gaze; no one was watching. Yet she did so instinctively. Her eyes would not stay up even when she willed them to.
“I can’t,” Deya finally said. “My grandparents don’t let me leave the house alone.”
There was a long pause. “I know.”
“How do you know what my grandparents are like? And how do you know where I live?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone. We have to meet.” She paused. “Maybe you could skip school. Is it possible?”
“I’ve never skipped school before,” Deya said. “And even if I could, how would I know it’s safe? I don’t know you.”
“I would never hurt you.” The woman spoke softly now, and Deya thought her voice sounded familiar. “Believe me, I would never hurt you.”
She knew that voice. But was it her mother’s? Once again, the thought was absurd, but Deya considered. She remembered clearly the last time she had heard Isra’s voice.
“I’m sorry,” Isra had whispered, again and again. I’m sorry. Ten years later, and Deya still didn’t know what her mother had been sorry for.
“Mama?” The words left Deya’s lips in a rush.
“What?”
“Is that you, Mama? Is it?” Deya sank inside the bathroom stall. This woman could be her mother. She could. Maybe she was back. Maybe she was different. Maybe she was sorry.
“Oh, Deya! I’m not your mother.” The woman’s voice was shaking. “I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to upset you.”
Deya heard herself sob before she realized she was crying. The next thing she knew, tears were rushing down her cheeks. How low and desperate she felt, how much she wanted her mother—she’d had no idea until that moment. She swallowed her tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know my mother is dead. I know they’re both dead.” Silence on the line. “Who are you?” Deya finally said.
“Listen, Deya,” the woman said. “There’s something I need to tell you. Figure out a way to come to the bookstore. It’s important.” When Deya said nothing, the woman spoke again. “And please,” she said. “Please, whatever you do, don’t tell your grandparents about this. I’ll explain everything when I see you, but don’t tell anyone. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Thank you,” the woman said. “Have a good day—”
“Wait!” Deya blurted.
“Yes?”
“When am I supposed to meet you?”
“Anytime. I’ll be waiting for you.”
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.”
Fareeda cut the dough into individual knots and arranged each one on the pan. Then she drizzled them with olive oil and