Chapter 10: No Happily Ever After

The resort in which Luke and June were staying had a café, a bar, and two restaurants as well. To celebrate Luke's freedom from jail, they ate in the fancier of the two. They returned to their two-bedroom suite in good spirits—Luke hoped that the evening might progress in a romantic direction—but after just a few minutes inside their room, there was a knock on the door.

Mark Tuello stood there, wearing the biggest grin June had ever seen on him. "Hi, Mark," she greeted. It had been months since they'd seen each other. Any residual anger she felt for him had now thawed. He'd gotten Nichole and her on a train west: he'd kept her safe.

"Ms. Osborne," he said, formal as usual but with added warmth in his tone. "Mr. Bankole." He moved into the room to shake their hands. June pulled him in for a hug instead. "I trust you two are liking your new accommodations?"

"Spectacular upgrade from the Toronto East Detention Centre, that's for damn sure," Luke replied with humor. "What're you doing here? Has Little America emptied out so much that you're bored in Toronto?"

"No, no, I'm just here on assignment for a few days. The best part of my job, reunifying American families." He was still smiling.

"Thank you for that," June said earnestly, touching Luke's arm in appreciation.

"Yeah, thanks…although we're not completely reunified yet." Luke didn't mean to sound ungrateful, but Hannah was still out there, somewhere. Probably a wife by now. His chest ached just thinking about it.

"Well," Tuello began. Then he stopped speaking, and instead took a few steps back towards the hallway, gesturing to someone outside.

Striving to keep a serene expression on her face despite her nerves, Hannah entered the suite. Her hands clutched the unfamiliar material of the khaki shorts she'd been given. She tried pulling them down a little; although Val had assured her that shorts were perfectly acceptable clothing, she felt immodest.

Her mother gasped at the sight of her daughter, bringing a hand to her mouth. Otherwise, she went totally still. Hannah recognized her from the summer house and the prison, although she looked much, much prettier now. Her father—that must be her father, she thought, the beard was the same as she remembered—he just sort of collapsed on the ground, falling onto his knees.

For a long moment, nobody spoke. Hannah finally broke the loaded silence. "Blessed day, Mom and Dad." She had practiced that in the plane. Val and Jules had assured her it sounded better than Mother and Father.

At the sound of her voice, her mother seemed to activate. "It certainly is a blessed day," she agreed hoarsely. Hannah was relieved that they spoke the same way; Val had suggested 'hello' would be a more fitting greeting, but it sounded wrong in Hannah's mouth. Her mother moved closer to her, kneeling right in front of Hannah without reaching out to touch her. "Hi, baby." It was almost exactly the way she'd greeted her daughter at the summer house.

She looked into her mother's blue eyes, shiny with tears. "I got tired of waiting for you at home, so I came to find you in Canada," she quipped.

Her mother giggled at that. "Good idea, Banana, great idea. I can't believe you're here." She surprised herself with a spontaneous, "Praise be to God." For the first time in her life, she actually meant the words.

"Praise be," Hannah echoed. Feeling more secure with the familiar language, she moved in to give her mother a tentative hug. She hugged Hannah right back, tighter than anyone in her memory had ever done, pressing her wet face into her daughter's neck. And suddenly, her father was hugging her too, still wordless, kissing her cheek, her temple. "Hello, father," she managed, forgetting about calling him dad.

"Hi, Hannah," he squeaked. When her mother loosened her embrace, her father moved right in and hugged her too, hard. Finally, he sat back. She was surprised to see he was also crying. Men in Gilead did not cry. Even boys didn't. It just wasn't done.

He smiled at her anyway, even while weeping. "Do you remember me?" His voice was shaky.

"Yes," she nodded, but she had to be honest. "A little. I remember your beard, and how you liked to sing when you were happy."

"Oh yeah?" Her father seemed satisfied with those particular memories, but she continued speaking. Her mother, still kneeling like a handmaid, touched her arm gently, as if trying to prove to herself that Hannah was a solid object.

"I remember watching movies with you two under a big blanket, with a huge red and green bowl filled with snacks."

"We did that at Christmastime," Luke remembered in a rush. "We zipped two or three sleeping bags together to make one gigantic bag, and then popped popcorn and watched movies on TV. We called it living room camping."

"I liked that."

"Me, too," Luke whispered. With more strength in his voice, he added, "Well, we're gonna do that again, now that you're back. We're gonna have movie night as often as you want."

"How did you get here, baby?" June asked her. She wasn't sure whether the girl wanted to be called Hannah or Agnes, so baby would have to suffice for the moment.

"I was at my parents'—at the MacKenzies' house," she self-corrected, "for Founder's Day, and then I was supposed to go with my driver to my new Plum Academy in New Jersey. But Rose asked my mom, I mean Mrs. MacKenzie, if she could take me instead. That was her sneaky plan. We did drive to New Jersey, but to an airport, with a little plane that flew me to you in Canada."

"Who's Rose?" June asked, searching her memories from Gilead. "Your Martha?"

"No, she's a friend of my parents. A Wife."

Mark Tuello, who had been observing this reunion silently, cleared his throat. "Rose Wharton. Her father is very close to Commander MacKenzie."

"Oh," June said, confused but feeling an enormous debt of gratitude to this unknown person. "And Rose got you out of Gilead? Drove you to a plane?" She knew that was impossible. Women had no such freedom.

"Well, of course she didn't drive. Her husband did. Commander Blaine. He says he's an old friend of yours."

June shut her eyes tight, feeling the tears roll out anyway. Nick. Of course. And Nick's wife, Rose.

With her eyes closed, she didn't see her husband wince. Luke felt like he'd just been punched in the gut. Nick fucking Blaine for the win, doing what I couldn't do in seven years. Couldn't it have been, like, literally anyone else?

"They put you on a plane and they stayed behind?" June's voice was trembling. How in hell did Nick think he could talk his way out of that? Kyle MacKenzie would have him arrested for sure. Hanged on the fucking Wall. Rose, too.

"No, they came on the plane with me," Hannah said. "Rose went to sleep already, but Nick's right there." She pointed.

June swiveled towards the hotel room's entrance, falling out of her kneel onto one hip. Nick was leaning against the doorway, wearing grey sweatpants and a dark blue t-shirt. I've never seen him in any colors but black and white, she thought randomly as she leapt up. Her legs moved on their own volition. She crashed against him, throwing both of her arms around his shoulders. As she'd done with Hannah, she pressed her tear-streaked face against his neck. In response, Nick wrapped one arm around her back, while his other hand held the back of her head close to him. It was a pose they'd taken many times before. They were experts at unexpected hellos and farewells.

"Thank you," June whispered, clutching him tight. "Thank you." Those words were too simple for the overwhelming act of saving her child from Gilead, but the requisite expression for such a gift didn't exist in English. How could she thank him for that?

"Hi," he murmured into her ear. He breathed her in, indulging himself in that tiny intimate act, smelling her shampoo. Something floral. Part of him wanted to twirl her around in circles, kiss her long and deep, maybe even cheer. We made it out! We got Hannah! Can you believe that we're actually still alive? Six years of Gilead repression couldn't be taken out of his character overnight, however. He held himself still. Like usual.

June tried to kiss his mouth, but Nick, acutely aware of Luke and Hannah's presence in the room and their unblinking eyes on him, moved his head so that her lips found his jaw instead. He kissed her cheek in response, quickly, then pulled away from her. He focused his gaze on the man sitting on the floor next to Hannah. "Hello, Luke."

"Hello again." It had been a long time since they met in a Toronto bar. Nick had lied to him three times in three minutes: June is fine, she and I are friends, Fred Waterford is the father of her baby. Under the circumstances, Luke couldn't really blame him for lying; the guy didn't want to get into a bar fight with his lover's angry-drunk husband. Okay. But right now the man had his arms—loosely but comfortably—around Luke's wife, while she was looking as if she wanted to rip Nick's clothes off and devour him. Luke reined his jealousy in. Blaine had just delivered their daughter, he told himself sternly. They owed him a huge debt.

So Luke stood instead and walked over to Nichole, who had gotten bored with all the dramatic proceedings and was instead diligently working on her wooden puzzle. It had fifteen pieces: quite a lot for her, but she was making good progress. Luke scooped her up, and she automatically snuggled against him. He pointed at the new man in the room. "Do you remember who this is?"

Nichole focused on him. He looked very much like the man in one of the framed pictures by her bed back at home in Toronto. She and her mommy said goodnight to his picture just before story-time. "Uh, 'irst daddy?" she guessed.

"That's exactly right, he's your first daddy," Luke said, stepping forward and holding Nichole out towards Nick like a sacrificial offering. He caught the other man's eyes. My daughter for yours. It's a fair trade.

With a small smile, Nick nodded at him in wordless understanding, and gently took the little girl in his arms. He shifted his gaze to her. "Hey, sweetheart."

"Hi," Nichole said cheerfully. The last time they'd met, she'd still been in a stage of stranger-anxiety. It was gone now. She let him cuddle her and kiss her hair; he felt trustworthy enough. The man had once brought her a very nice doll, after all. " 'uzzle," she explained to him, gesturing at the ground.

"You're working on a puzzle?" He nodded seriously. "Looks hard."

"Uh-huh." Nichole was pleased that he understood her speech. Some grown-ups had trouble with that; she wasn't sure why. She thought she enunciated clearly enough, even if she left the first letter or two off of some words. She stifled a yawn; it was indeed a hard puzzle. Tiring. "Wanna help?" She could use the assistance, having reached an impasse with the remaining pieces.

"I'd love to help you, but you look a little tired. It's really late. How about you come over to my room? I'll put you to bed, and be there in the morning when you wake up, and then we can finish the puzzle together. My room's just across the hall."

"Uh, that's not going to work for me," Luke protested softly.

Nick looked at him. "Why not? It lets you focus on Hannah."

"Nichole doesn't like strangers much," he tried, even though the child seemed perfectly comfortable being held by him. "And I don't trust you to…I mean, she's very particular about how she likes stories read, how she likes her bath, all that. You don't know her. I should watch you when you're around her."

"Do you watch June when she's with our daughter?" Nick consciously used the word our.

"No, of course not. June's her mother. They have a bond."

"Yeah, well, I'm her father, and I'd like to do some bonding too." Nick was getting testy, even though he knew Luke's defensiveness was coming from a good place. He was just being protective towards the little girl, as a parent should be.

"Let's be honest, you're not a real father. Not a dad. She doesn't know you. You're just a picture in a frame to her. I'm her dad. I'm the one who's raised her. I know everything there is to know about her, everything that's happened to her."

Nick glanced at the older girl in the room, who was looking confused and deeply uncomfortable. "I'm sure Kyle MacKenzie could say the exact same thing about Agnes."

"That's totally different. Totally."

"Oh yeah?"

"MacKenzie stole ourdaughterfromus. We tried to get her back; you didn't even want Nichole with you. You just threw her across the border, hoping someone would take care of her for you."

"They didn't steal me," Hannah objected, now trying to defend the MacKenzie family honor. Luke belatedly looked at her, his eyebrows raised, as if he'd forgotten she was in the room listening to this whole strange conversation. Hannah turned her attention to her mother. "You had a baby with a married Commander, while you were another Commander's handmaid?" She knew perfectly well what the penalty for such a sin should have been. She felt slightly sick to her stomach. Her mother was a whore, yet she seemed so nice.

"No," June said softly, "it's more complicated than that. It's a long story, and I'll explain it all to you. But Nick's right. Maybe we should all go to sleep? There's a three-hour time difference between here and the east, so I'm sure it feels to you like it's already nighttime."

"Where am I supposed to sleep?"

With an effort, Luke pulled his attention away from that very annoying Nick Blaine and spoke to his daughter instead. "This suite has two bedrooms, so you get your very own space. With a king-sized bed." He gestured towards the second bedroom. "Here, let me show you."

"It's fine, I can handle it myself," Hannah said frostily. "I'll say my prayers and go to sleep, then. Blessed night." I'll be saying a lot of prayers tonight, she thought. These people are sorely in need of divine help.

"Good night, baby," her mother said. "Sweet dreams." Her father and Nick echoed the thought as Hannah left, closing the door firmly behind her.

This left the adults all looking at each other awkwardly.

"Well, nobody said it was going to be easy," Tuello finally opined.

"No," June agreed easily. There's no happily ever after, as Moira said. Only after. "But thank you, Mark, for bringing her to us."

He shrugged modestly. "I just supplied the plane, along with clothes and toiletries. Just call the front desk if you need anything else, including room service. Oh, there are three guards posted in the hallway, so just let them know if you've ordered something. Otherwise, nobody will be bothering you." He smiled again at them. "Good night, everyone."

"Night-night, Mr. Tuwewo," waved Nichole from her father's arms.

"G'night, Nichole." Mark was quite fond of the little one. So much less problematic than the cantankerous adults in her life.