Chapter 5: Easy Math
It was a long, joyless day for Janine. She tried to nap, to eat, to meditate. Impossible. She eventually found an outlet for her nervous energy: housework. She washed dishes and arranged all the kitchen cabinets, ironed all the clothes in her wardrobe, swept the floor. She even cleaned the soles of her shoes, making sure no little stones would give her foot problems. (Janine remembered the long walk through the forest after Angels' Flight, how much her feet hurt as she carried an injured June for miles.) Then she inspected the sky. Nearly cloudless. Moon almost full. Plenty of moonlight to guide their way. She just had to wait. "Bring on the night," she sang to herself, trying to channel Sting. "Couldn't stand another hour of daylight."
Long after nightfall, Penelope came for her. She sagged in relief at the sight of her benefactor—still alive despite the bruises on her face. She'd seriously considered the possibility that Commander Caruso would have killed his wife this afternoon.
It's go time, they told each other with their resolute expressions.
"We're not walking to the lake after all," she informed Janine.
"Um, okay."
"Dylan is gonna drive us." Before her handmaid friend could ask the obvious question, Penelope added, "our household's driver. Turns out, he has a real problem with forced abortion. Or spousal abuse, I'm not sure which. Maybe both. He saw Anthony punch me in the belly yesterday and today—knowing I'm pregnant—and straight up told me that if I wanted him to drive me somewhere, anywhere, he'd do it. So yeah, after my dear husband went to bed, I left him a note saying, 'Dylan is driving us to my parents' house.' He should buy that, at least until tomorrow morning."
"Um, he doesn't mind you writing?"
Penelope laughed at that. "Oh, I totally forgot that was illegal. Oops. Well, I think he might have a bigger issue with me taking the kids and running away." They stepped outside and trotted silently to the car waiting in the driveway. "We're bringing a passenger along," she told the driver as they climbed into the SUV's back seat.
"Yes, ma'am," he said neutrally. He didn't ask Janine her name or what in hell she was doing in their stable house. Either the guy suffers from a complete lack of curiosity, she thought, or else he's mastered the art of minding his own fucking business. She suspected the latter.
Penelope adjusted little Francesca in her car seat as they began moving, tucking a white blanket around her. Red roses decorated its corners, with green stems that looked like the letter F. She had deliberately drawn a letter: how very subversive.
"Did you knit that?" Janine asked her.
"Yeah. There are only so many hobbies Wives are allowed to have. When I got pregnant with Simon, I began knitting, crocheting, needlepoint…I'm a beast with knitting needles." She adjusted the baby's white cap, then Simon's powder blue scarf, both handmade with obvious love and attention to detail.
"It's just three miles away," Penelope told Janine and Dylan, changing the subject to more serious matters. "A canoe will be waiting for us, and we'll just row quietly away from shore out to the motorboat. From there, it's straight north to the border."
"I'm pretty terrible at canoeing," Janine admitted. "I tried it twice. Just ended up rowing to the right, going in a big circle. The second time, I ran over an otter or beaver or something."
In enthusiasm—or perhaps desperation—Penelope laughed again. "I'm decent at canoeing. Summer camp every year as a kid. But we won't be alone tonight. We're supposed to be meeting a woman, Harriet, who'll lead us. And hopefully there won't be any otters in our way."
Dylan offered, "Just row twice on the right, then twice on the left, making sure you're using as much force on each side. You'll stay straight." He looked at Janine through the rearview mirror. He had kind eyes, she thought, liquid-brown and intelligent. "Mrs. Caruso, do you want me to come with you?"
She blinked. "We're not coming back, Dylan. Ever."
"Yes, ma'am, I get that."
"I'm not sure the others will allow it. They don't plan for surprise add-ons." She had already called her contact that afternoon to ask if she and her babies could join; the Canadian been pretty pissed at that. "If we're caught, we'll be salvaged."
"Understood. But if I go back to the Commander, he'll probably kill me for helping you. He's been…in a mood. I'd rather take my chances with you."
Penelope looked at Janine, who nodded assent. "The more, the merrier."
They drove to Quakers Smith Point, a little park just west of town which jutted out into Lake Champlain. An unfamiliar Guardian was waiting by the water, his car dark but still running quietly. He recognized Janine right away, probably by her trademark eyepatch. "Evening, Susie. Nick sends his greetings and reminds you not to smack your friend in Toronto too hard."
She grinned at him. "I won't, even though she deserves it."
He nodded at her. "Nick and Joseph brought you a going-away present." He walked back to his SUV, opened the back door and spoke briefly to the person inside. He stretched one supportive hand into the car, and out came a tiny strawberry-blond girl wearing a pink coat. Angela. Her Charlotte.
"Oh my God," Janine breathed. She fell to her knees, suddenly boneless. "Hi, baby. Oh my God. Holy shit." She managed to get herself together before she scared the girl with all the unfamiliar language. "Blessed evening, baby." Her voice trembled and cracked.
"Blessed evening," the child murmured, half-asleep. It was after ten o'clock. Past her bedtime.
"You must be so tired, right? You've been travelling a long time?"
"Uh-huh."
"And you slept in the car?"
"For little while. But 'm still tired." Charlotte rubbed her eyes with small hands. Ten perfect fingers, Janine counted. Nobody had chopped any of them off.
"I know, sweetie pie." She bent down, held her arms out wide. "Want me to carry you?" She resisted the temptation to scoop her child up in a hug. Handmaids respected everyone's right not to be touched without permission, since they all knew what it felt like to be groped without consent. Praise be that this little one hasn't learned that sort of fear yet, Janine thought. The girl climbed willingly into her embrace. Charlotte rested her head against her mother's shoulder. Her breath was warm, her hair soft.
Penelope put a hand gently on Janine's arm. "We need to get going."
Janine stood up, still clutching her daughter. She stroked the girl's back. "Right." She followed the others several steps closer to the water's edge.
A woman in Canadian clothes—black puffy jacket, black hat, dark jeans—sat in the front seat of a long, traditional canoe. Its back end rested on land while the front faced the bay, and the befuddled woman was swiveled around to look at the Gilead refugees. "Hold up," she whispered loudly, "I was expecting three children, two women. No men. We don't have room for two men."
The Guardian who had brought Angela north shook his head. "No, I'm going back down to Boston." He smiled tightly at them. "Good luck, you guys."
"Thank you," Janine said with more gravitas than usual. "Tell Nick and Joseph I thank them." She kissed his clean-shaven cheek. He probably wasn't older than twenty.
"Sure," he acknowledged. "I'll stick around on shore, cover you if anyone shows up."
The Canadian seemed placated by that. "Okay."
Janine scrunched her eyebrows at the young man. "All alone?"
"It's easy math," the Guardian told her. "Seven is greater than one. My life isn't as important as the seven of you."
Janine kissed his cheek once again. She couldn't think of anything intelligent to say, so she settled for "thank you."
Meanwhile, Penelope asked the woman in the boat, "You're Harriet, right?"
"Yeah. Harriet Tubman, at your service. I don't need to know your names. Not yet. Not til we're in Canadian waters."
Penelope gestured at her driver. "Okay, well, Mrs. Tubman," she told the Canadian in a no-nonsense tone, "we're adding one man." She shifted the toddler in her arms. "Francesca here doesn't take up any space, and the other two kids can sit on laps if they have to. Or at our feet."
Harriet nodded her assent. "We'll fit." To the Bostonian Guardian, she added, "Patrols usually hang out half a kilometer north of here." She pointed. "If you want to drive that way, maybe run interference for us?"
The waves lapped the boat softly, rhythmically, as they got in. The still-unnamed Guardian friend of Nick waded into the water to steady the canoe as the women climbed aboard. Janine placed her daughter between her legs on the floor of the canoe before picking up a paddle. Penelope held her baby and put the sleepy Simon on the floor, like Angela. Dylan the driver got in last, bringing up the rear. With a push from the Guardian, they were off.
"It's not very far to the motorboat, but there are patrols around, so please stay quiet. Follow my strokes," the Canadian instructed softly. "Left, left, left; right, right, right."
Push, push, push. Janine's thoughts flew right back to the Red Center training, then to Charlotte's birth day. How fitting that the girl was now sitting between Janine's legs, just like at their beginning.
Almost as soon as the canoe began moving, Francesca began mewing. "Not a fan of boats, huh?" Penelope whispered to her. She wrapped the blanket more tightly around her daughter and pressed her against her breast. The baby tried to nurse through her mother's woolen coat, then whimpered in frustration when that didn't work. Penelope offered her a finger to suck on instead. She kept fussing.
Harriet turned around and gave Penelope a warning look, then returned to rowing, faster than before. Janine and Dylan matched her strokes.
The baby's whimpers suddenly became a wail. Francesca wanted off this canoe, and was making her opinions very clear. From the shore came a man's warning shout, then more shouts, as the guards tried to identify the source of the noise. A searchlight switched on. Luckily, the baby's cries were hard to pinpoint in the forested terrain, so the Guardians illuminated the trees instead of the lake. Why would there be a baby in a lake?
"Shut her up now," Harriet hissed.
"I'm fucking trying," Penelope growled back. She covered her baby's mouth with a hand, but the muffled wail was still loud.
She could hear their Boston friend on shore distracting the Guardians as he'd promised. There was yelling back and forth. A few shots from a pistol and a surprised scream, answered by bursts of machine gun fire.
"I got him!" a soldier called in triumph to his colleagues.
Francesca continued to cry into the void. The men finally turned their searchlight on the lake. Everyone hunched down as low as they could. The canoe itself was pained matte black, but the children's pastel pink, blue, and white coats would be easy enough to spot in the moonlight, and Penelope was wearing teal. She wished desperately for Harry Potter's invisibility cloak. It didn't appear. The searchlight was going to find them pretty soon, she knew, and they'd be sitting ducks, fun target practice for the young Guardians.
Six is greater than one, she told herself.
Easy math.
Without further thought, Penelope leaned over the side of the canoe and pushed her child's head and shoulders below the water. The strong-willed girl thrashed her little body as hard as she could against her mother's grasp before finally, finally going limp.
The searchlight passed behind them, but with the sudden stillness in the air, the Guardians couldn't locate the boat.
After several seconds, Penelope lifted her now-quiet baby back up. Water poured off her wispy hair onto the knitted blanket with the roses. Her skin was bluish, her face calm. Motionless.
The mother cradled Francesca sideways in her arms, letting her head fall back against a supporting elbow. White froth appeared from her mouth. Penelope pressed her lips together as hard as she could to avoid screaming or vomiting.
Directly behind her, watching the entire scene play out, was Janine. Left, left, left, she repeated to herself like a mantra. Get Charlotte to Canada, she thought—that's all that mattered. She concentrated on her paddling. Right, right, right. They were all silent now; the only audible sounds were the confused men still shouting from the distant shore and three paddles smoothly cutting the water in unison.
Penelope held her daughter against her chest, rocking her like an infant. Francesca was very light in her arms. She felt something warm wrap around her legs, and looked down to see Simon hugging her. He stared at her mutely with Jack's blue eyes. It was the same confused, betrayed expression that his father had worn when she'd told him she'd eloped with Anthony.
Within ten minutes, they reached the black speedboat. The appropriate brand name Liberator was painted on its side. Harriet grabbed the boat's ladder, wrapped the canoe's rope around it to tether the crafts together, and climbed up. "C'mon, sweetheart," the Canadian said to Angela with newfound gentleness. She held her arms out to help the little girl up, then Simon. Janine scrambled up next.
Penelope felt Dylan's hands wrap around her waist from behind. "I'll take the baby," he said very gently to her.
She elbowed him in the ribs, hard. "No, I've got her." Her voice didn't sound like hers. "I'm her mother." She tried to ascend the metal ladder—just four rungs, but slippery, an impossible task with a baby in her arms. This water is ice cold. How did I…could I have…put my baby in…? What have I done? How will Jack ever forgive me? Penelope couldn't concentrate, couldn't climb a ladder without free hands. After three attempts, she passed the still body of her daughter to Dylan. Her knees felt rubbery as she climbed aboard.
There were two front seats and a bench for three adults behind, with lots of legroom. The children sat on the bench between their mothers.
"There are life vests in there," Harriet said, pointing at a box. "Put them on the kids first." Janine followed orders. Penelope didn't move.
Calm and competent, Harriet fell into the driver's seat, fastened her seatbelt, started the ignition. The engine roared to life. "Hold on, everyone. We're going to go fast." She was right—the boat took off like it was on fire. Everyone was tousled as they hit the waves head-on. Janine reflexively grabbed the children by their vest straps. There was a sleeping bag on the deck, so she unrolled it, tucking Simon and Charlotte inside like a big burrito. To their credit, the two didn't complain. Typical Gilead children: quiet and compliant.
Rather than sitting down and buckling up sensibly, Dylan lay baby Francesca face-up on the deck of the boat, placing his coat underneath her. He removed the crocheted blanket, her wet hat and coat. Then he tilted her head back and breathed into her mouth five times before starting chest compressions. For a long minute, the women watched, transfixed.
Penelope finally spoke. "Dylan, don't bother. She's dead." Her voice was flat.
He didn't even look up from his work. "People can survive drowning, especially if the water's cold." He kept pressing a steady rhythm on her little chest. He didn't add anything about brain damage due to hypoxia. Dylan's little brother Alex had once fallen through the ice while playing hockey. The doctor had done CPR like this. Alex had survived. Never played hockey again, but he was okay. Until Gilead had begun.
The boat lurched suddenly to the left, throwing everyone towards the ground. "God damnit, could you slow down?" Janine called out, still clutching the sleeping bag containing the little ones.
"There's a boat behind us," Harriet shouted back at them. "Get down, now!"
Bullets began whizzing near them. Janine grabbed the sleeping bag and wedged the children and herself between the front and rear seats. Penelope curled into a fetal position on her side next to Francesca. She reached out, took the baby's cold hand in hers.
Dylan didn't duck from the bullets. He continued CPR. He thought of his little brother in hockey skates and the way Francesca's laugh sounded like the tinkling of bells.
The boat increased speed again, zigging and zagging its way through the water. Harriet certainly seemed to know what she was doing…or she was completely insane. Either way, her tactics were effective, and the Guardians chasing them eventually fell behind.
Once she was sure they were alone on the water, Harriet half-turned to the three adults and spoke while steering. "The Canadian border's 85 kilometers away from our starting point." At the Americans' confused looks, she rolled her eyes and added, "About 50 miles. At 120 klicks per hour, it won't take too long. The border patrols are the problem, especially around here. Once we're past North Hero Island, in about fifteen minutes, we'll be okay. It's still Vermont, but it's No Man's Land. Owned by the Missisquoi Nation, and they patrol it pretty aggressively. They're allies, aligned with the Femaleroad. They know we're coming, so if anyone shoots at us, they'll shoot back."
All of a sudden, little Francesca coughed, then vomited water and dinner. Dylan stopped CPR and rolled her onto her side.
"Holy shit, she's alive?" Harriet commented in surprise. Exactly what Janine was thinking.
"Praise be," her mother cried. The Gilead exclamation came out of her mouth unbidden, but she truly meant it. She knelt at her daughter's side. "Sweetie? Francie?" She noticed Dylan's coat on the deck, now ruined. "I'm so sorry about your coat," she said unnecessarily.
"Forget it," he muttered, trying to catch his breath. CPR was exhausting. He was sweating hard—no coat necessary.
The little girl coughed out the last of the water, then looked up at her mother in indignation. After considering her situation for a moment, she began crying.
"Oh, good God, not again," muttered the Canadian. Nobody was listening.
Penelope picked her daughter up, cuddled her tightly, murmured in her ear.
Janine went over to the two older children, still snuggled inside the sleeping bag. "Hey, look, Simon. Your little sister's okay!"
"Okay," he said, lulled half to sleep by the warmth of the quilted bag, the rhythmic rocking of the boat, the late hour. He didn't really understand what was happening. Charlotte didn't even open her eyes. Just as well, Janine thought. Let them sleep. Let them wake up in freedom.
They endured one more chase by a Gilead border patrol—their boats weren't nearly as fast as this Liberator—before Harriet announced with relief that they were in No Man's Land. The boat slowed from its breakneck speed to something almost reasonable. Yet nobody really relaxed. It was still Gilead. Only after several more minutes, when the path of the lake curved to the east, did Janine see a huge red and white maple-leaf flag flyingabove a tiny customs house. A large, illuminated sign greeted: Welcome to Canada—Bienvenue au Canada!
And so, without fanfare, they arrived in the tiny beachfront town of Plage-Desranleau, Quebec. Two surprised Border Services Officers, hearing the approaching speedboat's engine, rushed out to meet them. Their uniforms were navy blue, not Guardian black, but they nevertheless scared Janine with the weapons they held. She felt paralyzed, unable to get off the boat. One officer made matters worse by taking out his walkie-talkie to call for backup. She froze at its familiar scratchy sound.
Without such fear, Harriet hopped out and greeted the two Canadian BSOs. She referred to herself as Kara Fraser before explaining that the others were all former American citizens, now Gilead subjects in need of asylum. The officers hoisted their weapons, then came onto the boat, kind expressions on their faces, to coax the shell-shocked refugees off.
Dylan found his voice first. "We need an ambulance for the baby. She almost drowned."
"Okay," said an officer. He spoke again into his walkie-talkie, apparently oblivious at the affect that had on the refugees. "It's seven minutes out. Can I take the baby from you, so you can deboard?" He tried to gently pull Francesca from Penelope's arms. Unsuccessfully, of course. She had not let her child go since she revived.
Dylan took Simon out of the sleeping bag, took his hand, and brought him to land. Following his lead, Janine finally picked up her sleeping daughter and carried her onto Canadian soil. She would have kissed the ground if not for the bundle in her arms.
Two more BSOs emerged from the customs house. "Hello. What's your name?" asked one softly, notebook in hand.
"Janine," she managed.
"Janine what?"
He means my last name, she thought. She hadn't spoken the word aloud in six years. "Lindo. L-I-N-D-O." She gestured at the sleeping three year-old. "This is Charlotte."
"Charlotte Lindo?"
"That's right." Angela Putnam would be hunted. Angela Putnam didn't exist anymore.
"She's your biological child?"
Another BSO waved that question away. "She looks just like her mama," she told Janine with a smile.
Penelope gave the officers the last name of Everett, but kept her children's first names identical. Janine raised an eyebrow at her.
"Everett is Jack's last name," she murmured to Janine.
"Good choice."
"Thanks. Nice to meet you, Janine."
Penelope and her children went by ambulance to a local hospital. A police car showed up for Janine, Charlotte, and Dylan, to take them to the US Consulate in Montreal. Just an hour away, the police officers said, if we don't use lights and sirens. We've already informed the Americans of your arrival.
"Look, it's really late, and we're exhausted," said Dylan. "Could we drive there with the lights and sirens?"
"Would that upset you, Ms. Lindo?" an officer asked her.
Worried about triggering me, Janine thought. As if anything here could possibly compete with the last six years. "Hell, no. Let's just get there."
Forty-six minutes later, they found themselves wide-eyed and mouths agape on a downtown street in Montreal. The city was still hopping at one in the morning. People stumbled out of bars and clubs, couples strolled hand in hand. A woman in a mini-skirt was getting cash out of a bank's ATM—her own money. A passing car blasted Eminem. The twenty year-old lyrics came right back to Janine, and she sang along: now this looks like a job for me, so everybody just follow me, cuz we need a little controversy, cuz it feels so empty without me.
Dylan grinned at her, surprised but amused.
"My new fight song," she told him.
"You go, girl." The phrase sounded so simultaneously old-fashioned and modern, they both giggled.
"You want me to hold Charlotte for a while?" Dylan asked graciously. "She looks heavy."
"That's okay. She's comfortable." Janine shifted the sleeping child in her arms. "I just…can't let go of her yet." The pair had talked pretty much non-stop in the car, exchanging histories. Dylan knew she had been a handmaid, separated from her daughter since the baby's birth. He understood.
"Uh, let's go in," the police officer told them.
"Go in where?" Janine saw a bank, a clothing store…nothing that looked like an embassy.
"The consulate. There has been a lot of anti-American activism in the last few years," the cop admitted, "so they keep a very low profile nowadays." He rang a doorbell of a non-descript, unmarked door. No windows, and the walls looked like reinforced concrete. A stern American military officer opened the door for them, weapon drawn, stars and stripes on his uniform arm, buzz cut.
Dylan leaned close, whispered in Janine's ear. "The bouncer at this club is serious."
"Uh-huh," she murmured back. She decided she liked the feeling of his warm breath in her ear.
Once they got past that unsmiling officer, though, everyone was very nice to them. Within an hour, they'd been welcomed, processed, interviewed, and shuttled off to their next stop half a mile away: the Four Seasons Hotel. It was certainly the nicest, swankiest hotel Janine had ever seen. She and Charlotte were given a two-bedroom suite, with a separate kitchen and living room area. Her baby got a king-sized bed all to herself. Janine would have reveled in the luxury more if she hadn't been so damn tired. If she'd been alone, she might even have paid Dylan a visit; his room was right next door. But within five minutes of her arrival in the hotel, she and her daughter were both fast asleep.
There is much more to Janine's story.
You could learn, for instance, how June Osborne greeted Janine the afternoon after her arrival in Canada, gave her a hug and tearfully apologized for abandoning her friend in the rubble of Chicago. How that didn't matter at all to Janine, and that night, the two went out for tequila shots—as promised years ago on a bridge—while Dylan babysat Charlotte. Janine and June drank tequila together on the anniversary of that day, either in person or over a video call, every year for the rest of their lives.
You would learn that Janine researched Jonathan and Maya of Philadelphia, finally figured out their last names, and tracked down Maya's parents in Kitchener, Ontario. She returned the wedding rings and told the elderly couple as much as she could about their daughter.
You could read how the obedient Gilead girl Angela Putnam metamorphized into Charlotte Lindo-Harris, a well-adjusted, confident, outspoken teenager with the wild red hair of her mother. As a nod to Janine, she wore a red earring high in her left ear and had the word 'survivor' tattooed on her forearm. Charlotte became the student president of her Hawaiian high school, which served as preparation for her eventual career in American politics.
You would learn that Penelope and her two (then three) children settled for a while in Saint Armand, a tiny town just north of I-89 and the Vermont-Quebec border. Jack Everett finally escaped, stealing a Commander's car from the brothel in order to drive through No Man's Land into Canada. So when Simon was six, Francesca four, and little Grace had just turned three, they were reunited with their daddy. Jack and Penelope finally got married, as they should have done years earlier. They then moved to Hawaii, where they shared plenty of barbeques and Thanksgiving dinners with Janine's family.
You could also read how Dylan Harris, former driver of the Caruso residence, crossed into freedom with Janine and never again left her side. He proved to be the only man she'd ever known who admired, adored, and cherished her. On the day they met, he had protected Penelope from her husband's fists and saved a baby from drowning. These generous qualities never faded from Dylan's spirit. He spent the remainder of his life devoted to Janine, as well as to his adopted daughter Charlotte and their son Alexander, born two years after their arrival in Montreal. Dylan and Janine healed each other's deep wounds inflicted by Gilead, learned together how to thrive and love, and lived happily ever after.
But those are other stories and shall be told another time.