The room which belonged to the Late Wife has been stripped clean, or cleaner than it had been. The scent of her and the repugnant maelstrom of sickness and sanitizer has been eradicated. Any indication of her useless existence has been so diligently erased that short of washing away my memories of her, I could have forgotten that anyone had ever stepped foot in this place. All that is left behind is a space I am contracted to fill.
My old room, the handmaid's room, will be converted to a nursery soon enough. The walls will be painted over with some bullshit 'gender neutral' color called custard or toffee that will inevitably be stamped over by dirty, sticky hands because even as a toddler, the child will unwittingly put its best efforts towards masking that lifeless color.
My child. Our child? No. I won't decide now who owns the child. Even if it is human, which I refuse to believe since nothing born of Gilead can be natural, all humans are owned like cattle and this form that incubates within me is a product created to serve the government that ordered its existence. I am not certain if I want to claim sole or even shared responsibility for that product.
I was tasked to be a surrogate. I had trained myself to not picture giving up any of the children I bore because to prepare myself to lose them required me to program myself to care about that experience or any experience involving a child leading up to that. This child may come from me but it will have nothing from or of me. Gilead took all of that away.
I will not decide this future tonight. Tonight will be the night that I rest soundly; the night that I sleep without fear.
I shut the door behind me, deciding to lock it. I am allowed to lock a door. The Marthas could pick the lock or have the door busted down if I holed myself within, but I am not locking the door to restrain what lies on either side of it. I lock the door because I can lock the door and even if it serves no purpose it means that I can control something. I am allowed to have an illusion of privacy to a room that is my sanctuary. I may not own the house or the room but it has been given to me, willed unknowingly by the Late Wife to me as a wedding gift.
I notice the fireplace is picturesque like a photo in a furniture catalog, lacking a dusting of soot and wood shavings. Nearing it I realize that the fireplace is real but doesn't utilize real firewood and instead uses flame-resistant log-shaped material and is fueled by gas. I locate matches on the mantle next to a key that I assume will turn on the gas; it helped the Late Wife sustain her fire longer. I momentarily contemplate over taking advantage of the key and inhaling the gas. No. I decide, scraping a long match along the box and hearing it hiss to life. The hiss sounds wickedly pure; the excitement of reclaiming something so natural yet forbidden. I toss the match. Blossoms of orange and yellow painted heat make me shiver in their glorious presence. I haven't felt or seen fire in so long-too long-I want to reach out and embrace it. My old friend.
I decide that if I die-when I die-that I will not be entombed or remembered in red and blue. I shed the heavy cloak and pretend that the navy fabric pooling around my feet is water from a sea far away from this room. I gingerly remove my wedding band and place it atop the mantle so I can pluck each scarlet entrapment from my fingers. I remove each layer of red fabric and throw it on the fire before I can talk myself into diving in after it. The fabric won't be good for the fire place, I reckon, wondering if the flames will devour it before an Aunt comes to take it back from me and force over another young handmaid. I will think of a cover-up story about the location of my old uniform if or when the time comes.
I am naked. I am not cold nor ashamed of my nakedness. I am proud of it. I am myself again if only for a moment. No colors or class to identify me.
A kick to the inner walls of my abdomen rocks me back to reality, anchoring me there in surprise. The baby has never kicked before. Symptoms can occur later in gestation than expected during a woman's first pregnancy, the doctors had told me. The kick is swift and more painful than I expect. I place a hand flat upon my swollen lower half, though it won't relieve the soreness. A moment after placing my hand upon the curve of my belly I feel another kick. This one feels deliberate. Can it feel me there? Can it feel what I feel before the fire in my nakedness?
"Little monster." I murmur, feeling betrayed by a small child taking residence in my body for stealing away what I considered a private moment for itself.
He shifts. Yes. I nod, soothing circles over my stomach. This little monster feels to be a he.
"Time for bed." I say, making myself feel silly to imagine that the little monster hears me and will obey me by settling down for the night.
I cross the room and open the wardrobe to find an abundance of new clothes in my maternity measurements all in varying shades of quiet and reserved blue. I retrieve a lengthy cotton nightgown with a slit in the sleeves that continues to the hem joining it to torso. Even for a nightgown, it would be seen as immodest to display an excess of the arm. I pull the gown over my head and sulk back to the mantle, remembering the wedding ring I had left there. I hadn't heard any stories about a spouse getting caught without wearing their ring, nor do I want to be the case that leads to such a story.
Sliding myself onto the bed I am overjoyed and grateful to know that these are not the same sheets the Late Wife had slept (or died) on. The sheets are infinitely more soft and comfortable than the ones I had been provided as a handmaid. I am too mentally and physically exhausted to take five minutes to indulge myself and explore the softness of the sheets all over my body. The crackling of the fireplace lulls me into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
Nausea wakes me around seven-thirty. I start my morning with a sprint to an unfamiliar bathroom. The unusual meal from the night before conjures up such violent vomiting that a Martha (it sounds to be Peggy) rushes in with fright splashed across her features. "Are you alright, Mrs. Tarleton?"
My eyes are still closed. I roll them regardless. Hearing her call me by that name makes my stomach churn again. "Please don't call me that." I huff grumpily.
"Yes ma'am." She replies, placing a comforting hand on my back and offering me the free one to guide me to my feet. "Mr. Tarleton was also ill this morning." Peggy notes. Her vague statement is the closest she can venture towards gossiping without being throttled for slander. "I think he is well enough now to join you for breakfast in the dining room."
I let out a putrid breath and regret doing so. "I'll be down shortly." I turn on the sink and catch my reflection in the mirror. Bile burns my throat and threatens to bubble up once more. I haven't seen my own reflection without distortion or blurriness for nearly a year.
My hair is dull and embarrassingly scruffy, not to mention riddled with dead ends with splits nearly an inch long. A sullen, unfamiliar face glares back at me that is so dry and neglected a layer of dust would have given it texture and color. My eyes. Oh god, my eyes. My favorite feature. My irises have always been a miraculous shade of pale jasmine. Now my eyes are rimmed with exhaustion and sunken in like shallow graves with a slimy green ring festering around the pupils.
Peggy is still here, watching. I see the pity in her eyes. "Would you like me to put up your hair, ma'am?" This is the only comfort or aid she can provide.
I nod, closing my eyes. "I'll get dressed."
My husband is hidden behind a newspaper at the head of his great white marble table. I guess he believes that no matter how much he spends on something, it can be labeled as minimalist if it's a solid color and remains relatively shapeless. I take my seat at the opposite end of the table.
"Blessed morning." His voice is muffled behind the newspaper. "How is our little fruit today?" He clearly is not invested in an answer judging by the dry quality of his voice. I wonder if he cares as little as I do about the pregnancy.
"Kicking," I mutter carelessly. "He started kicking last night." I announce after my plate of breakfast is set down before me. Do I tell him this sort of thing?
"He?" My husband echoes skeptically, folding up the paper.
"Y-Yes…" I trail off nervously and sip on my water.
Blinking, Daniel chuckles to himself with a self-made amusement that is secret to me. "What has led you to believe that the child is a boy?"
I shrug, though my shoulders are fraught with tension. A mother's intuition? "My mother told me that you could always tell if a woman was having a boy by the way the baby rested on the body." I instantly regret bringing up my mother and silently pray that my husband won't ask about my mother or my family. I cannot think about them, especially now.
My husband frowns not at me but at himself. I see him struggle to keep down the remnants of alcohol and vomit from the previous night by shoving a fork full of food into his whiskey stained mouth. He's positively sweating out the alcohol now. Are all the men as fond of alcohol as him? Or was it the idea of marrying a stranger who carries his child no less than a week after his wife had passed away and left him in this new hell of a society by himself. For a moment, only a moment, I allow myself to pity him because I understand that he had lost his choice to choose a life for himself and had as much say in our marriage as I had.
We are both trapped.
It is my first doctor's appointment as a Wife. Peggy is instructed to accompany me to the office since I no longer have a partner in red nor do I have fellow Wives to join me and get over-excited at an exam that I cannot believe is enjoyable to anyone. Even with the wings shielding their faces I can recognize many of the handmaids who sit silently around me. In the corners of my vision, white wings dare to give second glances. Am I the first Wife to join them in this place?
When my name is called, it is Mrs. Tarleton instead of Ofdaniel. The doctor poorly hides his surprise at the change in name and title as I rise to meet him.
"So, you're the handmaid who married their Commander?" He asks with a fake hint of respect, now that I am no longer a handmaid, as if marrying a Commander is an honor that handmaids (or any woman) covets and dreams of.
"Am I the first one?" I ask daringly. As a Wife, I may be allowed an honest answer about the complexity of my situation.
"I only hear about the women in the city." He notes, drying off his hands next to an immaculate hand-washing station. "As far as I know, yes." He rolls his gloves on and adds quietly, "The first Wife since the rise of Gilead, if I'm not mistaken." He begins poking and prodding my abdomen and jotting things down in his report. "How often are you experiencing morning sickness?"
"Not too often." I reply. "I had a rather violent wake-up call thanks to it this morning."
"When you say 'violent', does that mean painful or bloody?"
"No, no," I shake my head. "It was just very abrupt and…graphic." I scrunch my nose at the memory of the smell.
"I see. Because of the wedding, perhaps?"
I shake my head, unsure if stress had a true influence on my morning. "He started kicking last night." I add.
"He?" The doctor echoes in the same annoying tone as my husband. "Has a different doctor used an ultrasound machine?" He asks in a low whisper. Any device that could tell a mother about their child is ungodly, since God knew all and only God could warrant that kind of information about His creations.
"No sin. I just…have a feeling."
"Well we'll find out if you're onto something in a few months." He reassures me before carrying on with the rest of the exam.
"Good news?" Peggy chirps anxiously as soon as I emerge from the office.
"Everything is fine." I say dryly, hoping to dampen her exploding emotions.
"Blessed be the fruit!" She rejoices. Peggy acts as if it were her own child.
"Peggy, may I ask you a question?" I ask once we are within the car. The engine turns over loudly and the car buzzes to life.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Did-do you have any children of your own? Before all of this?" The smile on her fleshy face fades and her eyes are no longer staring ahead but past me and past anything that lies on the physical space before us; she's gone back in time in her own mind and her eyes glass over. "I apologize. You don't have to answer."
"It's alright, ma'am." The hint of a smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. "James was my firstborn and Ru came a few years later. Cancer took her when she was twenty-four."
"I'm sorry to hear that." I say, wanting to place a comforting hand on hers. "Where is James now?"
"My boy…" She smiles fondly. "I was so proud of him. He was so smart. He became a historian and was in Scotland when…" She trails off and swallows. It's not easy to describe the rise and fall of power that always worked against you. "I haven't heard from him since then, but I hope and pray that he's happy and healthy."
I take a moment to translate my feelings into the permitted vernacular. "Our Lord protects those we love, even if we cannot see or hear the fruits of that protection."
"Yes, He does." Peggy replies without a hint of belief. My words are no comfort to her. She will have no comfort until she is given a sign of her son's wellbeing. "A child will be the blessing your household has been waiting for."
I take a long shower. Lukewarm water is how I like it when I choose to take my merry time. It is more soothing now. The shower and the soap is more luxurious than what was previously permitted. The soap softens my skin instead of scrubbing the surface clean. The showerhead has several functions, one function being so gentle that it massages my skin until I nearly fall asleep. The towels are better, too. Light and fluffy they suck up moisture from my skin and hair like a sponge.
I wrap the large towel around myself and sit before the mirror to brush my hair that shines like wet seaweed sticking to my neck and back. As I begin to rake a comb through my hair a knock comes from the door.
"One moment!" I snatch the navy silk robe from its hook and quickly don it over myself and tie the rope over my swollen abdomen so Peggy doesn't chide me for only being in a towel.
Opening the door, I am greeted not by Peggy or any other Martha but my husband. He's more relaxed in a loose white-button down shirt and black pants.
All the color has drained from my face. His knock was quieter than Peggy's and not the loud rapping I'd grown accustomed to. I had never seen him go in to the Wife's room before, and I wondered if it was by choice or Gileadean rules about private lives. Either way, I hadn't heard or expected him to enter my room. The bathroom seemed more private, somehow. Was I being reprimanded for something?
"You seem to have seen a ghost," he laughed playfully. "Are you alright?"
My mouth is dry as the Sahara. "Y-yes I'm alright. No ghosts." I babbled stupidly. Stupid, stupid.
"Did I frighten you?" He reckons he did, I can tell, but sounds surprised at the thought.
Yes. You always do. "I thought you were Peggy or one of the other Marthas. I would have covered up more if-" I wrap my arms around myself like a shield, suddenly conscious that despite carrying his child within me, this is the most intimate and vulnerable I've been with him. Alone, practically naked, in my bathroom.
"This isn't church." His voice is strangely comforting. Knowing that he's hardly as conservative and modest as the other men I'd heard of is a relief. I will myself to smile in agreement. "Peggy is feeling unwell and is resting until morning. Did you need something?"
Shouldn't I be asking that to him? "No. I was only brushing my hair."
"You've had a long day." Going to the doctor must be very tiring to other women. "Let me brush your hair." He says rather than asks. Before I can politely decline, he has a hand on my back guiding me back to my chair.
He loudly pulls a chair out and positions himself behind me. I shudder when his hand ghosts past my neck, gathering wet tendrils to tame. He flinches. "Is this alright?" It sounds like he's genuinely concerned, as if he'd actually stop if I told him I was uncomfortable. In truth, that betrays everything I've felt in the past about his touch.
I don't want him to stop touching me. I am starved of touch and warmth and damn me to hell for it but my skin is begging for him to continue exploring it. Any touch that is not malicious or violent is a godsend that I will embrace. Freezing and starving, his touch and warmth nourish parts of me that are nearly dead and gone from neglect.
"Yes." I apologize. "No one has brushed my hair for years." I close my eyes and cherish the warmth of his fingers meeting the damp chill of my scalp. "I used to beg my friends to brush or braid it." I confess. This note, small but personal, feels risky in its telling.
His touch lingers long on my skin, a small favor. "I can brush your hair whenever you want me to." He takes the comb from the counter and begins brushing the bottom of my hair first to clear out the knots. He must have done this before. To his wife, maybe? No. I am not going to think about him doing the same thing to her in the bathroom she used to use.
"I wouldn't want to bother you." I stiffen. Maybe he is buttering me up before he reveals some sin I've unknowingly committed and threatens me. Men are cruel in that way. Maybe he's a sadist who will make up something that I can be blamed for and will tear the hair out of my scalp with his fist.
"You are my wife." He states. The word 'wife' hangs heavily in the air. It is a reminder that while he may ask for my permission, the permission is only cordial and his word is law. "We live together now." We have always resided in the same place since I was stationed at his house; separate but not together. Our lives are now bonded by law and by God. "If brushing your hair makes you happy, I am happy."
We settle in a comfortable silence as his fingers follow the trail of my comb, soothing away any remaining tangles. He almost caresses my scalp and lingers perfectly at the juncture of my neck and my jaw.
"I came to apologize for my behavior last night. Everything in my life has been changing so fast…last night should have played out differently."
"It's okay." I lie without thinking. Even before Gilead, I had been raised, maybe taught, to apologize for wrongs I didn't commit and forgive things I did not see as forgivable. I have nothing else to say in response. A forced marriage should be bad enough, but ending my wedding night pregnant and alone still stings the small pride I had rescued after becoming a handmaid.
He sets down the comb and continues to run his fingers lazily through my hair. "Can you forgive me?" His question is quiet and weighed down with guilt that I cannot determine to be genuine or assumed.
No. "There is nothing you've done that calls for forgiveness." I reply robotically.
He holds his breath and leans forward. "I didn't know until after the Ceremony that you were a virgin." The word 'virgin' rolls from his tongue slowly, sounding like blasphemy.
Were. It feels like I still am. My hymen had been broken and my womb filled with a man's seed, but there was no lust or desire or passion involved in that process. There was no awkward fumbling or questions asked, no laughing at mistakes or moaning at the perfection of rhythmic movements that finally combine and merge at the right pace.
I freeze. The memory of burning and stinging from that night lives freshly in my mind. There was only a little bit of blood, but the Marthas had to replace the bedding regardless. My legs and thighs were weak for hours, and I was still sore the next morning.
"I would have gone slower…I would have been…gentler…" he trails off.
Don't cry. You do not cry. He could have been the most caring, considerate, careful person and the emotional pain would have remained. Having your first sexual encounter with a stranger while his decaying wife watched and held your hands and never being prepared for that experience or given a choice is not something to ever forgive and forget.
"Please," he pleads with hot breath upon the shell of my ear. "If you can, allow me forgiveness?"
A tear escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek, betraying all my efforts to be submissive and emotionless. Damn hormones. He has never been so genuine or nice to me before. Why now? Because he is asking to be forgiven for the unforgivable? It is hard to be angry at him for rules and procedures he didn't create until I remind myself that he willingly and obediently takes part in them and their progress.
He extends an olive branch and places a tender kiss on the back of my neck. Instinctively I shy away from it, cursing myself after and waiting to face the wrath of his rejection.
"Hey," he says without a trace of anger or spite. He is allowing me that privilege. "Look at me," he orders. He moves his chair to face me and through the blur of tears burning the edges of my vision I acknowledge the mixture of guilt and hurt on his face. I lower my head to look down and wipe my eyes.
"Please don't cry." An order, not a request. He closes the space between us and kisses my wet cheek. "If you will let me," No choice. "I want to fix what's happened. To have a re-do. I can't change my actions but I can atone for them."
I should cherish this moment of secured power. I am God to him and he is begging for a pardon from me but only to ease his own conscience, not mine. He is the non-believer at the gates of hell with one phone call to bail him out of an eternity of hellfire.
I clear my throat. "If there were a sin you wished to atone for, how would you atone for it?"
Without warning I am scooped up in his arms and cradled there. Past the thin mask of laundry detergent radiates the strong musk of expensive cologne that unsuccessfully hides the permanent scent of tobacco secretly smoked in his bedroom through a crack in his window. I am being carried through the hall to no-man's land: his bedroom.