like what I discovered—but I needed to try anyway. I might even be able to trace my real father, though that was less likely since he had not been a Commander. If I could find my mother, I would have a story instead of a zero. I would have a past beyond my own past, though I would not necessarily have a future with this unknown mother inside it.
One morning I found a file from the Archives on my desk. There was a small handwritten note paper-clipped to the front: Agnes Jemima’s Bloodline. I held my breath as I opened the file. Inside was the Bloodlines record for Commander Kyle. Paula was in the folder, and their son, Mark. I wasn’t part of that Bloodline, so I wasn’t listed as Mark’s sister. But through Commander Kyle’s line I was able to discover the true name of poor Crystal—of Ofkyle, who’d died in childbirth—since little Mark was part of her Bloodline too. I wondered whether he would ever be told about her. Not if they could help it, was my guess.
At last I found the Bloodline on myself. It was not where it should have been—inside Commander Kyle’s folder, in the time period relating to his first Wife, Tabitha. Instead it was at the back of the file in a sub-file of its own.
There was my mother’s picture. It was a double picture, like the kind we’d see on Wanted posters for runaway Handmaids: the full face, the profile. She had light hair, pulled back; she was young. She was staring right into my own eyes: what was she trying to tell me? She wasn’t smiling, but why would she smile? Her picture must have been taken by the Aunts, or else by the Eyes.
The name underneath had been blanked out, using heavy blue ink. There was an updated notation, however: Mother of Agnes Jemima, now Aunt Victoria. Escaped to Canada. Currently working for Mayday terrorist intelligence. Two elimination attempts made (failed). Location currently unknown.
Underneath that, it said Biological Father, but his name, too, had been redacted. There was no picture. The notation said: Currently in Canada. Said to be a Mayday operative. Location unknown.
Did I look like my mother? I wished to think so.
Did I remember her? I tried to. I knew I should be able to, but the past was too dark.
Such a cruel thing, memory. We can’t remember what it is that we’ve forgotten. That we have been made to forget. That we’ve had to forget, in order to pretend to live here in any normal way.
I’m sorry, I whispered. I can’t bring you back. Not yet.
I placed my hand on top of my mother’s picture. Did it feel warm? I wanted that. I wanted to think that love and warmth were radiating out of this picture—not a flattering picture, but that didn’t matter. I wanted to think that this love was flowing into my hand. Childish make-believe, I know that. But it was comforting nonetheless.
* * *
—
I turned the page: there was another document. My mother had had a second child. That child had been smuggled into Canada as an infant. Her name was Nicole. There was a baby picture.
Baby Nicole.
Baby Nicole, whom we prayed for on every solemn occasion at Ardua Hall. Baby Nicole, whose sunny cherubic face appeared on Gilead television so often as a symbol of the unfairness being shown to Gilead on the international stage. Baby Nicole, who was practically a saint and martyr, and was certainly an icon—that Baby Nicole was my sister.
Underneath the last paragraph of text there was a line of wavery handwriting in blue ink: Top Secret. Baby Nicole is here in Gilead.
It seemed impossible.
I felt a rush of gratitude—I had a younger sister! But I also felt frightened: if Baby Nicole was here in Gilead, why hadn’t everyone been told? There would have been widespread rejoicing and a huge celebration. Why had I myself been told? I felt entangled, though the nets around me were invisible. Was my sister in danger? Who else knew she was here, and what would they do to her?
By this time I knew that the person leaving these files for me must be Aunt Lydia. But why was she doing it? And how did she want me to react? My mother was alive, but she was also under sentence of death. She’d been deemed a criminal; worse, a terrorist. How much of her was in me? Was I tainted in some way? Was that the message? Gilead had tried to kill my renegade mother and had failed. Should I be glad about this, or sorry? Where should my loyalties lie?
Then, on impulse, I did a very dangerous thing. Making sure no one was watching, I slipped the two pages with their glued-on pictures out of the Bloodlines file, then folded them several times and hid them in my sleeve. Somehow I could not bear to be parted with them. It was foolish and headstrong, but it was not the only foolish and headstrong thing I have ever done.
Transcript of Witness Testimony 369B
57
It was a Wednesday, the woe day. After the usual putrid breakfast, I received a message to go immediately to Aunt Lydia’s office. “What does it mean?” I asked Aunt Victoria.
“Nobody ever knows what Aunt Lydia might have in mind,” she said.
“Have I done something bad?” There was a big choice of bad things, that was for sure.
“Not necessarily,” she said. “You might have done something good.”
Aunt Lydia was waiting for me in her office. The door was ajar, and she told me to come in even before I’d knocked. “Close the door behind you and sit down,” she said.
I sat down. She looked at me. I looked at her. It’s strange, because I knew she was supposed to be the powerful, mean old queen bee of Ardua Hall, but right then I didn’t find her scary. She had a big mole on her chin: I tried not to stare at it. I wondered why she hadn’t had it taken off.
“How are you enjoying it here, Jade?” she said. “Are you adjusting?”