felt on the city streets. She started down the street in the direction the man had pointed.
Books and Beans stood at the end of an inconspicuous block on Broadway. Except for the black-trimmed door and windows, the entire bookstore was painted a bright, moroccan blue, standing out from the red-brick-faced shops around it. Through the glass, Deya could see a display of books within the dim space, illuminated by amber-shaded lamps. She stared at the windows for what felt like hours before building up the courage to walk in.
Deya stepped into the bookstore and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Inside was a single room, much longer than it was wide. The walls were lined with black shelves and filled with hundreds of books that towered up to the ceiling. Velvet tufted chairs sat snugly in odd corners of the room, providing a soft contrast to the exposed brick walls, and a cash register stood near the entrance, lit by the dim flicker of a lamp. Beside the register sat a plump white cat.
Slowly, she made her way down the center aisle. A few people floated between the shelves, their faces hidden in shadows. She must be in here somewhere, Deya thought, running her fingers across the spines of old books, inhaling the scent of worn paper. Marveling at the rich selection, she found herself drifting toward a set of chairs near the back of the shop, wanting desperately to curl up against a window and crack open a book. But then she saw a shadow move from beside a pile of unorganized books. A person was staring at her. A woman.
Deya approached her. When she was close enough, the woman’s face emerged from the darkness. Now she was certain: it was the same woman who had dropped off the envelope. She was staring at Deya’s hijab and school uniform, smiling. Clearly the woman knew who she was.
But Deya still didn’t recognize her. She studied her face closely, hoping against hope that it was her mother. It was possible. Like Isra, the woman had deep black hair and fair olive skin. Yet her hair fell wild and wavy over her shoulders, her cheeks were full and bronzed, her lips a crimson red. Isra’s hair had been straight and smooth, her features plainer. Deya moved closer. She was startled to see the woman wearing a short skirt, her legs covered only with sheer panty hose, and she wondered how she was able to walk around town without feeling exposed. She must be American, Deya decided.
“Is that you, Deya?”
“Do I know you?”
The woman gave her a sad look. “You don’t recognize me?”
Deya moved closer, studying her face again, carefully this time. There was something familiar in the openness of her eyes, the way they held her gaze in the dim light. She froze, a piece clicking into place. Of course! How could she not have recognized her sooner?
“Sarah?”
Isra
Spring 1991
Isra’s second pregnancy was a quiet struggle. In the mornings, while Deya slept, she kneaded dough and soaked rice. She diced tomatoes and onions, simmered stews and roasted meat. She swept the floors, washed the dishes, cracked the kitchen window to air the house when she was done. Then she mixed a bottle of formula and returned to the basement, where she crooned her daughter awake. Her growing belly prevented her from holding Deya like she used to, so she propped the bottle against the crib instead, swallowing her growing guilt as she watched her suckle from a distance.
Isra returned downstairs once her afternoon chores were done. She lay in bed and stroked her belly as Deya sucked on her bottle. Upstairs, the sounds followed their usual rhythm. Sarah jerking the front door open when she returned from school, dragging her backpack to her room. Fareeda commanding she join her in the kitchen. Sarah pleading, “I have homework!” More than once, Isra had considered asking Sarah to bring her a book from school, only to change her mind. She couldn’t risk upsetting Adam, who’d been working longer hours since Deya’s birth. Besides, when would she have the time to read, with another child on the way?
She kept her hands on her belly, tried to picture the baby growing inside her: Was it a boy or a girl? What would happen to her if she bore another girl? The night before, Fareeda had mentioned going back home to find Omar a wife and joked that she would find Adam a new wife,