I'd been through this, I'd done this once. But biology dulls the memory.

Those had been 'normal' times. I'd been told by the doula as well as the delivery nurses that I'd raised quite the ruckus. They'd had to remove the breakables! Me, I'd needed the support of that woman, the doula. She guided me, comforted me, took her eye off the medical stuff to concentrate on me, solely me and my person.

Even still, I'd raised a fuss.

SERENA'S TIME

We know that the whole creation has been groaning (in travail) as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the first-fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God's people in accordance with the will of God.

I'd not been aware that Serena had even ever been present at a live-birth. The Wives usually flocked around the faux-birth that the Wife of the Handmaid had mocked up. The Wives never came into the actual birth-room untill the hard work was finished. Yet the paragraphs above were what she asked me to read, 'at the point of groaning' she had said. Wow, there was groaning to be had!

I'd not remembered mine, I mean I was busy giving birth. I had tried to time the reading, not wanting to have to read it twice. The real guttural one had been my cue.

I DON'T DO PITIFUL WELL

The wee girl I was holding was so small. She'd been what the fuss had been about. I didn't hold it against Serena, no not at all. Serena was refusing to even be in the same room as the newborn. That left it to me. Me, I'd checked into the ITWC 'hotel', subject to its security, and all I was doing was seeing to this wee babe in my arms.

It had been long and loud. And guttural. Now that I was holding the wee cherub, it occurred to me that I had never actually touched Serena Joy Waterford before all that. Being pressed into service as her doula, I tried frantically to remember how being touched had helped me.

I'd never touched Mrs. Waterford before that, in Gilead I would not have survived that. But she had touched me. Many times. Best to put that aside.

Emotional rejection of an Infant. Child attachment disorder. Post-partum depression on overdrive. Malicious mother syndrome. Cold mother syndrome. The supposed gender-liberated Canadian medical system still had way, way too many terms to stigmatize mothers. Better than Gilead?

Then again, maybe it had been the ITWC prison medical system, what that it was. Not set up, not really, for maternity. Most of the staff had had to be brought in from surrounding hospitals. Most were late.

The nurses had said that since the birth, there had been no "skin to skin" contact between Serena and the baby, that breastfeeding could be encouraged by that simple act. Serena was almost catatonic. Every hour that went by demanded that I hold the baby tighter. I was it.

The nurses had said that it was best to start in the first hour after birth, and that had not happened. Serena would not allow it. It didn't look likely to happen either. I mean, after all the fuss with Nichole back in Boston, in what seemed like 200 years ago…

It had been when Serena was 'groaning in travail' that I first thought that I did not do pitiful well. I was putting my hands on her. She was providing 'broad brushstroke' guidance as to where it hurt, which was all over. I had to guess if my latest touch had done any good.

At ten centimeters, that's when the chilling guttural sound happened. That was the sound that every woman, in every culture, in every day and age must have managed. Even in Gilead. With Serena, that part of the labour lasted so long, that the doctor ran it through her head how long it would take to get to the nearest proper hospital.

It had been quite the miraculous, troubled event. The sole product of the fuss was swaddled in my arms on my lap.

I looked at her, reminded myself that I did not do pitiful well. What was to become of this wee girl? This wee pitiful Gilead girl?

Gilead did not do girls well.

THE NEXT THREE DAYS

Me, I'd not been home, I was at the ITWC lock-up since the birth. Me, I'd lost complete track of the drama surrounding Commander Waterford's demise, much less the whereabouts of June or Emily. June had said that after Angel's Flight, she and other handmaids had 'gone on the run'.

She, apparently, was now on the run from two national governments.

Mark Tuello had come up multiple times. It had been last night when I'd asked him, "What's to become of this little lady?" He'd been uncharacteristically silent when I asked if the baby was at risk of being sent back to Gilead with Serena. "A girl in Gilead?" was all I'd said.

He came in the next morning as I had finished changing the wee girl, and had just begun feeding her. By instinct I had splashed a bit of the formula on to my wrist to test its warmth.

Mark Tuello started as unexpectedly as ever, "Rita, you're a natural." No, I wasn't, but I didn't say that. He wanted something. This should've been Serena feeding her baby, and no one would tell me what was going on.

Typical treatment for a Martha I had thought. Canada, Gilead, take your pick.

He then got strange, "Rita, please tell me you're an American." I gave him one of the very first dirty looks I had managed in a long time, even after all this time in Canada - a look I'd never dared at the Waterfords.

He interpreted it properly because he continued, "look, for the purposes of your refugee standing, you're good." He stopped for a second, then continued, "for what we're about to talk about, I need you to be a capital-A American. To read you into our consulate plan. Our plan about Serena and the baby."

My look must have changed to one of mystification.

"Rita, I was going to raise this with you eventually. But all this has accelerated it." He paused again, "We need you working at the Consulate. Only Americans can work there. For one thing, there'll be more exchanges like with those twenty-two. You comported yourself with distinction. The women are singing your praises. You're needed."

Me, I'd done nothing. On the bus ride to the centre in Montreal, I basically said nothing. I wandered from seat to seat simply asking women their names. Nearly all of them had not been called their names in years. Some, they had heard of me - but from the 'Gilead point of view' as one of them had said. She'd said, "I thought you'd have horns and a pitchfork!" She then laughed, which changed to deep sobs.

She'd got up and given me the same hug that June and I had exchanged. Very few words had been exchanged on the bus-ride. That made me a hero?

BEING READ IN

Tuello then said, "We actually have nothing that says you're not," meaning that from the American government point-of-view, I was an American. Nice to know, esp. after everything I'd been through.

"You need to know," he said sternly, "being read in means being subject to penalty. There's simply no time to let you know the shit you'd be in, but let's just say it would be considerable."

He asked, did I want to continue, or should he just shut up? I told him to continue.

Tuello said, "You are now officially at arm's-length from the people who've been your support here in Canada. Uncle Sam is now your friend. Luke, Moira, Erin, Sylvia, Emily and June - if we can find her! - they are now not your friends. You will now know stuff that you're subject to penalty for."

He asked me if I understood. Echoing the noise the baby in my arms just made, I assured him I did.

Tuello looked at the baby, I offered her to him for him to feed. He declined, pointing to the baby and saying, "I don't do Canadians." WTF!?

BIRTHRIGHT

Jus soli. 'Right of soil'. Citizenship to any child born on Canadian soil, except for children of diplomats or those employed by 'an international agency of equal status to a diplomat.' I wrote all that down because I would never remember. With what was about to happen, I would need that on the tip of my tongue.

Tuello just that morning had been briefed by the Prime Minister's Office, no less. Even though it had been assumed that this wee babe was fathered by Commander Waterford of the New Gilead Chancery of Gilead, neither the Commander nor Serena Joy had come to Canada in any 'diplomatic' capacity. The PMO had consulted with the Canadian Supreme Court, and had the opinion given that denying the baby Canadian Citizenship would not survive a 'Charter Challenge', whatever that was.

So it was, Mark Tuello 'read me into' a whole lot of other stuff that I did not remember.

Including Serena Joy Waterford's disposition.

He asked one final time, "Rita, to your knowledge has Serena even seen the baby since its birth?" I assured him that she hadn't. He said that the ITWC was following Canadian prison guidelines as much as possible, and had appointed a 'Mother-child' coordinator, a woman who would be the main contact between the baby and Serena.

"I'll be honest with you," Tuello said, "Mrs. Waterford's difficulty bonding is saving us here at ITWC a pile of work. We're madly documenting her difficulty as I speak. We have to prepare for a Gilead propaganda onslaught. It's unclear whether or not we are bound to follow the Canadian prison system's expectations about births in confinement. She may still have rights, but seems to be in no mood to exercise them."

He then prepared to leave by standing and said, "Now if we can only find June, we might get through all this unscathed." He then paused, "Please don't think of this as entrapment, Rita. That baby-girl? She's yours for the duration." He said that that was a by-product of being 'read-in'.

Was that true? Was this what Serena had wanted? What she'd envisioned? Me and her just like with Nichole?

It sure didn't seem like it. But I did pitiful poorly, and this 72-hour-old, wee babe did not even know how pitiful her beginnings had been.

We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.

ONE IS WEDDED TO SOCIAL MEDIA

The whole time since the birth in the ITWC lock-up, the infirmary, the makeshift maternity ward, I'd not missed my smartphone, not really. Being cut off was a godsend. I'd had to surrender it three days previous. One therapist had said that that had been one of the few perks of being enslaved in Gilead - I'd missed the rise of FaceBook and Twitter. Me, I was just then getting the hang of on-line-apps versus texting. The latter came through the phone company, not WiFi. So they said!

Coming back into the ITWC lobby for the first time in three or four days, I picked up my things. One of which was my smartphone.

Eighty-six texts awaited. The same as the number of of kids on Angel's Flight.

Of them all, the one that stood out? 'NO, Rita! Do not take that baby! Not your responsibility.
Except…I'm pretty sure you'll be tempted to. Not that you need a newborn at this stage in your life—truly you don't— but because you have a trauma bond with Serena. (Listen to your therapist, girl!) You still need to please her, no matter how much Serena uses and abuses you.'***

Too late. There I was in the ITWC lobby, swiping through the texts. Some filled with the conspiracy that Commander Waterford was still alive. Still no word on June or Emily. Still no word on Serena's disposition. Tuello said that he'd pick me up from the prison, but he had to make sure first that he had a baby-seat for his car. "I'd done this once for a niece," he'd said, "I hope I can remember where the seatbelt goes through!"

As such, there he was, car-seat and baby in hand swinging beside him as he strode.

After we secured the baby in the seat he said, "I'm taking you to the consulate. You'll be safe there. There's quite the stir about this little lady. Besides, Tapping will fill you in on your responsibilities now that you're one of us."

He said he was headed to the Toronto version of the PMO that was otherwise in Ottawa. He was going to explain in person to the PM's Chief of Staff how Commander Waterford had been 'executed' as soon as he'd hit Gilead soil. (Not that it was actual Gilead soil, but the Chief of Staff cared not one whit about that!)

Settling into his car with the baby safely stowed, Tuello said, "Now we can't extradite or even deport Mrs. Waterford. Canada doesn't allow that for people who'll be in danger….."

So, Serena was now Canada's problem, so said Tuello. Why did I not feel better after hearing that? Was that why the PM's Chief of Staff was mad as a Hatter?

***Courtesy of Arallute, how she got Rita's number I'll never know.