got sandier, and the lights moved down a hill towards us along to the right.
Holding one of them was Ada. “You did it,” she said, and I said, “Yeah,” and then I fell over. Someone picked me up and started carrying me. It was Garth. He said, “What’d I tell you? Way to go! I knew you’d make it.” That made me grin.
We went up a hill and there were bright lights and people with television cameras, and a voice said, “Give us a smile.” And then I blacked out.
* * *
—
They airlifted us to the Campobello Refugee Medical Centre and stuffed antibiotics into me, so when I woke up my arm wasn’t so puffy and sore.
My sister, Agnes, was there beside the bed, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that said RUN FOR OUR LIFE, HELP FIGHT LIVER CANCER. I thought that was funny because that’s what we’d been doing: running for our lives. She was holding my hand. Ada was there beside her, and Elijah, and Garth. They were all grinning like mad.
My sister said to me, “It’s a miracle. You saved our lives.”
“We’re really proud of both of you,” said Elijah. “Though I’m sorry about the inflatable—they were supposed to take you into the harbour.”
“You’re all over the news,” said Ada. “ ‘Sisters defy the odds.’ ‘Baby Nicole’s daring escape from Gilead.’ ”
“Also the document cache,” said Elijah. “That’s been on the news too. It’s explosive. So many crimes, among the top brass in Gilead—it’s much more than we’ve ever hoped for. The Canadian media are releasing one disruptive secret after another, and pretty soon heads will roll. Our Gilead source really came through for us.”
“Is Gilead gone?” I said. I felt happy but also unreal, as if it hadn’t been me doing the things we’d done. How could we have taken those risks? What had carried us through?
“Not yet,” said Elijah. “But it’s the beginning.”
“Gilead News is saying it’s all fake,” said Garth. “A Mayday plot.”
Ada gave a short growly laugh. “Of course that’s what they’d say.”
“Where’s Becka?” I asked. I was feeling dizzy again, so I closed my eyes.
“Becka’s not here,” Agnes said gently. “She didn’t come with us. Remember?”
“She did come. She was there on the beach,” I whispered. “I heard her.”
* * *
—
I think I went to sleep. Then I was awake again. “Does she still have a fever?” said a voice.
“What happened?” I said.
“Shh,” said my sister. “It’s all right. Our mother is here. She’s been so worried about you. Look, she’s right beside you.”
I opened my eyes, and it was very bright, but there was a woman standing there. She looked sad and happy, both at once; she was crying a little. She looked almost like the picture in the Bloodlines file, only older.
I felt it must be her, so I reached up my arms, the good one and the healing one, and our mother bent over my hospital bed, and we gave each other a one-armed hug. She only used the one arm because she had her other arm around Agnes, and she said, “My darling girls.”
She smelled right. It was like an echo, of a voice you can’t quite hear.
And she smiled a little and said, “Of course you don’t remember me. You were too young.”
And I said, “No. I don’t. But it’s okay.”
And my sister said, “Not yet. But I will.”
Then I went back to sleep.
XXVII
Sendoff
The Ardua Hall Holograph
71
Our time together is drawing short, my reader. Possibly you will view these pages of mine as a fragile treasure box, to be opened with the utmost care. Possibly you will tear them apart, or burn them: that often happens to words.
Perhaps you’ll be a student of history, in which case I hope you’ll make something useful of me: a warts-and-all portrait, a definitive account of my life and times, suitably footnoted; though if you don’t accuse me of bad faith I will be astonished. Or, in fact, not astonished: I will be dead, and the dead are hard to astonish.
I picture you as a young woman, bright, ambitious. You’ll be looking to make a niche for yourself in whatever dim, echoing caverns of academia may still exist by your time. I situate you at your desk, your hair tucked back behind your ears, your nail polish chipped—for nail polish will have returned, it always does. You’re frowning slightly, a habit that will increase as you age. I hover behind you, peering over your shoulder: your muse, your unseen inspiration, urging