Suda tried to keep her eyes lowered, but it was difficult with him lifting her chin.
“Do you understand me?” he asked.
“Chi,” Aanwat heard her whisper. “Yes.”
Simone
Simone, with “to do” list in hand, clicked on one set of lights in the bakery’s kitchen. The full force of having them all come on at once was a bit too much for her first thing, so she always eased into illuminating her space. As it was, she usually closed her eyes for a second or two against the glare off of the metal countertops. She would turn on the rest of the lights; after she had her first cup of coffee. Her ritual morning latte was more for the delicious taste and a sense of comfort than for a caffeine rush. Although her usual arrival time was 4:30 in the morning, she was used to the early hour, so her mind was already alert and reviewing the day’s tasks. The hiss of the coffee steamer, the clatter of dishes, and the murmur of conversation were the sounds that formed the auditory backdrop to Simone’s life. But for the first hour, she had the place to herself.
Now, first coffee of the day in hand, Simone mused about her routine, which was as consistent as the city’s fog: In the morning, her neighborhood was usually shrouded in the misty condensation. That gave way to sunny afternoons, and in the evenings—whether in the form of wispy tendrils or a thick blanket—the fog rolled back in to chill the nights. The bakery was nestled in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco. There, as part of Hope House, Simone took care of young women who were recovering from being trafficked and oversaw the bakery cum teaching school, waking before sunrise each morning to start creating yeasty concoctions that warmed the building and sent wafts of fresh bready scent drifting out onto the sidewalk. The aroma lured passersby inside for flaky croissants or peach muffins, which they then savored with their morning coffee or tea.
Above the bakery was her homey mess of an apartment, where Suda had been unceremoniously dropped off the night before. It was on the top floor of the same converted Victorian that housed Hope Bakery. The rooms, nestled on the floor in between the bakery and Simone’s apartment, sheltered a constant rotation of young women. They lived with Simone and Grace while they worked on slowly regaining their health and the lives that had been stolen from them. This morning, as Simone gathered ingredients from the walk-in refrigerator’s shelves and set them on the kitchen’s long counter, her mind focused on Suda, who would be a particular challenge.
Simone kept a small, tattered wooden box full of index cards on a shelf in her apartment, tucked in among her favorite books and trinkets. Each card held the name of a young woman who had passed through the safe house under her watch. Simone wrote each young woman’s name on a card when she arrived, and there the cards remained—even once the woman had moved on. Simone often sorted through the entire stack and prayed for each young woman by name, even after the woman had left the haven Simone had created.
Each girl traveled her own road; their journeys took them up and down through brokenness and healing. Some were success stories; others not. Or, as Simone liked to say, they were “not-yet-success stories.” She still had hope.
That morning, before she went down to the kitchen, Simone had written “Suda” on a card, set it among the others in the box, and then placed the container back on the shelf. For now, she would have to think about Suda while she worked, because downtime was a luxury that she didn’t have. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and reached for a large metal bowl.
The kitchen was large, industrial, and her favorite part of the safe house. She and Grace used it not only to bake goods to sell but also to feed the residents who lived in the house at any given time. In addition, it was a teaching tool; cooking classes were given as part of the regular curriculum so that each woman who left the program had a usable, marketable skill, and therefore was less vulnerable to ending up back in the untenable situation from which she had come. It was also the one place in the house where the residents were required to muster enough self-control to hold it together—especially if they were working the front and interacting with people who came in for coffee and the takeaway treats they made. It was all part of the program.
Still, in the beginning, nothing was required: no classes, no cooking, no helping out. Instead, Hope House was simply a place to feel safe, to sleep without being afraid, to feel nurtured and allow healing to begin. All the young women were given time, and when they were ready, they knew to come to Simone.
The corners of Simone’s lips turned up into a small smile as she added flour and baking soda to the bowl and reflected upon how she had gotten to this unexpected place in her life. Truth be told, she hadn’t intended to get involved in helping women who had been victims of forced prostitution. It had come about accidentally when she had witnessed an event that chilled her and then stayed in the forefront of her psyche.
When people asked her how she became involved in Hope House, her answer was usually the same: “An unexpected moment that altered the course of my life” is what she said.
She could still see it, if she let her mind drift back to that early morning: She had left early for work—which at that point was a marketing job for a Fortune 500 company. She was in desperate need of catching up on a few things that she could never seem to get to. The streets were quiet. It was a regular day; an ordinary, average, nothing-special moment. She got off the MUNI train in downtown San Francisco, grabbed her regular milky sweet latte at her favorite shop, and headed up Pine Street to her office.
The edge of her vision caught a man holding the arm of a young Asian woman—or maybe a teen. It had been difficult to know. She was scantily clad for a cold, foggy morning, her pale face radiated despair. Her black eyes bleakly sought Simone’s gaze. Her beautiful young face was devoid of hope. The grip the man had on her arm was menacing and proprietary.
Simone gasped and looked around. Were others seeing this? It seemed to Simone that the girl was the man’s captive. As if she had tried to escape but had been caught. Simone glanced around, looking for someone—anyone —to be a co-witness to this event. She wanted another set of eyes to meet in a quick joint assessment. But the early-morning street was empty except for the three of them.
Simone had felt a powerful urge to grab the young woman and wrench her free of the man’s grasp. To run with her—but to where? She reached into her pocket for her phone to call the police because the hopeless look on the woman’s face and the beseeching eyes intensely focused on Simone’s own told her clearly that this situation was sinister. But her fingers urgently felt around first one empty pocket and then another. The vision of her phone still sitting on the table next to her discarded cereal bowl passed in front of her mind’s eye.
Was she imagining it? No. She knew what she was seeing, and she understood her own powerlessness.
The experience had impacted her profoundly. It had shaken her. And changed her.
When she got to her desk that morning, she ignored the work she had come in to handle and instead Googled “human trafficking,” a term she had been hearing more of lately in the news and in conversation. Even a cursory search brought up pages and pages of articles about young girls from impoverished countries being sold as sex slaves, prostitutes, and trafficked girls, often by their own families desperately in need of money, out of options, or perhaps simply overwhelmed by one too many mouths to feed. Simone scrolled through articles about boys, smuggled to the United States in hope of a better life, who instead ended up at the mercy of criminals who used them like commodities. They arrived believing they had legitimate jobs, and instead owed a debt that could be paid only in flesh.
Other links led to articles about local girls, who for one reason or another ended up on the streets: grabbed or lured with potent cocktails of feigned love and drugs and then compelled to do things they never wanted or intended to do.
Simone hadn’t realized how prevalent the sex trade actually was. She’d heard of it, sure,
but assumed it was something obscure and rare; not rampant in her own city. She’d been wrong. In fact, it was very much thriving in San Francisco, hidden in plain sight.
That day, Simone stepped away from her computer only to grab some takeaway chow mein from her favorite restaurant. She went right back to her search as she ate the noodles straight from the carton.
Her mind spun as she clicked on different sites. From her research, Simone learned that the city was home to many young women who were living trapped lives. Maybe if she helped one person to start, it would make a difference.
“I don’t get it.” Olivia looked at Simone over the teapot as she poured each of them a hot cup of English breakfast tea, her face open and her blue eyes curious. Olivia had been Simone’s best friend since they were roommates their freshman year at college, “How are you going to help someone?”
Simone had broached the subject of getting involved over breakfast at her favorite diner one Saturday morning. Her French toast and chicken apple sausage steamed as she tucked into her food.
“I’m not sure,” Simone confessed, pouring on syrup. “But I’m going to figure it out.”
Olivia smiled and twisted her long brown hair behind her ear as she set the teapot back on the table between them. “I have no doubt you will,” she said. She picked up her teacup and blew on the steam, looking at Simone over the top of the cup. “If there’s one person who can get something done, it’s you.”
“Thanks, Liv!” Simone smiled and cut her sausage. “That means a lot to me. I appreciate you not just blowing this off as some crazy plot.”
Olivia waved her hand. “I probably would if this was coming from someone else, but you’re the type who will actually do something, not just talk about it.”
“Nonetheless,” Simone put out her cup and tapped it against her friend’s. “Support gratefully accepted.”
Gradually over the next few weeks, a plan began to solidify in Simone’s mind. She began talking tentatively about the idea of taking in a girl from the streets. Her parents, and most of her friends—truth be told—thought she had completely lost her mind. Her mom was the worst. She was sure Simone would be killed.
“That’s noble, Simone, but you’ve got to get real about this,” her friend Justin advised, passed her a glass of wine, and led her to a couch where a group of their friends were snacking on cheese and crackers one Friday after work.
“It’s not noble,” Simone retorted, furrowing her brows at the slightly condescending tone. “It’s just something I can do to help someone.”
“Is she on this again? You’re becoming boring, Simone,” Justin’s girlfriend, Pamela—who had always made Simone clench her teeth—felt compelled to put in her two cents.
Simone bit her bottom lip so she didn’t blurt out something she would later regret and caught Olivia’s eyes.
Olivia, gave her a look that said, “Ignore them. They don’t get it.”
Simone’s widened eyes subtly told Olivia the message was received. Then she took a sip of the wine and smiled.
Another woman joined the foursome on the couch. Simone hadn’t met her before, but something about the way she comfortably inserted herself into the conversation told her that this tatty-jeans-wearing, nose-ring-sporting, beautiful young woman had a strong sense that she knew a lot and was more than eager to impart wisdom to those around her.
“What’s your training?” she asked Simone as if she’d been a part of the conversation all along. Simone noticed she was drinking some aggressive amber liquor on the rocks instead of wine, as if to show them all that she was more hard-core than they were.
“No formal training,” Simone said. “I volunteer two evenings a week at a safe house in Oakland, though. I had to take a class they put on for volunteers before I could start, which helped.”
“That’s a nice beginning, but you’re not a therapist, a social worker, or a cop. So, really, what do you have to offer?”
“Wow.” Simone was taken aback. She took a sip of her wine, put up a finger to show that something was coming, and inhaled deeply, trying to quickly gather her thoughts. The entire group’s eyes were focused on her expectantly. “What I have to offer is a safe place to live. Help. Kindness. If we never do anything that isn’t a challenge, that’s not out of our comfort zone, then we are going to live very small, extremely limited, and most likely fairly dull lives.”
“You’ll be in way over your head,” said nose-ring girl.
“Probably. But I have some good friends and family to help me. Why are you concerned about it?”
“I’m not. Just playing devil’s advocate.”
“You were a business major and work downtown,” Justin added, looking towards Simone.
“Listen, you guys, to a certain extent I can’t disagree with you. I get that you think I’m crazy to want to ‘take in some street waif’ as I believe one of you said earlier,” Simone swirled her pinot noir and looked at the rich red liquid in her glass. “Still, I feel compelled to do this, so you can either be supportive or you can think I’m nuts, but either way, I’m going to try to help someone. I have to try. Worst case scenario is that it doesn’t work out.”
“Uh, that’s not the worst-case scenario.” Nose-ring girl rolled her eyes. “The worst-case scenario is that some pimp shows up; you get beaten up, raped, robbed or what have you; he takes the woman you’re trying to help, and leaves you for dead.”
Simone looked at Olivia and raised her eyebrows. She had nothing to say to that.
“More wine?” Olivia asked Simone, who held out her glass.
“Yes please!”
After that evening, she found it was easier to either skip going out with her friends or to avoid the topic with them at all costs. Except for with Olivia, who she could always count on. Volunteering at the safe house had given her an inkling of what these young women were up against, and she felt a deep calling to move forward, even if she could help just one person, she mused. She could get that person on her feet and then after that maybe she could help someone else. The key was to figure out who was the right one. Simone prayed that someone would become the obvious choice. Finally she thought maybe she had found her.
“There’s this girl I keep seeing,” Simone was sitting on the couch in her apartment after she got home from work, laptop resting on her knees, tea on the coffee table when Olivia popped over to hang out after work. Without preamble, chitchat, or offer of a glass of wine, Simone cut straight to the chase.
“Really? Since when?” Olivia, asked.
“Most mornings when I get off of the train. She’s sitting on the steps around the BART station. She looks haggard, overly alert, too skinny, too hardened for someone her age. Lots of makeup, but it’s always smudgy, like she’s been through a night. You know?”
“Yep, sounds questionable for sure. Are you going to talk to her?” Olivia asked.
“I think so. Maybe I’ll buy her a latte and just chat with her for a minute.”
“Be careful. Be discreet in case she’s being watched.” Olivia tossed her keys into the bowl they kept by the front door for just such occasions.
“Yeah, yeah,” she smiled at Olivia, half exasperated that her friend was telling her what she already knew, half appreciative that she was looking out for her. She was grateful that Olivia, unlike everyone else, had never once tried to talk her out of her plan and instead had championed the idea.
“I’ll be your sidekick. You know, the one to get the two of you out of scrapes. The one she can come talk to when you’re being difficult and making her follow rules and such,” Olivia had told Simone when she’d broached the subject back in its idea infancy.
“Do you think she’s the one?” Olivia now asked, a noticeable spark of enthusiasm creeping into her eyes and voice.
“I have no idea, but I’ve got to start with someone. And something about her feels righ
t.”
“Exciting,” Olivia walked to Simone’s fridge and opened the door, peering in for something to eat. She grabbed some baby carrots and hummus, set them on the coffee table, and started nibbling while Simone talked about the desperate girl they would come to know as Grace.
The autumn morning she’d introduced herself to Grace had been six years ago. In the eventful intervening years, Simone had eventually dumped her day job and created Hope House with the very young woman she’d seen on the steps. What had begun with her impulsive dream had gradually expanded until inviting strays off the streets had filled her apartment to overflowing and gotten her into more than a little trouble with her landlord.
Once Grace had been rescued, she had never left. Others had been added, sleeping here and there until the apartment was bursting.
“Wow,” Olivia said one day when she stopped by after work. “There are mattresses everywhere.” She stepped over one to get to the kitchen.
“I know,” Simone shrugged, having stopped trying to keep the floor clear of the makeshift beds. She looked around but tried to think of the mattresses as little “cocoon havens” rather than “disorder” and smiled. They were all tidily made up with sheets and blankets, but she knew it was time to expand to a larger place.
In addition to too many beds and not enough space in her home, Simone found that too much of her workday was taken up trying to rustle up pro bono therapy for her “foundlings” as Olivia affectionately called them.
Simone sighed and added “carrots,” “tomatoes,” and “pasta” to the grocery list. The food bill was getting ever larger in spite of her creative menu planning.
“You’ve got to get a grant or something,” Olivia leaned against the counter after filling Simone’s teapot with water and putting it on the burner to heat.
Across the Deep Page 3
