a step back. She rubbed both hands over her face. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She walked to her desk, opened the bottom drawer, and reached inside. When she returned, she was holding a piece of paper. She handed it to Deya.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “When I left the note for you, I had no idea you didn’t know. And then when I found out, I was afraid to tell you. I thought if I told you too soon, you’d run away and I’d never see you again. I’m so sorry, Deya.”
Deya said nothing, inspecting the paper in her hand. It was a newspaper clipping. She brought it close to her face until she could make out the ant-size print, and then, all at once, the room went dark. Her tears came in a rush. What a terrible daughter she must have been to not have known it all along.
“Please,” Sarah said, reaching out to hold her. “Let me explain.”
But Deya took one step back, and then another, and the next she knew she was running.
Fareeda
1970
One of the memories that came unbidden when Fareeda was alone: she was at a gathering while she and Khaled still lived in the camps, a few years before they moved to America. The women sat on the veranda of Fareeda’s cement shelter, sipping on mint chai and eating from a fresh platter of za’atar rolls Fareeda had baked over the soba oven. Their kids were riding bikes on the unpaved road. A soccer ball flew from one end of the street to the other. They were surrounded by noise, laughter.
“Did you hear about Ramsy’s wife?” Hala, Fareeda’s next-door neighbor, asked between mouthfuls of bread. “The girl who lives on the other side of the camp? What’s her name? Suhayla, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Awatif, who lived eight doors down, in a shelter by the open sewers. “The one who went crazy after her newborn daughter died.”
“But did you hear the rumor”—Hala leaned in, her voice a whisper—“about what really happened to her daughter? They’re saying she drowned her in the bathtub. Ramsy and his family tried to pass it off as an accident, said she’s still a young bride and didn’t know how to bathe the girl properly. But I heard she did it on purpose. She didn’t want a daughter.”
Fareeda felt nauseous, her tongue dry. She swallowed, then took another sip of her chai.
“I mean, it makes sense,” Hala went on. “The girl was raped as a child, then married off at once. Poor girl was barely thirteen. And we all know Ramsy. A drunk. Day and night with sharaab in his hands. He probably beats the poor girl every night. You can imagine the rest. She likely thought she was saving her daughter. It’s sad, really.”
Fareeda kept her eyes on her legs. Her fingers trembled against her teacup, and she placed it on the old barrel they used for a coffee table. The barrel was rusted and moldy but had been standing strong for over ten years, ever since Khaled and Fareeda first married in the camps. It had served many uses then. She remembered using it as a bucket to shower.
“Nonsense,” Awatif said, pulling Fareeda back into the conversation. “No mother in her right mind would kill her child. She must have been possessed. I guarantee it.” She turned to Fareeda, who sat silently beside her. “Tell them, Fareeda. You would know. Your twin daughters died right in your arms. Would a mother ever do such a thing unless she wasn’t in her right mind? It was a jinn. Tell them.”
A flush spread across Fareeda’s face. She made an excuse to grab something from the kitchen, knees buckling as she rose from the plastic chair. She tried to keep from falling as she walked across the dirt garden, past the marimaya plant and the mint bush, and into the kitchen. It was three feet by three across, equipped only with a sink, soba oven, and small cabinet. Fareeda could hear Nadia on the veranda whispering, “Why would you bring up such a thing? The woman lost her firstborns. Why would you remind her?”
“It was over ten years ago,” Awatif said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Besides, look at her life now. She has three sons. Her naseeb turned out pretty good, if you ask me. No reason to fuss.”
In the kitchen, Fareeda trembled violently. She remembered her daughters’ death in bits and pieces only. Their bodies turning blue in