Omar married his cousin’s daughter, and then she was pregnant, and then she was Um Yusef.

The Koran said that a man must not have more than one wife unless he could treat them equally. Omar tried to give as much attention to Jihan as to his bride. She disdained him. If she could not be the only one, she would not be anyone.

The concept of depression as a clinical illness did not exist in al-Remal. There was not a single psychiatrist or psychologist in the country. When Jihan’s affliction became unbearable, she tried folk remedies, including hashish. Although illegal, the drug was widely available and sometimes used medically; Jihan had seen women take it as an anesthetic and relaxant in childbirth. It did not help her. The initial pleasant dreaminess evaporated when she glanced in the little mirror on her dressing table. Look at the lines! At thirty-two, she was old and ugly. She left the room and immediately ran into Um Yusef, who seemed as youthful and beautiful as an angel. Jihan never tried hashish again.

In the end, at the urging of Najla, Amira, and even Um Yusef, she sent for the same doctor who had examined her after the miscarriage. He assured her that this time there was no need for her to disrobe. All she needed was something to help her sleep. He gave her a large bottle of pills, instructing her to take one just before bed, but never more than two in a given day.

Jihan used the pills for three nights and slept like the dead. That was just the trouble: she woke feeling as if she were dead. She knew why: although she could remember nothing from her deep sleep, she was certain that she had had the dream and had dreamed it all the way through, without the escape of waking up. She was dying every night. She put the pills away. From then on, nothing was better, everything was worse. There was no help for her, none on Earth.

O

“You called me, Mother?” Even though she had watched Jihan decline for months, the way her mother looked still shocked her: unhealthy complexion with no makeup, hair disheveled, clothes smelling of too-long wear.

“Called? Yes, I suppose. Sit, child.”

Amira obeyed. For a long time, Jihan said nothing, merely stared into space. Then suddenly, she blurted, “To fight with a man brings only pain and suffering. Obey your husband and bend to his will. Remember that, and you’ll be happier than I have been.”

“Yes, Mother. Of course.”

Another long silence, then: “Times change, as Omar says. The world changes. People say they wish they could turn back the clock. I wish I could turn it forward. I wish I were your age. I wish … ah, well.”