The nightmare was always the same. I was Ofsarah. It meant that I worked for Sarah, the Waterford's then-Martha. As second banana in the household, I did not even rate my own name.

Of course, in Gilead it had been the Handmaids who had rated a name, always beginning with 'Of'. In the nightmare though, I'd mistakenly referred to the household-Martha as 'Ofserena'. What did I know? When Mrs. Waterford had blackened my eye for it, I'd always run into the kitchen. There, Sarah would ask what had happened. When I told her, she blackened the other one.

Later when serving The Commander, he would always ask what had happened. "You look raccoonish," he'd say chuckling. Being slow to speak he'd then bark at me. I told him who had hit me. He then would laugh and laugh and laugh.

It occurred to me that in that household, it had only been the men who'd never assaulted me. The men. Then again, one of those men had owned me outright. Could have killed me where I stood, and then gone skeet shooting after with his colleagues.

At that, before the dream ended, I always felt lucky. Never once was I driven to hang myself from a ceiling lamp. I'd not been sure that it would have held my weight.

RITA'S CANADIAN DIARY

I never thought it would be hard to adapt to Canada.

Ok, it was a foreign country, I get that. But they all look a lot like us. Especially Toronto. Black, white, everything inbetween. It still had its freedoms intact. Mainly. Unless you're native, or Black being questioned and carded by police. But Canadians were so nice about their prejudices! The people there, they otherwise took their freedoms for granted, they complained about the most trivial of things. Just like we used to do in the old United States. What could be more the same than that?

I'm supposed to be writing this as therapy. Right. Tapping away at a government-issue laptop was supposed to help me sleep. Less panic attacks. By law, it had to have a French-friendly keyboard. I didn't know what that meant, Moira said not to worry about it. It's been weeks now up there in Toronto, and the euphoria of escape was lessening. As the euphoria abated, the nightmares at night become more real. Last week, I hadn't gone out for two solid days. Therapist said that's normal. Fuck normal. Normal life here made me crazy. I could not sleep alone, I could not sleep with anyone in the room. I could not sleep. This was better? This was normal? I was there, 100s were not.

They've assigned me a lawyer. Why the fuck did I need a lawyer? I'll tell you why. The Boston commanders were blaming me for the escape of those 86 children from that hellhole. The D.C. commanders were ramping up their propaganda, so said my lawyer. Against me. I was at the centre of it. Really? That was a laugh! I was no one. Still am.

He tried to calm me down - "It will be a cold day in hell, when Canada extradites a Gilead woman, a Martha, back to Boston." Then he'd rehearse six or seven scenarios where I could find myself driven to the border or put on an airplane in shackles headed south. Yes, he was supposed to be calming me down. He needed to work on his bedside manner.

MOIRA, LUKE, NICHOLE AND ERIN

Still, I was pal'ing with Erin, the girl living with June's husband and daughter, as well as Moira. Erin was someone else with what they called 'morbid anxiety'. Moira had known June and Luke in Boston before. I was spending way too much time at their place. I was probably unwelcome, they did all the cooking and cleaning. That used to be my job, they wouldn't let me lift a finger. Those people at Luke's were daffy, but in a good way.

Every once in a while they got on each others' nerves, and the bickering started. Whenever someone got too serious, or talked too much about their Gilead days, after a pause the otherwise morbidly-mute Erin would say, "Blessed are the fruitloops." Everyone but me would laugh. Ya, sure. Who was fruitloops around here, people?

LITTLE AMERICA, TINIER APARTMENT

Erin showed me around. Little America. God Almighty, "little" America. That huge, domineering superpower no longer existed, and there were those expats in Toronto trying to hang on, act normal. Stars and Stripes everywhere. Deep dish pizza. Every ethnicity you could imagine, not that Toronto ever was monotone. Black, Chinese, White, Irish, Native American, Arab and everything in between. I mean, it was a recognizable version of America all right. But I'm getting to the point that regardless of race or accent or headdress, that I could spot an American against a Canadian.

Erin was good for me. If I didn't spoil it. She never wore it on her sleeve, but man oh man was she broken. Sometimes I felt that if I were to say the wrong thing, she'd simply disintegrate into dust with the softest of breaths. I'm tall and Black, she was small and pasty, but when she looked at me I saw my face as if in a mirror. Except she looked at me knowingly, half fearing me but not wanting to abandon me to the nightmare. The anxiety that was hers also. She had no words. I had got none for her. We both knew that.

Luke Bankole, June's husband, was the guy for words. Moira said sarcastically that to understand Luke, was to understand that, "Luke's often right, in the worst sense of the word." "Luke talks a lot. Sometimes he says something." He was a guy in a house of women. Luke was straight, Moira was gay, and Erin was, well, Erin. Oh yes, and a demanding baby. And it was not exactly a house. It's their "quarters" in little America.

NEARLY BROKE HER IN HALF

My last panic attack. Spoiling it with Erin. Erin and I were at the St. Lawrence Market enjoying a breakfast, spending part of the refugee cheque we got from the Canadian government. Just about to pick up fresh produce right there in the city. Not like Loaves and Fishes, no not at all. I could afford those things on the stipend the Canadians gave all refugees and asylum seekers until our emergency visa applications got sorted.

So there we were at the Market. Then I went blank, suffocating. The next thing I knew I was out on the street, Erin running after me. I couldn't breathe.

I was gasping, doubled over. I'd wet myself. Fuck, I didn't even know what it was about. It was that woman. Not Erin, it was the tall white woman. I just needed to get back to the apartment in Little America. Tout suite. Close and lock the fucking door.

What had happened back at St. Lawrence Market? The tall woman who sat at the next table, a statuesque white woman, with posture and pulled back tight, severe dirty-blond hair. A bag of knitting. I thought it had been Mrs. Waterford. Of course, it wasn't. I mean, Mrs Waterford was a prisoner somewhere else in the city. She was locked up. She was also locked in my head, badly. Out on the sidewalk, Erin got a hold of me, said, "Let's just take a minute and go back in. Luke says it's best just to go back in. I have a lady holding our table for us."

I told Erin, sweet Erin, to go fuck herself. She, gentle as a butterfly, took my arm. I almost snapped hers off. I think I hurt her, giving her a major league shove away. From me. I mean, she was so small.

She almost went down. One guy on the street said, "Hey bitch, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Jesus save me, if I broke that girl. She followed me at a distance all the way back home, never said a word about it to Moira or Luke. That evening I tried a weak apology. I could never apologize to the people I wanted to. She did not speak for the rest of the next day, to me or anyone. Neither did I, especially when Luke had asked, "What gives with Erin?"

So, how's it going in Canada? Seeing the sights? Sending postcards back to the relatives? Yup, that's what we do.

All these weeks, and I've not been up the CN Tower. Never been to a Leafs game. I mean, typical Canadian name, "Leafs". That's not even a word. My refugee I.D. would get me up the CN Tower and into Scotiabank Arena for free, as long as I reserved on-line. Canada had a "Celebrate Asylum Seekers Day"? Who does that?

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what's with these Canadians? They put us refugees at the front of the line. That's not normal. Toto, this is not Kansas anymore.

So how's it going? Ask me in a year. Where will any of us be next year? Me, my lawyer tells me I'll be a primary witness in both Commander and Mrs Waterford's trials. I gather they've turned on each other. That's rich. If that had happened back at their house, none of us would have been safe. Like I told June, I lived in a house where an 18-year old had a gun, and he could break my jaw on a whim. If the Lady and Lord started brawling, none of us would survive. Mrs. Waterford had whacked me more than once, for nothing, not really.

There were many terrifying times back at the Waterford's. Strangely, the handmaid's suicide had not been one of them. Well, it had; it's all relative I guess. Just not adrenalin-terrifying. Not fight or flight, freeze or fold terrifying.

It was me, I'd found her. I'd screamed for Nick, the driver, fearing the Waterfords on this one. You don't think it through, not really. Both the Waterfords were monsters. The Commander had been seeing the handmaid after hours. I knew it, Nick knew it, Mrs Waterford knew it. The Commander knew we knew it. I'm ashamed to say that the first coherent thought I'd had after yelling for Nick was, "This is going to end badly," only later did I acknowledge that it had already ended badly for someone. It was not adrenalin, I consciously turned on my survival navigation system, with malice aforethought. It was survival radar.

I was right to call for Nick. He'd brought me into the Waterford household, to help Sarah, their former Martha, as her assistant. When Sarah left (kicked out? fired?), I stayed as the only domestic on the premises, lucky me, throwing myself into it. At least I got a name from it.

That was the way to forget and survive. Do things perfectly, and on time. Even before they asked. I had deserved a couple of those slaps, I knew I was doing some things second rate. Nick that day, he went into crisis mode, started handling things, beginning with cutting down that poor girl. He just seemed to know how to steer things. The Commander called him a natural field commander. Ice water in his veins. He knew things. My panic settled when I'd overheard Mrs Waterford telling her husband, "What did you think was going to happen?" I mean, here I am implying that she had been callous, and there I was with issue number one - how was this going to end for me?

Maybe it had been me who'd been the monster? Erin, sweet Erin. She said that that soldier, Zoe, had once told her, "That's what Gilead does to you." Those words fall flat, though. Because still, it was me choosing survival. Erin's two catchphrases: "Gilead does that to you," and "Blessed are the fruitloops."

I hope never to adapt to this place. I hate normal. Welcome to Canada.