Free The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood Page A

I know she’s not really a ghost. If she were a ghost she would be the same age always.
    One day, when she was eleven months old, just before she began to walk, a woman stole her out of a supermarket cart. It was a Saturday, which was when Luke and I did the week’s shopping, because both of us had jobs. She was sitting in the little baby seats they had then, in supermarket carts, with holes for the legs. She was happy enough, and I’d turned my back, the cat-food section I think it was; Luke was over at the side of the store, out of sight, at the meat counter. He liked to choose what kind of meat we were going to eat during the week. He said men needed more meat thanwomen did, and that it wasn’t a superstition and he wasn’t being a jerk, studies had been done. There are some differences, he said. He was fond of saying that, as if I was trying to prove there weren’t. But mostly he said it when my mother was there. He liked to tease her.
    I heard her start to cry. I turned around and she was disappearing down the aisle, in the arms of a woman I’d never seen before. I screamed, and the woman was stopped. She must have been about thirty-five. She was crying and saying it was her baby, the Lord had given it to her, he’d sent her a sign. I felt sorry for her. The store manager apologized and they held her until the police came.
    She’s just crazy, Luke said.
    I thought it was an isolated incident, at the time.
    She fades, I can’t keep her here with me, she’s gone now. Maybe I do think of her as a ghost, the ghost of a dead girl, a little girl who died when she was five. I remember the pictures of us I had once, me holding her, standard poses, mother and baby, locked in a frame, for safety. Behind my closed eyes I can see myself as I am now, sitting beside an open drawer, or a trunk, in the cellar, where the baby clothes are folded away, a lock of hair, cut when she was two, in an envelope, white blonde. It got darker later.
    I don’t have those things any more, the clothes and hair. I wonder what happened to all our things. Looted, dumped out, carried away. Confiscated.
    I’ve learned to do without a lot of things. If you have a lot of things, said Aunt Lydia, you get too attached to this material world and you forget about spiritual values. You must cultivate poverty of spirit. Blessed are the meek. She didn’t go on to say anything about inheriting the earth.
    I lie, lapped by the water, beside an open drawer that does not exist, and think about a girl who did not die when she was five; whostill does exist, I hope, though not for me. Do I exist for her? Am I a picture somewhere, in the dark at the back of her mind?
    They must have told her I was dead. That’s what they would think of doing. They would say it would be easier for her to adjust.
    Â Â Â Â Eight, she must be now. I’ve filled in the time I lost, I know how much there’s been. They were right, it’s easier, to think of her as dead. I don’t have to hope then, or make a wasted effort. Why bash your head, said Aunt Lydia, against a wall? Sometimes she had a graphic way of putting things.
    â€œI ain’t got all day,” says Cora’s voice outside the door. It’s true, she hasn’t. She hasn’t got all of anything. I must not deprive her of her time. I soap myself, use the scrub brush and the piece of pumice for sanding off dead skin. Such puritan aids are supplied. I wish to be totally clean, germless, without bacteria, like the surface of the moon. I will not be able to wash myself, this evening, not afterwards, not for a day. It interferes, they say, and why take chances?
    I cannot avoid seeing, now, the small tattoo on my ankle. Four digits and an eye, a passport in reverse. It’s supposed to guarantee that I will never be able to fade, finally, into another landscape. I am too important, too scarce, for that. I am a national resource.
    I pull the plug,