The Handmaid's Daughter
It's been eighteen years since.
I remember the day distinctly.
It was a warm May day, when the rebels began their attack; the tulips which Mother tended had just begun to bloom. Of course, this was not my biological mother, I was certain of it. Yes, of the few things I was certain of, this was one of them. No mother would hesitate before hugging her daughter or flinch when they kissed. No mother would let her daughter cry herself to sleep when the nightmares would hit, crashing like waves onto the shore. But like the smooth sandy shore, I, too, became accustomed to Mother's actions.
I had a real mother, once. My biological mother, that is. On good nights, she visits me in my dreams. She's warm, warm like fresh baked cookies, and I'm in her arms, she's holding me, and for a moment, just a moment, I'm so enveloped in her love and embrace that I forget.
I forget.
I forget that I am here. I forget that I lie cold in my white nightdress, under a white sheet. I forget that she does not exist.
Or so they told me, in the beginning.
What I can remember of my first few years with Mother and Father is blurry.
Of what I can recall is not being allowed to play outside, not knowing anyone my size (that is, another child), and a lot of white. Everything I wore was white. White shoes, white dresses, white hats.
Most days I sat in the kitchen with the Marthas, watching, always watching. They couldn't stop me from that.
There was one other thing they couldn't stop, and that was the nightmare.
I am sitting in the backseat of a car; a man is driving with a woman in the front seat. We're all laughing and smiling until we find ourselves on a dark road, not the one we were supposed to be on; I can tell by the frown on the man's face as the car starts moving faster. I look outside the window and the trees blur into a mess of brown and green. I clutch my stuffed rabbit close to my chest, when I hear the sirens. I look over my shoulder and I see blue and red flashing lights. I can't seem to keep my eyes open, because every time I blink I'm somewhere else, first in the car, laughing, then flying through the trees in the woman's arms, and she's running, but then we're falling and she's crying and telling me to be quiet, but I can't, I can't, and then there are gloved hands, cold arms, prying me from her, taking me away, and I blink and she's screaming, crying out to me, and I reach out, reach for her, but someone in green stands in front of me blocking her from my view, and I blink, and she's gone, it's all gone, everything is gone, because there's nothing left except –
White. Everything goes white.
I was sixteen when the rebels made their way to our street. Mother and Father were already planning my marriage to one of those boys (they could hardly be called men, those Guardians) when they arrived, breaking down the door and grabbing Mother and Father, who screamed and called out to me. I didn't even move from my stance at the top of the stairs. They were gone in minutes.
No longer held back by Mother and Father, I walked out that door and never looked back.
I spent a long time wandering. But I wasn't alone. Soon they emerged, one by one, ten of us, then fifty, and soon, more than I could count. Teenagers and children – the youth whose youth was stolen from them – aimlessly walking amidst the chaos of what was once "home."
But what is a home, anyway? Is it where you settle in for the night, where you spend most of your hours? Is it where pain and suffering go unnoticed, like crumbs falling under the table, swept away?
I remember my first home, the home where I was born, raised, loved, until that day, that terrible day, and it was all over. A white picket fence, a warm fireplace, a soft pillow, a mother's touch – it comes to me in waves.
The rebels were forced to take care of us. Most of the Commanders and Commanders' Wives were executed during the rebellion. So we found ourselves in large buildings, dormitories, along the river. It was there that we met.
He sat next to me during meal times and we soon became close friends. And there we waited, in those dormitories along the river, for the rebellion to end.
"What are we going to do?" he asked me, desperately, on one of those restless days.
"I don't know."
"Let's get out of here. We could sneak past the soldiers at breakfast, when they're still sleepy –"
"They'd shoot us the second they saw us step out of line."
"How could they? We're all they have left."
It was true. How to maintain a stable population, that's where this all started, right?
All the fighting, all the wars, all the lives lost, all the clothes that would never again be worn, all the homes that would never again be warm...
And I'm thinking of home again. After school she would wait for me, in the car, and I'd run to her, my little stuffed rabbit in hand. A kiss, then I was strapped in my seat in the back and we were on our way. I wonder what happened to that rabbit.
After two years of "living" in the dormitories along the river, those of us who were eighteen and older were released to figure out things on our own. It was hard, at first, what with the state of the country, but soon enough, everything started looking better. We worked odd jobs, him and me, cleaning up the rubble of the rebellion, rebuilding communities, mending each others' hearts.
One day, the new government announced that they were in the process of connecting children lost in the Gileadean days to their biological mothers. Families torn apart would be brought together again by means of genetic tests and God knows what. My mind flickered back to my mother, my real mother, her arms, her love...but I shunned such thoughts immediately. Impossible, it was; there was no way I'd see her again, obviously – she was dead.
All these thoughts run through my mind as I sit on a bench in the park, looking up at the trees, the birds, the colours of their feathers and their babies, in the nests, cheerfully singing, and then I see her.
She's walking towards me. Mid-fifties, I'd say. Light brown hair, with streaks of grey. Dressed in simple clothes, she looks at me with an intensity that I can't place. She stops in front of me. I stand.
There's a crease in her forehead as she focuses on me, tilting her head, and in her eyes I see what was at first fear, or anxiety, perhaps, then astonishment, amazement, longing – love. Yes, it's there, shining from her eyes like the noonday sun, brightening up her face, and then a small, tentative smile.
My eyes widen in disbelief. "Mom?"
"Oh, my darling." And finally, I'm in her arms, and she's kissing me, sobbing, and tears are falling, and I can't stop smiling, and I'm so happy, so unbelievably happy because this is real, yes, this is real life, when we're interrupted.
"Mommy?" says my five-year old daughter, stuffed rabbit in her arm, tugging on my sleeve. "Who is this, Mommy?" She looks up at my mother, curiously.
My mother bends to her knees, and opens her arms, smiling.
Slowly, cautiously, she steps into them, still confused, but not afraid.
And as I watch my mother embrace my daughter, I know, I finally know –
Yes. Everything is going to be alright.