Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter 351,897 wordsCompleted

In a rambling interior monologue the narrator describes a moment when she and her husband Luke try to cross a border. They have forged passports that claim Luke is still legally married, hoping the new law will permit them to leave. As they approach the immigration building, a man inside glances at their sleeping daughter in the car, and Luke briefly stretches his legs before returning to the vehicle. The narrator lights a cigarette, watches two soldiers in unfamiliar uniforms by a yellow‑and‑black striped barrier, and notices gulls on a bridge. She tells herself “It’s going to be all right” and implores the unseen listeners to let them cross. Suddenly Luke turns the key, reverses, picks up the phone, and then speeds away. The car bursts onto a dirt road leading into woods; they jump out and sprint, imagining a hidden cottage or a boat as refuge. Luke claims the passports are foolproof, but the narrator admits she is only running “away, away,” and repeats that she does not have to tell the story. She reflects on love—its heavy weight, its role in identity, and the paradox of loving an abstract ideal versus a specific man—while the Latin mantra “Nolite te bastardes carborundorum” surfaces, recalling its earlier use and questioning its efficacy.

The narrative then shifts back to the present room. A knock sounds; the narrator expects Cora with a tray, but the visitor is Serena Joy, who hands over a glossy Polaroid print. Serena whispers that the photo must be returned quickly before anyone notices it is missing. The narrator examines the photograph: a young woman in a white dress, smiling, standing as if at a First Communion. The image triggers the narrator’s sense of erasure; she visualizes herself as a shadow behind the glossy surface, likening herself to “a woman of sand” and to dead mothers whose pictures survive while they do not. She laments being invisible, even as the photographed woman lives on.

While holding the Polaroid, the narrator sits at a small table and eats creamed corn with a fork. She notes she has both a fork and a spoon but never a knife, explaining that knives are withheld because the Handmaids are presumed incapable of cutting meat themselves. The scene ends with the narrator’s internal commentary on being a refugee from her own past, obsessively cataloguing customs she has left behind, and comparing herself to a “White Russian drinking tea in Paris,” lost in a foreign time. Throughout, the chapter interweaves vivid recollections of the failed escape, philosophical musings on love and resistance, and the stark, symbolic act of receiving the Polaroid from Serena Joy.