The Testaments(97)

“Thank you, Becka,” I said. “You are a sister to me.”

“I’ll think of you as birds, flying away,” she said. “A bird of the air will carry the voice.”

“I will pray for you,” I said. It did not seem adequate.

“And I for you.” She smiled slightly. “I’ve never loved anyone but you.”

“I love you too,” I said. Then we hugged each other and cried a little.

“Get some sleep,” Becka said. “You will need your strength for tomorrow.”

“You too,” I said.

“I will stay up,” she said. “I’ll do a vigil for you.” She went into her room, closing the door softly.





61


The next morning, Nicole and I slipped quietly out of Doorway C. The clouds in the east were pink and gold, the birds were chirping, the early-morning air was still fresh. There was no one else about. We walked quickly and quietly along the pathway in front of Ardua Hall, towards the statue of Aunt Lydia. Just as we got to it, Aunt Vidala came around the corner of the adjacent building, walking resolutely.

“Aunt Victoria!” she said. “Why are you wearing that dress? The next Thanks Giving isn’t until Sunday!” She peered at Nicole. “And who is that with you? That’s the new girl! Jade! She isn’t supposed to—” She reached out her hand and grabbed Nicole’s strand of pearls, which broke.

Nicole did something with her fist. It was so fast I hardly saw it, but she hit Aunt Vidala in the chest. Aunt Vidala crumpled to the ground. Her face was pasty white, her eyes were closed.

“Oh no—” I began to say.

“Help me,” said Nicole. She took Aunt Vidala by the feet and dragged her behind the base of the statue. “Fingers crossed,” she said. “Let’s go.” She took me by the arm.

There was an orange on the ground. Nicole picked it up and put it into her Pearl Girls dress pocket.

“Is she dead?” I whispered.

“Don’t know,” said Nicole. “Come on, we need to hurry.”

We reached the gate, we showed our passes, the Angels let us out. Nicole was holding her cloak shut so no one would see that her pearls were missing. There was a black car farther up the street to the right, as Aunt Lydia had said there would be. The driver did not turn his head as we got in.

“All set, ladies?” he said.

I said, “Yes, thank you,” but Nicole said, “We’re not ladies.” I nudged her with my elbow.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” I whispered.

“He’s not a real Guardian,” she said. “Aunt Lydia’s not a moron.” She took the orange out of her pocket and began peeling it. The crisp scent of it filled the air. “Want some?” she asked me. “You can have half.”

“No thank you,” I said. “It’s not right to eat it.” It had been a sacred offering of a kind after all. She ate the whole orange.

She’ll make a misstep, I was thinking. Someone will notice. She’ll get us arrested.





Transcript of Witness Testimony 369B


62


I was feeling sorry that I’d punched Aunt Vidala, though not very sorry: if I hadn’t hit her, she would have yelled and then we’d have been stopped. Even so, my heart was pounding. What if I’d actually killed her? But once they’d found her, dead or alive, there would be a hunt for us. We were in it up to the neck, as Ada would say.

Meanwhile, Agnes was acting offended in that silent, pinch-mouthed way the Aunts had of letting you know you’d crossed one of their lines. Most likely it was the orange. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it. Then I had a bad thought: dogs. Oranges are really scented. I started worrying about what to do with the peels.

My left arm had begun to itch again, around the O. Why was it taking so long to heal?

When Aunt Lydia was sticking the microdot into my arm, I’d thought her plan was brilliant, but now I felt it might not have been such a good idea. If my body and the message were one, what would happen if my body didn’t make it to Canada? I could hardly cut off my arm and mail it.



* * *



—

Our car went through a couple of checkpoints—passports, Angels peering in the window to make sure we were us—but Agnes had told me to let the driver do the talking, and he did: Pearl Girls this and that, and how noble we were, and what sacrifices we were making. At one of them, the Angel said, “Good luck on your mission.” At another one—farther out of town—they joked among themselves.

“Hope they don’t bring back any ugly girls or sluts.”

“It’s one or the other.” Laughs from both checkpoint Angels.

Agnes put her hand on my arm. “Don’t talk back,” she said.

When we’d reached the countryside and were on a highway, the driver handed us a couple of sandwiches: Gilead fake cheese. “I guess this is breakfast,” I said to Agnes. “Toe jam on white.”

“We should give thanks,” said Agnes in her pious Aunt’s voice, so I guess she was still in a snit. It was weird to think of her as my sister; we were so unlike. But I hadn’t really had time to figure any of that out.

“I’m glad to have a sister,” I said, to make peace.