HEY, WATERFORD!
"Hey, Waterford!" the IHC guard yelled down the hall, seeing Serena rounding the corner to her cell. As the two passed, Serena could see that the guard had the food cart - coming away from Serena's digs - piled with all the 'dirty dishes' collected from the block.
"Waterford, how'd you get out of your cell!?" Serena assured the guard that she'd not yet been in her cell. (She'd been at an overextended visit with a Commander of Gilead, but that would have meant nothing to IHC staff.)
Indeed, Serena replied, "I'm on my way to my bunk, precisely so as to eat!"
"Oh," said the guard as she kept going past Serena. "I see. Your new cell mate, it seems she ate your dinner. Too bad for you."
"What!?" Serena said. The incompetents in this Detention Centre were just like the last ones. At the ITWC. At least at the ITWC all she had had to bear from Gilead was Naomi Putnum. Here? It had been Commander Lawrence - someone she'd always hated. Thought he was the smartest one in the room. Despite being credited with being an architect of Gilead, as far as she was concerned, her books were far, far more influential.
Rather than sketch out policy, Lawrence was always on the lookout for the next bon mot. An example: after offering Serena absolutely nothing a few moments ago, where she confessed to being treated like a handmaid, all he could muster was, "do you have an irony deficiency?"
Her thought - admittedly while fighting back more tears - 'get back to me Joseph when you can be helpful'.
It had been almost three weeks since Mrs. Serena Joy Waterford, Wife of Gilead, had been in the IHC Detention Centre there in Toronto. Twenty-one days since June Osborne and her treacherous husband had arranged for her arrest, as well as Noah's apprehension. Today had been the first full day when Serena had not had a breakdown of some sort because of the latter. Today's had to do with Lawrence.
She had also been upfront with the Detention Centre staff about her needs, as a nursing, new mom. One who was forced to express milk into bottles for a daily pickup by the Wheelers, usually Alanis Wheeler herself. She was forced to express milk in the common area, so as to be able to pass the fresh supply directly to Mrs. Wheeler on her arrival.
It was humiliating to the extreme. Her one concession? An unlimited phone card at the Centre's phone desk.
As such, the infirmary said that Serena was not to miss meals. Was to keep on a regular regimen of post-partum vitamins and keep her fluid intake up. None of that had happened other than in a haphazard way. That had led to Mrs. Wheeler complaining that Serena was neglecting herself on purpose, to keep her milk production low, and to contribute to Noah's crying fits back home.
The Wheeler home.
This place? A detention centre for the undocumented migrants, refugees, or random people who'd managed to find Canada - almost always from Gilead to the south. That place was too crowded, underfunded, and Serena had as of yet seen an immigration lawyer.
It had been three weeks.
As she stood in front of her solid cell-door, another guard came down the hall to let her in. Repeating what the other woman had said, the guard said, "you shouldn't be out during the dinner period. How'd you get out, anyway?" Serena thought, 'don't these people compare notes?'
Not waiting for an answer, the guard opened the door and gently but firmly guided Serena in. Between the ITWC Detention Centre and this one, Serena was now quite used to being manhandled, to be shoved in directions not of her choosing. Rarely rudely, but still.
Now inside, lo and behold, in front of Serena, laying out on Serena's bed was a stately-looking woman, wrapped in a teal robe. It was strange how quickly Serena could tell that the woman's ruffled hair must be uncharacteristic, as well as the soil marks on the teal.
Seeing Serena, the woman sat up and looked at her with a measure of unmerited disgust. Serena wondered, 'how could this woman hate me so quickly?' To no one in particular, the woman said, "the Lord is taxing me, putting me to the test. 'O Lord my God: lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death'." She paused then looked directly at Serena, "truly, I was afraid it would be the immoral slut I'd be paired with."
Serena stood there, vowing to be polite, especially to a rare colleague from Gilead. 'Boy,' Serena thought, 'she will be embarrassed when she discovers who I am.'
Instead, Serena said, "excuse me, there has been a mistake. That's my bed." Pointing to the other one across the room, the one as yet unmade, Serena finished, "that one there, that's yours. My few things, they're beside my bed."
The woman stood to her full height and said, "immoral whores cannot be choosers. I saw you, out there in the common area. Drawing milk from your naked breasts like a barnyard animal."
Serena remained where she was standing, "look, Mrs….." and then made a struggling noise inviting the woman to fill in the blank.
To which the woman replied, "… Mrs. Gomez…"
"Mrs. Gomez," Serena echoed. "We should not get off on the wrong foot. I am Mrs. Serena Joy Waterford. My husband was a Commander of New Gilead."
Mrs Gomez said, "But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters," she raised her voice in volume for the next one, "and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death."
Serena offered a mildly sarcastic smile, then said, "Mrs. Gomez, what happened to my dinner?"
"Me?" Mrs. Gomez said with surprise. "Me, I ate it. The prodigal, he wasted his inheritance on riotous and unrighteous living. Like you, slut. So I made sure it did not go to waste."
Serena took a step forward. She then said, "move away from my bed, from my things."
Gomez eyed Serena, then clasped her hands in front of her. She turned towards the unmade bed and slowly made her way to it.
"You're a slut, Mrs. Waterford," Gomez said accenting the 'Mrs.' with some mild mockery. "Too bad you're a slut Handmade, I could use a martha right now. Alas, I'll rely on my own efforts."
Serena went over to her bed and scanned the small table to make sure nothing was missing. Missing were a few small soaps, a few of those stiff paper napkins…. and her calling card.
Mrs. Gomez turned and sat on her bed. She looked at Serena up and down. "Mrs. Serena Waterford was an architect of Gilead, her name is to be revered. You, slut, look at your left-hand. From sinful pride and unGodly self-regard, you - on the other hand - are trying to hide your punishment, your shame. You, my girl, are no Serena Joy Waterford."
AN ALLY IN DETENTION
Serena had just got back to her cell from the phone desk. Despite missing her card, the officer there had obliged. She didn't have to, but Serena had been there enough. The officer had suggested that Serena not call that one number over and over again, expecting a differing result. He told her that the list taped to the desk had the number for the US Consulate in Toronto, they had a number for Legal Aide Ontario and they had the numbers for some paralegal charities. Serena was desperate, but she still clung to some measure of entitlement.
What Serena needed was an ally. Only one. So from desperation, she had memorized June Osborne's number, and prayed to God that she did not change it. Each time her call had gone to voice mail - that, at least, was a small success. At least Serena could leave a full-voice petition there.
She'd done her fair share of panicked crying when alone in the cell. She'd usually gathered herself when Mrs. Gomez was present. Which was most of the time.
This time Serena had had only a couple of minutes to herself, when the door mechanically clicked open, and Mrs. Gomez was herself gently guided through it. Seeing Serena, Mrs. Gomez's whole demeanor became different.
Usually one to keep distance, this time Mrs. Gomez slowly approached Serena with her head bowed.
"Mrs. Waterford," she said, "I have been horribly rude to you. Please accept my apology. 'When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with the humble is wisdom. Clothe yourselves, all of you, with humility toward one another, for God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble'."
Gomez extended a hand to Serena, in it was folded napkins which she gently opened. In it was last night's dinner, Serena's.
Briefly stunned by the about-face, Serena said, "Mrs. Gomez, think nothing of it. I accept your gracious apology." Yet she did take the dinner and begin to eat it.
As it was, Gomez then opened up about her plight. "Like you, Mrs. Waterford, my husband, a Commander of the Eastern District, he had been betrayed by evil men. There is a rot to Gilead, Mrs. Waterford. My husband's personal Guardian, as a tribute to the Commander, he risked his own life to get me as far as he did. For my part, I simply walked north. When apprehended, I refused refugee designation. I am a woman of Gilead, a Wife. I am not part of the econo-world. I refuse."
Serena explained to Gomez about baby Nichole, legally and righteously born to the Waterford's through the Bilhah program. Both she and her husband had been betrayed by Americans, who had lured them north with a promise for reunification with their daughter.
Serena was a bit more vague when she got to the part about residing at the Wheelers, as well as about Noah's birth. Serena said, "I realize it looks like a Handmaid situation, but they don't have that here in Canada. Yet with my legal status here, my choices are limited. I either return to Gilead without my now newborn-son, or I compete with a family here in Canada for custody of him."
"The term 'your son', is actually more like a turn of phrase," Gomez recited. "Those were your words, it was you, Mrs. Waterford, who wrote about children being a State resource. A necessary evolution of child-rearing due to the fertility crisis. We women, we are only vessels, conduits of God's will."
Their relationship in that cell, it had done a complete about face, a 180 degree turn. Although Mrs. Gomez was without a child herself, their situation in the IHC Detention Centre was remarkably similar. Both were in dire need of allies, people who would represent them on the outside - in a Canada in which they had few rights.
"Mrs Waterford," Gomez said, "I am being released tonight, is there anything I can do?" Serena waited in silence. Gomez continued, "The Eastern District has come to their senses, and I will be returning. A young Commander, one whose Wife has just died, he has two handmaids. I will be marrying him and as it says in Proverbs, I will be the mistress running his estate."
Serena saw an opportunity. "Mrs. Gomez, when you get back, can you be in touch with a Commander of New Gilead, Commander Nick Blaine? Can you apprise him of my plight? And if possible, could he travel here to Toronto, where I can explain things. We could even have a phone call."
"For you," Mrs. Gomez said, "yes, anything. I was so horrible to you. I would consider that as a way of walking a walk of contrition as God instructs."
It was a full 90 minutes before Mrs. Gomez was collected by guards, where other staff collected her things…. one pocketed Serena's unlimited calling-card, which she was too intimidated to request back…
Besides, Serena finally could envision a Sun coming up over a dark horizon.
ANOTHER 180
It now had been three and a half weeks in this place. Serena, she was returning late from another pumping session in the visitation room, Alanis Wheeler lording over her. Pumping, supervision, and stress were a bad combination. Alanis was all three.
Returning, her cell door was opened, and Serena's body had long since accommodated the gentle shove inside.
Yet this time, there was another woman - one dressed in soiled martha's garb - lying there on Serena's bed. Instead of speaking to the sleeping woman, Serena visually checked that nothing of import was missing from her table. All the soap was there.
So Serena spoke up, more of a "uh-hummmmmmm" At that the woman startled, swung her legs around so that her feet were on the floor, but it was obvious that she was going to need a minute.
Serena counted to ten, then said in a firm, mistress-of-the-house voice, "Excuse me, but that's my bed."
Her eyes finding focus, the woman looked up and said, "it's you, it really is you. The Lord is, indeed, merciful. You can help me, you're Serena Joy Waterford."
Serena instinctively recoiled from such extended verbiage from a Martha. This woman had obviously been 'out of service' for a while.
Trying to reestablish a pecking order, Serena said, "where were you posted?"
"'Posted'?" the woman echoed. The woman stood and straightened her filthy utility grays. "Mrs. Waterford, I'm not a martha, I know it looks that way."
Serena asked, "then who are you?"
"I'm Mrs Gomez, Wife of Commander Gomez of the Eastern District, he'd been unjustly purged. His Guardian, he got me and my attending Martha to the border."