asked. I shook my head no.
“We didn’t think so,” said Aunt Dove. “So we will arrange that for you.”
“But to avoid any problems, you’ll have papers identifying you as Aunt Dove,” said Aunt Beatrice. “The Canadians know she came in, so when you cross the border they’ll think you are her.”
“But I’m a lot younger,” I said. “I don’t look like her.”
“Your papers will have your picture,” said Aunt Beatrice. The real Aunt Dove, she said, would stay in Canada, and leave with the next girl who was gathered, taking the name of an incoming Pearl Girl. They were used to switching around like that.
“The Canadians can’t tell us apart,” said Aunt Dove. “We all look the same to them.” Both of them laughed, as if they were delighted at having played such pranks.
Then Aunt Dove said that the most important extra reason for wearing the silvery dress was to smooth my entrance into Gilead because women didn’t wear men’s clothing there. I said leggings weren’t men’s clothing, and they said—calmly but firmly—that yes, they were, and it was in the Bible, they were an abomination, and if I wanted to join Gilead I would have to accept that.
I reminded myself not to argue with them, so I put on the dress; also the pearl necklace, which was fake, just as Melanie had said. There was a white sunhat, but I only needed to put it on to go outside, they said. Hair was permitted inside a dwelling unless there were men around, because men had a thing about hair, it made them spin out of control, they said. And my hair was particularly inflammatory because it was greenish.
“It’s only a tint, it will wear off,” I said apologetically so they’d know I’d already renounced my rash hair-colour choice.
“It’s all right, dear,” said Aunt Dove. “No one will see it.”
The dress actually felt quite good after my dirty old clothes. It was cool and silky.
Aunt Beatrice ordered in pizza for lunch, which we had with ice cream from their freezer. I said I was surprised that they were eating junk food: wasn’t Gilead against it, especially for women?
“It’s part of our test as Pearl Girls,” said Aunt Dove. “We’re supposed to sample the fleshpot temptations of the outside world in order to understand them, and then reject them in our hearts.” She took another bite of pizza.
“Anyway it will be my last chance to try them,” said Aunt Beatrice, who had finished off the pizza and was eating her ice cream. “I honestly don’t see what’s wrong with ice cream, as long as it has no chemicals.” Aunt Dove gave her a reproachful look. Aunt Beatrice licked her spoon.
I said no to the ice cream. I was too nervous. Also I no longer liked it. It reminded me too much of Melanie.
That night before going to bed I examined myself in the bathroom mirror. Despite the shower and the food, I was wrecked. I had dark circles under my eyes; I’d lost weight. I really did look like a waif who needed to be rescued.
It was wonderful to sleep in a real bed instead of under a bridge. I missed Garth though.
Each night I was inside that bedroom, they locked my door. And they took care that during my waking hours I was never alone.
* * *
—
The next couple of days were spent in getting my Aunt Dove papers ready. I had my picture and fingerprints taken so they could make me a passport. The passport was certified at the Gilead Embassy in Ottawa, then sent back to the Consulate by special courier. They’d put in Aunt Dove’s identifying numbers, but with my picture and physical data, and they’d even infiltrated the Canadian immigration database where Aunt Dove had been recorded coming in, removed the real Aunt Dove from it temporarily, and posted my own data plus my iris scan and thumbprint.
“We have many friends inside the Canadian government infrastructure,” said Aunt Beatrice. “You’d be amazed.”
“So many well-wishers,” said Aunt Dove. Then both of them said, “Praise be.”
They’d put an embossed stamp on one of the pages that said PEARL GIRL. That meant I would be let into Gilead immediately, no questions asked: it was like being a diplomat, said Aunt Beatrice.
Now I was Aunt Dove, but a different Aunt Dove. I had a Pearl Girls Missionary Temporary Canadian Visa that I had to give back to the border authorities when exiting. It was simple, said Aunt Beatrice.
“Look