Sarah stood frozen in the kitchen doorway. Isra wished she could do something to help her. But this was the way of life, she told herself. There was nothing she could do about it. Her powerlessness even comforted her somehow. Knowing that she couldn’t change things—that she didn’t have a choice—made living it more bearable. She realized she was a coward, but she also knew a person could only do so much. She couldn’t change centuries of culture on her own, and neither could Sarah. “Come on,” she whispered, nudging Sarah down the hall. “They’re waiting for you.”
That night, Isra couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Sarah would be gone soon. She wondered if they would still be friends after she left, if Sarah would be able to visit still, if she would miss her. She wondered if she would ever read again. Isra had grown enough now to know that the world hurt less when you weren’t hoping. She had even started to think that perhaps her books had done more harm than good, waking her up to the reality of her life and its imperfections. Maybe she would have been better without them. All they had done was stir up false hope. Still, the possibility of a life without books was far worse.
In the sala the next day, Fareeda waited for the suitor’s mother to call and announce her son’s decision. Isra flinched every time the phone rang—at least half a dozen times in the course of the afternoon. She studied Fareeda’s expression as she answered each call, a rush of panic rising in her. Sarah alone seemed undisturbed. She sat cross-legged on the sofa, her face in a book, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
The phone rang again, and Fareeda rushed to answer it. Isra watched as she muttered a lively salaam into the phone, noticed how quickly she fell quiet. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth hung open as she listened, but she didn’t say a word. Isra bit her fingers.
“They said no,” Fareeda said when she’d hung up the phone. “No. Just like that.”
Sarah looked up from a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale. “Oh,” she said, before flipping the page. Isra felt her heart thumping wildly against her nightgown.
“But why would she say no?” Fareeda looked hard into Sarah’s eyes. “You said your conversation with the boy went well.”
“I don’t know, Mama. Maybe he didn’t like me. Just because you have a decent conversation with someone, that doesn’t mean you should necessarily marry them.”
“There you go again with your smart remarks.” Fareeda’s eyes were bulging. She snatched the book from Sarah’s fingers, flung it across the room. “Just wait!” she said, turning to leave. “Just wait until I find a man to take you off my shoulders. Wallahi, I don’t care if he’s old and fat. I’m giving you away to the first man who agrees to take you!”
Isra turned to Sarah, expecting to find her caved into the sofa, but her friend had sprung gracefully to her feet and was scanning the floor for her book. Catching Isra’s eyes, she said, “There is nothing in the world I hate more than that woman.”
“Shhh,” Isra said. “She’ll hear you.”
“Let her.”
When she’d finished brewing a kettle of chai to calm Fareeda’s nerves, Isra retreated downstairs to read. Beside her, Deya scribbled in a coloring book. Nora and Layla played with Legos. Amal slept in her crib. Watching them as they scattered across the room, glancing over to her every now and then, Isra felt a jolt of helplessness deep within her. She had to do something, anything, to help her daughters.
“Mama,” Deya said. Isra smiled. Inside she wanted to scream. “My teacher said we have to read this for homework.” Deya handed Isra a Dr. Seuss book. Isra took the book from her hands and signaled for her to sit. As she read, she could see Deya’s eyes widen in curiosity and excitement. She reached out and stroked her daughter’s face. Nora and Layla listened with half an ear each, building a bridge of Legos around her. Amal slept peacefully.
“I love when you read to me,” Deya said when Isra had finished.
“You do?”
Deya nodded slowly. “Can you always be this way?”
“What way?” Isra asked.
Deya stared at her feet. “Happy.”
“I am happy,” Isra said.
“You always look sad.”
Isra swallowed hard, tried to steady her voice. “I’m not sad.”