You Changed Me- Handmaid's Tale

The sun is just cresting the horizon as I step into the kitchen. I'm greeted with the aroma of brewing coffee and freshly baked bread; it causes my mouth to fill with saliva. I go through the dining area to the kitchen, where I find Rita at the counter kneading a lump of dough that will be another loaf of bread for dinner tonight. 

"Blessed Morning," I greet. 

Rita nods and returns the standard greeting, "Blessed Morning."

I move to the sink to wash my hands and spot a partially consumed breakfast tray. "Still has to eat in her room?" I ask. 

Rita sighs, "Yep, guess I'm her personal attendant now," she gripes.

Grabbing a coffee cup, I fill it halfway with the allotted portion permitted by the house's mistress and sit down at the end of the island. I take a cautious sip, enjoying the bitter hot liquid as it coats my tongue.

"I just don't understand the point of keepin' her cooped up like a zoo animal, like keepin' her in the room is gonna matter in the long run," she mutters, punching the dough harder than necessary.

I look at her over the brim of my cup, an eyebrow raised. I agree. The girl has been in the household for several weeks, and I've not laid eyes on her. That doesn't mean Fred hasn't. Sadly, Serena thinks that keeping her under lock and key is going to stop Fred from being Fred. 

"What? You know I'm right," she whispers over her shoulder.

"Didn't say I disagree, but still…"I warn, scanning the nearby hallway for either of the Waterfords.

She sniffs and places the dough she was working on into a bowl and covers it. "She's still in bed and I haven't seen him yet," she says acknowledging my concern about being overheard. She leans against the counter and runs a hand across her forehead. "You want eggs and toast or oats?" she asks letting the subversive comments go.

"Just toast. We're at Commander Mitchell's house again today. Their Martha has a weird fixation about feeding me. It's like a personal affront to her if I don't take at least two helpings." 

"You and your skinny ass; I'm sure she thinks I'm starving you," she laughs, cutting a thick slice of bread and sliding it into the oven. 

I take another sip from my cup and find myself staring at the doorway that leads to the backstairs again. 

Rita catches my gaze and clears her throat, "The Ceremony is tonight."

"Already?" I sigh. 

"It's been three weeks," she returns, pulling the toast from the oven. She quickly runs a pat of butter over it, plates it, and drops it by my cup.

I stare at the browned bread, my thoughts spinning. This is when it all started with the other handmaid, the secret meetings, the special treatment…the "favors." It went on and on and only ended when she tied a sheet around her own neck. 

"Are you ready to go?" Commander Waterford's booming voice asks as he glides into the room. I look up from my bread, my mask of indifference falling into place. "Yes, Sir." I return, coming to attention as required when in the presence of those of a higher status.

With a briefcase in hand, Waterford grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and marches across the kitchen and out the back door. I quickly follow him through the kitchen and nearly reach the door when Rita catches up with me. She pulls me to a stop with a hand on my shoulder and hands me my toast wrapped in a napkin. "Waste not, want not," she winks, giving me my untouched breakfast. 

I smile, "Thanks, Rita." I turn to go, but her hand remains. "Make sure he's back by seven tonight.," she entreats.

We lock eyes; hers are sad. After a half-beat, she shakes her head and steps back. "Go in Grace," she states, her voice devoid of the emotion I see in her hazel orbs.

I give her one final nod and depart with a, "Blessed day."

****************************************

The day is warm but wet. I spend most of it smoking under the back door awning, obsoleting between mind-numbing boredom and disdain about tonight's coming events. The only interruption to the monotony is Hazel, the Mitchell's Martha, and the plates of food she keeps forcing on me. Thankfully, like most Marthas, she's a great cook. ITs not like she had an option. Either you learned quick how to be a domestic. There aren't very many roles available to single, barren women in Gilead, after all. The powers that be are perfectly okay with sending "able bodies" out to the front to clean up nuclear waste if a woman doesn't fit into one of the few female roles they have deemed worthy. It's disgusting. 

This household, however, perfectly embodies what Gilead wants. Commander Mitchell, an up-and-comer, has been rising through the ranks quickly under the tutelage of Fred Waterford, or at least that is what Fred is telling everyone. I personally don't see it. Mitchell is middle management at best. He reminds me of my boss when I worked at Walmart eons ago. Full of self-adulation, with just the right amount of self-preservation to know whose boots to lick. Just my luck, it's Fred Waterford's that he fancies needs the shine. I've had to witness days of forced laughter and insincere congratulations being passed back and forth like a football between the two men; it's exhausting. Mrs. Mitchell is a hard woman; I've yet to see her crack a smile. She spouts the ideals she's been brainwashed into believing with conviction. She is precisely as men want her, a mindless automaton. 

The door behind me opens. "It's five, but they aren't quite finished yet," Hazel informs me from the doorway. I give her a nod of acknowledgment and take one last drag of my cigarette before tossing it to the ground and crushing it under my heel. The Commander knows we are on a deadline tonight; he mentioned it during our drive out, but I completely expected this delay. He likes to keep his Misses waiting; I think he gets some sick thrill from it. I'd gladly stay out here all night, anything to avoid the Ceremony. But I know better. He won't miss his chance with the new handmaid. This delay will be enough to send the mistress into a tirade, one Rita and I will endure, not him, not ever him. I exhale, grab my pack, and light another cigarette.

 ********************

"I can't believe you're late. This is unacceptable! You know how important these nights are!" Her voice sharp as broken glass, our blonde mistress yells, heels clicking against the tile as she paces back and forth in rage. I stand at attention, eyes focused on the cabinets beyond her, my hands grasped behind my back. As anticipated, the Commander didn't stroll out of his "meeting" until 6:45 pm. The delay has put the evening more than an hour behind. Upon arrival, the Commander demanded that he and the Mrs. sit for dinner before he headed up for shower. Can't have the stench of ball sweat ruin the mood for his grand entrance. So here I stand in the kitchen, listening to Mrs. Waterford take out her anger at her husband on her indentured staff. I don't dare glance at Rita during the berating; any sign of solidarity is like chum in the water for Serena Joy; she'll punish us both. I straighten my back. "I'm sorry for the delay, Mrs. Waterford; it couldn't be avoided," I offer. "I will be sure to cover the Commander's schedule with him more thoroughly in the future," I say because she expects it. She also knows it'll make no difference. This is just the game we play.

Serena comes to a halt in front of me and stares at my face. I can't see her eyes; I'm still respectfully looking at a spot just beyond her, "See that you do!" she spits, her words sharp and acidic. I nod, trying to look contrite. She sucks in a long breath through her nose and straightens her back. "Go to the parlor and wait, both of you," she dismisses with a wave.

"Yes, ma'am," Rita and I respond simultaneously.

Rita and I walk silently down the hall, not looking at each other; our pace is slow and deliberate. "I'll be right in," I state. I need a second to gather myself. These Ceremony nights have always been hard for me to swallow. Rita nods and heads into the parlor. I slump against the wall, running my hand through my hair. I could use a cigarette right now. No time. So I take a deep breath, straighten myself up, and slip on my best Gilead facemask.

I enter the dimly lit parlor and take my place next to Rita. There, kneeling before the fireplace, is a woman in red, the new handmaid. How long has she been kneeling there, left to stew in dread? Part of me doesn't want to know.

"I wish they'd hurry up. Some of us got things to do, you know?" she says under her breath. Anyone else would think the remark is callous, but I know this Martha too well. This is her way of coping. She just wants to get it over with. 

"Hurry up and wait," I return flatly. This, too, the urgency placed on us when none actually exists, is part of our lives in this house. It's a control measure. 

Rita diverse her eyes to the floor as required, and I'm permitted a 1000-yard stare, one of the 'benefits' of being a man. Some privilege. But tonight, my stare isn't 1000 yards; it's about four feet directly in front of me. Though I know better, curiosity gets the best of me. The woman is small, what I'd call petite, much smaller than the last Offred. As I deduced the day she arrived, she doesn't want for a womanly figure. Her dress drapes and folds nicely over her curves. A tendril of blonde hair has escaped her cap, curling against her skin. My eyes catch on the curve of her neck; I wish I could see her face. My frustration, fueled by the unknown, simmers just beneath the surface. Her head turns ever so slightly like she feels my eyes on her. I lean in just a little, my curiosity pulling me closer— until the handle turns, snapping me back to reality. My spine straightens, gaze jerking to the mantle like a reprimanded child. Mrs. Waterford enters the room and takes her seat. My stomach turns over, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Anything to keep from thinking about what's coming next. Anything to keep my roiling from spilling on the floor.

The knock on the door.

Fred parades in with all the airs of a king, like this whole charade isn't as sickening but sacred to him. He swaggers over to the fireplace and to the decorative wood box on the mantle. He fishes out a key from his pocket; the lock turns, and the Bible is withdrawn from its hiding place. He quotes and misuses the scripture like he's standing at a pulpit, and then just like that, Rita and I are dismissed with a simple "Go in grace."

Rita and I go to the kitchen. I drop into a chair, and Rita stands in the doorway. "Let me heat you up a plate," she offers, moving towards the fridge. I shake my head, my stomach lurching at the idea of food. "I'm not hungry." 

"Tea? I have some with ginger," she suggests knowingly.

"Maybe two cups?"

She smiles sadly at me, nods, and moves to the sink to fill the kettle. After a few minutes of silence, she puts a mug in front of me before shuffling over to the cabinet above the stove and taking down a jar hidden behind a flour container. She comes back to the table and sets it down between our cups. It's honey. Honey is as good as money in Gilead. I raise an eyebrow at her. "Just take a little, the misses, she doesn't measure it," she dismisses with a wave. I chuckle under my breath but put a small dollop in my cup. I stir the honey into my tea; its sweetness feels out of place in a bitter world. Every small gesture—tea, honey, a glance held too long—feels like defiance in this world. Not much, but it's all we've got. Rita does the same and quickly returns the jar to its hiding place. 

We sit in silence, sipping our tea. Too soon, the parlor door opens, and the sound of feet on the stairs feels like a death knell. My stomach tightens, and Rita's face mirrors my disgust. My head drops to my chest; I can't be here. I stand and look at Rita and realize she has nowhere to run. "Thanks for the tea." She says nothing and keeps her head bowed in silent prayer.

I'm a coward. I escape out the backdoor and up to my room over the garage. I don't bother with the light. I shrug off my coat and drop it on the back of a kitchen chair before racking my hands through my hair and sinking onto the bench by the window. I pull out my pack of cigarettes and lighter and turn them over and over in my hand. I put the pack down but keep the lighter. I flick the flint and bring a flame to life. I wish it could burn away the weight in my chest. My eyes travel out the window and up at the two windows of the handmaid's room. They're dark. How long does a ceremony take? I try to remember the last time, but I come up blank. Based on my experience, it shouldn't be more than ten minutes; it's not like there is any foreplay or cuddling afterward. My head falls back against the wall, and I let my eyes slide closed and pray. Prayer doesn't seem to be working in my favor lately. Maybe it never did, but I do it anyway...just in case.

Forty minutes later, the light flicks on in her room, a sign of life. I let out a sigh I didn't realize I'd been holding. It's over... for now. I rub my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. Glancing at my bed, the thought of getting some rest crosses my mind, but the anxiety from the evening still grips me too tightly. Sleep feels impossible. Instead, I grab my smokes and the book I've been working through and head outside. The night is hot, still, and oppressive. Sleep will be hard to come by tonight. Settling onto the landing outside my door, I flip to where I left off, trying to lose myself in the pages.

But I barely make it through a few paragraphs when the sound of the kitchen door creaking open pulls my attention. It's Offred. Dressed in nothing but a light shift, her hair loose and wild, she stumbles out into the garden. She bends over, hands on her knees, gasping for air like she's been running. The word overwhelmed settles in my mind. She must feel my eyes on her because she slowly straightens, and her gaze locks onto mine.

We stare at each other in silence, the weight of the moment heavy between us. Her expression shifts—she's been caught somewhere she shouldn't be, and she knows it. I don't move, keeping my face as neutral as possible. The last thing I want is for her to be afraid of me. I'm probably fighting a losing battle on that front, but still, I try. Her eyes never leave mine as she cautiously steps backward, retreating toward the door, her fear palpable.

An ache settles behind my eyes, a reminder that in her world, I'm just another enemy. Another face not to be trusted. I can't blame her; you shouldn't trust anyone in Gilead. But still, the realization stings more than I'd like to admit. Watching her disappear back into the house, I make a second promise to myself—and to her. I will do what I can to keep her alive. And somehow, I'll show her that she doesn't need to be afraid of me.

************* 

The ceremony continues for the next two nights, stripped of the theatrics required on the first night but none of the brutality. As long as she's ovulating, they'll continue to rape her. And each night, she must disappear up the stairs to Serena's room, and with her, my appetite vanishes. Instead of eating, I settle on the bench near my window, waiting in silent vigil for the light in her room to flicker on, the only signal I have that she's survived another round of torment.

Tonight, the ordeal seems to drag on endlessly. Though my spirit is willing, my body betrays me. The endless late nights and the fractured, restless sleep have taken their toll. Ever since the ceremony began this month, sleep has been nothing but tossing and turning. Eventually, exhaustion wins out, and I doze off.

The crackle of a Guardian's walkie startles me awake. My neck protests as I rub it, muscles stiff from sitting in the same position for too long. How long was I out? I roll my head from side to side, trying to ease the kink out of my neck. My eyes instinctively drift to the third-floor window, and I catch the faint glow of light seeping through the curtains. A shadow moves within.

Relief floods through me, irrational but undeniable. The Ceremony is just one of the many battles she fights in this house, but seeing her light, seeing her still there, still moving, allows me to breathe again.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven't eaten since lunch. The thought of food feels almost absurd after the weight of what tonight means, but I remember the plate Rita set aside. A cold dinner is better than none.

The kitchen is dark save the dim light over the stove as I retrieve my plate from the fridge. I sit it on the counter and start picking at some cold chicken when I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me. "You don't need to heat it up; I'm fine," I say, shoving another bite in my mouth. When I don't get the expected flippant reply, I glance over my shoulder and freeze in shock. It's not Rita who's joined me; it's the handmaid. She seems just as surprised to see me as I do her. Her eyes drop immediately to the floor, her voice small and shaking. 'I'm sorry, sir… I didn't mean to intrude. I just after a glass of water.' Her hands fidget at her sides as if unsure where to rest them.

I shake myself mentally and look at her full-on. "You don't have to call me sir. I'm just the driver—Nick," I tell her. She glances up briefly, and despite the dim light, two bright blue eyes shine up at me from her delicate face. "Please," I gesture towards the sink. Gaze back on the floor, she retrieves a glass and fills it. I can't take my eyes off her as she sips her water. She must feel it her because she shuffles uncomfortably on her feet. , When her eyes catch mine, I feel the weight of a thousand rules between us. I look away, not because I don't want to see her, but because I can't. It's dangerous to notice anything about her, and yet I do. She has beautiful blue eyes, a full wide mouth, and an oval face. I look away and grab my plate. "Blessed Evening," I say, turning for the door.

"Nice to meet you, driver Nick," she calls at my back.

I glance over her shoulder and find her hesitantly watching me go. Our eyes lock for a moment—too brief to mean anything, yet long enough to make me wonder. There's something behind her placid expression, but it's gone before I can grasp it. I need to go. I turn away, knowing it's safer for both of us if I go. If Serena or Fred walked in now, even a glance exchanged in the dark could become a death sentence. I give her a nod of acknowledgment and exit with a final "Under his Eye."