marriages are what we do,” Fareeda said. “Just because we live in America, that doesn’t change how things are.” She shook her head, reaching inside the cabinet for a teakettle. “If you keep turning down proposals, the next thing you know, you’ll be old and no one will want to marry you, and then you’ll spend the rest of your life in this house with me.” She caught Deya’s eyes. “You’ve seen other girls who’ve disobeyed their parents, refusing to get married, or worse, getting divorced, and look at them now! Living at home with their parents, their heads hanging in shame! Is that what you want?”

Deya looked away.

“Listen, Deya.” Fareeda’s voice was softer. “I’m not asking you to marry Nasser tomorrow. Just sit with him again and get to know him.”

Deya hated to admit Fareeda was right, but she found herself reconsidering. Maybe it was time to get married. Maybe she should accept Nasser’s proposal. It wasn’t as if she had a future in Fareeda’s house. She could barely go to the grocery store without supervision. Besides, Nasser seemed nice enough. Better than the other men she’d met over the months. If not him, then who? Eventually, she’d have to agree to someone. She could only refuse for so long. Unless she wanted to ruin her reputation and her sisters’ reputations as well. She could hear their neighbors in her head. That girl is bad. She isn’t respectable. Something must be wrong with her.

Deya agreed. There was something wrong with her: she couldn’t stop thinking, couldn’t make up her mind.

“Fine,” she said. “Okay.”

Fareeda’s eyes sprung wide. “Really?”

“I’ll see him again. But only under one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m not leaving Brooklyn.”

“Don’t worry.” Fareeda forced a tight smile. “He lives right here in Sunset Park. I know you want to be near your sisters.”

“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.

She often wondered how many people felt this way, spellbound by words, wishing to be tucked inside a book and forgotten there. How many people were hoping to find their story inside, desperate to understand. And yet Deya still felt alone in the end, no matter how many books she read, no matter how many tales she told herself. All her life she’d searched for a story to help her understand who she was and where she belonged. But her story was confined to the walls of her home, to the basement of Seventy-Second Street and Fifth Avenue, and she didn’t think she’d ever understand it.

That evening Deya and her sisters ate dinner alone, as they usually did, while Fareeda watched her evening show in the sala. They did not spread a sufra with a succession of dishes, nor set the table with lemon wedges, green olives, chili peppers, and fresh pita bread, as they did when their grandfather came home. Instead the four sisters huddled around the kitchen table together, deep in conversation. Every now and then they’d lower their voices, listening to the sounds in the hall to make sure Fareeda was still in the sala and couldn’t overhear them.

Deya’s younger sisters were her only companions. All four of them were close in age, only one or two years apart, and complemented one another like school subjects in a class schedule. If Deya was a subject, she thought she would be art—dark, messy, emotional. Nora, the second eldest and her closest companion, would be math—solid, precise, and straightforward. It was Nora who Deya relied on for advice, taking comfort in her clear thinking; Nora who tempered Deya’s overspilling emotions, who structured the chaos of Deya’s art. Then there was Layla. Deya thought Layla would be science, always curious, always seeking answers, always logical. Then there was Amal, the youngest of the four and, true to her name, the most hopeful. If Amal was a subject, she would be religion, centering every conversation around halal and haraam, good and evil. It was Amal who always brought them back to God, rounding them out with a handful of faith.

“So, what did you think of Nasser?” asked Nora as she sipped on her lentil soup. “Was he crazy like the last man?” She blew on her spoon. “You know, the one who insisted you start wearing the hijab at once?”

“I don’t think anyone’s as crazy as that man,” Deya said, laughing.

“Was he nice?” Nora asked.

“He was okay,” Deya said, making sure to smile. She didn’t want to worry them. “Really, he was.”

Layla was studying her. “You don’t seem too happy.”

Deya could see her sisters watching her intensely, their eyes making her sweat. “I’m just nervous, that’s all.”

“Are you going to sit with him again?” said Amal, who, Deya realized, was biting her fingertips.

“Yes. Tomorrow, I think.”

Nora leaned in, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Does he know about our parents?”

Deya nodded as she stirred her soup. She wasn’t surprised Nasser knew what had happened to her parents. News traveled like wind in a community like theirs, where Arabs clung to each other like dough, afraid to get lost among the Irish, Italians, Greeks, and Hasidic Jews. It was as if all the Arabs in Brooklyn stood hand in hand, from Bay Ridge all the way up Atlantic Avenue, and shared everything, from one ear to the next. There were no secrets among them.

“What do you think is going to happen?” Layla asked.

“With what?”

“When you see him again. What will you talk about?”

“The fundamentals, I’m sure,” Deya said, one eyebrow cocked. “How many kids I want, where I want to live . . . you know, the basics.”

Her sisters laughed.

“But at least you’ll know what to expect if you decide to move forward,” Nora said. “Better than being taken off guard.”

“That’s true. He did seem very predictable.” Deya looked down into her soup. When she raised her eyes again, the corners crinkled. “You know what he said would make him happy?”

“Money?” said Layla.

“A good job?” added Nora.

Deya laughed. “Exactly. So typical.”

“What did you expect him to say?” said Nora. “Love? Romance?”

“No. But I hoped he’d at least pretend to have a more interesting answer.”

“Not everyone can pretend the way you do,” Nora said with a grin.

“Maybe he was nervous,” Layla said. “Did he ask what made you happy?”

“He did.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said nothing made me happy.”

“Why did you say that?” said Amal.

“Just to mess with him.”

“Sure,” Nora said, rolling her eyes. “That’s a good question, though. Let’s see. What would make me happy?” She stirred her soup. “Freedom,” she finally said. “Being able to do anything I wanted.”

“Success would make me happy,” Layla said. “Being a doctor or doing something great.”

“Good luck becoming a doctor in Fareeda’s house,” Nora said, laughing.

Layla rolled her eyes. “Says the girl who wants freedom.”

They all laughed at that.

Deya caught a glimpse of Amal, who was still chewing her fingers. She had yet to touch her soup. “What about you, habibti?” Deya asked, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. “What would make you happy?”

Amal looked out the kitchen window. “Being with you three,” she said.

Deya sighed. Even though Amal was far too young to remember them—she’d been barely two years old when the car accident had happened—Deya knew she was thinking of their parents. But it was easier losing something you couldn’t quite remember, she thought. At least then there were no memories to look back on, nothing hurtful to relive. Deya envied her sisters that. She remembered too much, too often, though her memories were distorted and spotty, like half-remembered dreams. To make sense of them, she’d weave the scattered fragments together into a full narrative, with a beginning and an end, a purpose and a truth. Sometimes she would find herself mixing up memories, losing track of time, adding pieces here and there until her childhood felt complete, had a logical progression. And then she’d wonder: which pieces could she really remember, and which ones had she made up?

Deya felt cold as she sat at the kitchen table, despite the steam from her soup against her face. She could see Amal staring absently out the kitchen window, and she reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“I just can’t imagine the house without you,” Amal whispered.

“Oh, come on,” Deya said. “It’s not like I’m going to a different country. I’ll be right around the corner. You can all come visit anytime.”

Nora and Layla smiled, but Amal just sighed. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you, too.” Deya’s voice cracked as she said it.

Outside the window the light was getting duller, the wind settling. Deya watched a handful of birds gliding across the sky.

“I wish Mama and Baba were here,” Nora said.

Layla sighed. “I just wish I remembered them.”

“Me too,” Amal said.

“I don’t remember much either,” Nora said. “I was only six when they died.”

“But at least you were old enough to remember what they looked like,” said Layla. “Amal and I remember nothing.”

Nora turned to Deya. “Mama was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

Deya forced a smile. She could barely recall their mother’s face, just her eyes, how dark they were. Sometimes she wished she could peek inside Nora’s brain to see what she remembered about their parents, whether Nora’s memories resembled her own. But mostly she wished she would find nothing in Nora’s head, not a single memory. It would be easier that way.

“I remember being at the park once.” Nora’s voice was quieting now. “We were all having a picnic. Do you remember, Deya? Mama and Baba bought us Mister Softee cones. We sat in the shade and watched the ships drift beneath the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge like toy boats. And Mama and Baba stroked my hair and kissed me. I remember they were laughing.”

Deya said nothing. That day at the park was her last memory of her parents, but she recalled it differently. She remembered her parents sitting at opposite ends of the blanket, neither saying a word. In Deya’s memories, they rarely spoke to each other, and she couldn’t remember ever seeing them touch. She used to think they were being modest, that perhaps they loved each other when they were alone. But even when she watched them in secret, she never saw them show affection. Deya couldn’t remember why, but that day in the park, staring at her parents at opposite ends of the blanket, she’d felt as though she understood the meaning of the word sorrow for the first time.

The sisters spent the rest of their evening chatting about school until it was time for bed. Layla and Amal exchanged goodnight kisses with their older sisters before heading to their room. Nora sat on the bed beside Deya and twisted the blanket with her fingers. “Tell me something,” she said.

“Hm?”

“Did you mean what you told Nasser? That nothing can make you happy?”

Deya sat up and leaned against the headboard. “No, I . . . I don’t know.”

“Why do you think that? It worries me.”

When Deya said nothing, Nora leaned in close. “Tell me. What is it?”

“I don’t know, it’s just . . . Sometimes I think maybe happiness isn’t real, at least not for me. I know it sounds dramatic, but . . .” She paused, tried to find the right words. “Maybe if I keep everyone at arm’s length, if I don’t expect anything from the world, I won’t be disappointed.”

“But you know it’s not healthy, living with that mindset,” Nora said.

“Of course I know that, but I can’t help how I feel.”

“I don’t understand. When did you become so negative?”

Deya was silent.

“Is it because of Mama and Baba? Is that it? You always have this look in your eyes when we mention them, like you know something we don’t. What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” Deya said.

“Clearly it’s something. It must be. Something happened.”

Deya felt Nora’s words under her skin. Something had happened, everything had happened, nothing had happened. She remembered the days she’d sat outside Isra’s bedroom door, knocking and pounding, calling for her mother over and over. Mama. Open the door, Mama. Please, Mama. Can you hear me? Are you there? Are you coming, Mama? Please. But Isra never opened the door. Deya would lie there and wonder what she had done. What was wrong with her that her own mother couldn’t love her?

But Deya knew that no matter how clearly she could articulate this memory and countless others, Nora wouldn’t be able to understand how she felt, not really.

“Please don’t worry,” she said. “I’m okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Nora yawned, stretching her arms in the air. “Tell me one of your stories, then,” she said. “So I can have good dreams. Tell me about Mama and Baba.”

Their bedtime story ritual had started when their parents died and continued throughout the years. Deya didn’t mind, but there was only so much she could remember, or wanted to. Telling a story wasn’t as simple as 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.