“I don’t understand why she insists on marrying me off so soon. For God’s sake, I haven’t even finished high school!”
Isra passed her a warm look. She understood why: Sarah had become increasingly rebellious over the years. She could imagine how worried Fareeda was, watching Sarah refuse to take part in any of the traditions, barely speaking Arabic anymore. Sometimes Isra watched Sarah from the window as she walked home from school, rushing to wipe her makeup off before she entered the house. Last month, when Sarah had handed her a copy of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, Isra had noticed a sleeveless top in her bag. She hadn’t mentioned it, and Sarah hadn’t either, stuffing the blouse deep beneath her books, but Isra wondered what else Sarah was hiding. She considered how she would feel if she was in Fareeda’s shoes. She didn’t know what lengths she would go to in order to keep her own daughters safe.
“I don’t want to get married. She can’t force me!”
“Lower your voice. She’ll hear you.”
“I don’t care if she hears me. This is America. She can’t force me to get married!”
“Yes, she can,” Isra whispered. “She’ll punish you if you defy her.”
“What could she possibly do? Beat me? I’ll take a beating daily if it means avoiding marriage.”
Isra shook her head. “Sarah, I don’t think you understand. It won’t be a single beating by Fareeda. Soon your father and brothers will start beating you, too. Then how long will you stand it?”
Sarah crossed her arms. “For as long as it takes.”
Isra examined her bright face and catlike eyes. She wished she could’ve had her strength as a girl. How different her life could have been had she only had courage. Sarah’s eyes narrowed further. “I refuse to have a life like yours.”
“And what kind of life is that?” Isra asked, though she already knew the answer.
“I’m not going to let anyone control me.”
“No one will control you,” Isra said, but her tone betrayed her.
“Maybe you can lie to yourself, but you don’t fool me.”
Though her books had shown her otherwise, the old words spilled out. “This is the life of a woman, you know.”
“You don’t actually believe that, do you?”
“I don’t see any other way,” Isra whispered.
“How can you say that? There’s more to life than marriage. I thought you believed that. I know you do.”
“I do, but that doesn’t mean we have the power to change our circumstances.”
Sarah blinked at her. “So you want me to just accept my life for what they tell me it should be? What kind of life is that?”
“I never said it was right, but I don’t see anything we can do about it.”
“I’ll stand up for myself! I’ll refuse!”
“It won’t matter. Fareeda won’t listen.”
“Then I’ll tell the man myself! I’ll look him straight in the eyes and say, ‘I don’t want to marry you. I’ll make your life a living hell.’”
Isra shook her head. “She’ll marry you off eventually. If not to this man, then the next.”
“No,” Sarah said, standing up. “I won’t let that happen. Even if I have to scare every last man away.”
“But don’t you see, Sarah?”
“See what?”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“Is that what you think? That I don’t have a choice?” Despite the defiance in Sarah’s voice, Isra sensed her anxiety. “We’ll see about that.”
Later, Sarah appeared in the kitchen wearing an ivory kaftan. Outside, the trees moved slowly, their branches still bare, a residue of ice visible from the kitchen window. “You look beautiful,” Isra told her.
“Whatever,” Sarah said, walking past her. She grabbed a serving bowl from the cabinet and began filling it with fruit. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“What are you doing?” Isra asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to serve our guests.”
Isra took the bowl from her. “You’re not supposed to serve the fruit first.”
“Then I’ll make coffee,” Sarah said, grabbing a small beaker from the drawer.
“Coffee?”
“Yeah.”
“Sarah, you never serve coffee first.”
She shrugged. “I’ve never paid attention to these stupid things.”
Isra wondered if Sarah was serving the Turkish coffee first on purpose, the way she had done years ago, or if she really didn’t know better. “Just arrange the teacups on a serving tray,” Isra said. “I’ll brew the chai.”
Sarah leaned against the counter, arranging glass cups on a serving tray. Isra counted them in her head: Fareeda. Khaled. The suitor. His mother. His father. Five in total.
“Here,” she said, handing Sarah a tray of sesame cookies. “Go serve these while