Isra had considered killing herself, too, sticking her head in the oven like her favorite author had done. But Isra was too much of a coward even for that.
On the nights since, she had lain awake in bed and tried to push the thoughts away, telling herself stories, like the ones from A Thousand and One Nights. Sometimes she pulled out a sheet of paper from the stack she stashed in the back of their closet and wrote letters to Mama, pages and pages she would never send.
“I’m afraid for our daughters,” Isra told Adam late one night when he returned from the deli. She had practiced the words in front of the mirror, making sure her eyebrows didn’t flinch when she spoke, that she kept her gaze direct. “I’m afraid for our daughters,” she repeated when Adam said nothing. She could tell that he was startled to hear her speak so boldly. She was startled, too—even with all her practice—but enough was enough. How long was she going to let him silence her? No matter what, he was going to beat her—whether she defied him or submitted, whether she spoke up or said nothing. The least she could do was stand up for her daughters. She owed them that.
She stood up, moving closer to him. “I know Sarah running away has been terrible, but I don’t want our daughters to suffer because of it.”
“What are you saying, woman?”
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Isra said, trying to keep her voice steady. “But I’m worried about our daughters. I’m afraid of what kind of life we’re going to give them. I’m scared of losing them, too. But I don’t think it’s wise to take them out of public school.”
Adam stared at her. Isra wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but from the bulge in his eyes, she was sure he was drunk. He crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed her.
“Adam, stop! Please. I’m only thinking of our daughters.”
But he didn’t stop. In one smooth movement, he shoved her against the wall and slammed his fists against her body over and over, her stomach, sides, arms, head. Isra shut her eyes, and then, when she thought it was over, Adam grabbed her by the hair and slapped her, the force of his palm knocking her to the floor.
“How dare you question me?” Adam said, his jaw quivering. “Never speak of this again.” Then he left, disappearing into the bathroom.
On her knees on the floor, she could barely breathe. Blood leaked from her nose and down her chin. But she wiped her face and told herself she would take a beating every night if it meant standing up for her girls.
Deya
Fall 2009
Deya stands on the corner of Seventy-Third Street, in front of the Brooklyn Public Library. Her hair dances in the fall breeze, and she scans the stash of syllabi in her hands. Required reading: The Yellow Wallpaper. The Bell Jar. Beloved. She thinks of Fareeda, the look on her face when Deya received her acceptance letter and scholarship from New York University. She had put off telling her in case she hadn’t gotten in, despite Sarah’s insistence. There was no point in bringing up the matter if she didn’t even get an offer. But then she’d had no more excuses. She’d found Fareeda seated at the kitchen table, a cup of chai in hand.
“I got accepted into a college in Manhattan,” Deya had told her, keeping her voice steady. “I’m going.”
“Manhattan?” She could see fear in Fareeda’s eyes.
“I know you’re worried about me out there, but I’ve navigated the city on my own every time I’ve visited Sarah. I promise to come home straight after class. You can trust me. You need to trust me.”
Fareeda eyed her. “What about marriage?”
“Marriage can wait. After everything I know now, do you think I’m just going to sit here and let you marry me off? Nothing you say will change my mind.” Fareeda started to object, but Deya cut her off. “If you don’t let me go, then I’ll leave. I’ll take my sisters and go.”
“No!”
“Then don’t stand in my way,” Deya said. “Let me go.” When Fareeda said nothing, she added, “Do you know what Sarah told me the last time I saw her?”
“What?” Fareeda whispered. She still had not seen her grown daughter.
“She told me to learn. She said this was the only way to make my own naseeb.”
“But, daughter, we don’t control our naseeb. Our destiny