Sarah stared at her, dumbfounded. “How can you be so naive?”
Isra straightened at the kitchen table. “Of course I’m naive!” she said, a sliver of defiance rising up, surprising her. “I’ve been stuck in the kitchen my entire life, first in Palestine and now here. How am I supposed to know anything about the world? The only places I’ve ever traveled are in the pages of my books, and I don’t even have that anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. But sometimes you have to take things for yourself. I told you I’d bring you some books. Why didn’t you let me? What are you so afraid of?”
Isra stared out the kitchen window. Sarah was right. She had abandoned reading for fear of upsetting Fareeda and Adam, thinking that servitude would earn their love. But she had been wrong. “Would you still do it?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Would you still bring me some books?”
“Yes,” Sarah said, smiling. “Of course. I’ll bring some home for you tomorrow.”
Deya
Winter 2008
In the coming days, Deya visited Sarah as often as she could without raising her grandmother’s suspicions. Luckily Fareeda was occupied lining up another suitor, in case Nasser withdrew his proposal, and it seemed that school hadn’t called home to report her absences, which were common in senior year as girls began sitting with suitors. At the bookstore, Deya and Sarah sat in the same velvet chairs by the window. Deya listened eagerly as her aunt told her stories of Isra, each tale unspooling like a chapter in a book, often in unexpected ways. The more Deya learned about her mother, the more she began to feel that she hadn’t known her after all. All the stories she had told herself growing up, the memories she had pieced together, they had failed to paint a full picture of Isra. Now, gradually, one began to emerge. Still, Deya wondered if Sarah was telling her the entire truth—if she, too, was filtering her stories, the way Deya had to her sisters for so many years. Yet despite her suspicions, for once in her life she wasn’t impatient for the whole truth. She had found a friend in Sarah, and she didn’t feel so alone.
“Tell me something,” Deya asked her grandparents one cold Thursday night while they drank chai in the sala.
Fareeda looked up from the television. “What?”
“Why hasn’t Aunt Sarah ever visited us?”
Fareeda’s face became pink. Across from her, Khaled sank deeper into the sofa. Though he kept his eyes on the television screen, Deya could see that his hands were shaking. He set his teacup on the coffee table.
“Really,” Deya continued. “I don’t think either of you have ever explained it. Doesn’t she have enough money to travel? Is she married to one of those controlling men who doesn’t let his wife leave the house? Or maybe . . .” She kept her eyes on Fareeda as she said this. “Maybe she’s never visited because she’s angry with you for sending her away? That seems entirely possible.”
“I don’t see any reason for her to be upset,” Fareeda said, bringing the cup to her face. “It’s marriage, not murder.”
“I guess, but then why hasn’t she visited?” Deya turned to Khaled, waited for him to say something. But his eyes remained fixed on the television. She turned again to Fareeda. “Have you ever tried to reach out? You know, to ask if she was upset, or maybe even to apologize? I’m sure she’d forgive you after all these years. You are her mother, after all.”
Fareeda’s face grew pinker. “Apologize?” She set her teacup down with a thud. “What do I have to apologize for? She’s the one who should apologize for never calling or visiting after everything we did for her.”
“Maybe she feels like you’ve abandoned her,” Deya said, keeping her voice innocent and light.
“Khalas!” Khaled stood up, glaring at her. “Not another word. I don’t want to hear her name in this house. Never again. Do you understand me?” He stormed out of the room before Deya could respond.
“You know, it’s obvious,” Deya said.
Fareeda turned to her. “What’s obvious?”
“That Seedo feels guilty.”
“Seedo doesn’t feel guilty! What does he have to feel guilty for?”
Deya kept her words vague. “For forcing Sarah into marriage. For sending her to Palestine. He must feel guilty. Why else would he be so angry?”
Fareeda didn’t reply.
“That must be it,” Deya said, leaning closer. “Is that why you’re always on