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.
Isra
Spring 1990
Isra arrived in New York the day after her wedding ceremony, via a