When her mom was awake, she was either overly jovial—laughing at the slightest provocation—or sullen and zoned out. Little Claire couldn’t make heads or tails of it and even at five years old knew to stay away as much as possible.
The fact that librarians usually had snacks behind the counter and were willing to share with plainly hungry little girls was an additional enticement.
By the time Claire was in third grade, she had become a thoroughly self-sufficient ragamuffin. Her long, blonde hair was unkempt, and her blue, waifish eyes were overly large in her thin, intelligent face. Her clothes were generally grubby and mismatched, but that somehow added to her scruffy appeal. She poured over the well-worn Boxcar Children books and fancied herself as street savvy as the four fictitious orphans who had to navigate life on their own. Later, when she discovered From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, featuring the brother and sister who lived in the Metropolitan Museum in New York, she dreamed endlessly about moving herself into the library’s glorious and elegant main branch with its glass dome ceiling, beautiful woodwork, and many secret nooks in which to read. The book’s great trick about collecting coins from fountains was a helpful tip as well. She was able to buy many a taco-truck meal from the quarters she fished out of the fountains she scoured throughout the city.
Then things looked up when Nick moved in. She actually allowed herself to become hopeful—which she later regretted dearly. Trust, she discovered, is much more of a “four-letter word” than the F-bomb she now loved to drop.
It started when she was thirteen, at her most awkward and vulnerable. Although her favorite clothes were still a tomboyish combination of a soft, faded blue hoodie and dirt-smudged jeans, by then the Huck Finn fantasy her younger self clung to had crumbled, and she wanted, more than anything, to be like other kids with a stable family life. Her school friends grumbled endlessly about their parents, but they had no idea what they were talking about as far as Claire was concerned.
Too strict? Please, she longed for strict. It showed parents cared. Woes about her friends having to eat all their food, whether they liked it or not, made her salivate. Carnitas? Yes, please! Glass noodles? She dreamed of the delicious, saucy dish. One of her friends moaned endlessly when her mother made chicken again even though she knew she was sick of it. Claire pretended to have similar problems but instead fantasized about having chicken so frequently that she became sick of it—which she believed would be never. The neighborhood where they lived, which bordered the Tenderloin, was home to people of all ethnicities, and the variety of spices and food she smelled while she walked from school to home every afternoon was at once dreamy and torturous.
By then, Claire and her friends were starting to get curvy, and the other girls constantly told Claire how much they wanted her flat stomach and jutting hip bones instead of their suddenly fleshed out selves. Claire never admitted that it was lack of food that kept her so thin and that she was hungry all the time. She would have traded places with them in a heartbeat.
And then one day, Claire arrived home after school to find the apartment in some semblance of order and her mother, not only tidy as well, but laughing at an unseen visitor’s joke while throwing some pasta into a pot of boiling water.
Claire’s cautious, “Hello?” was met with the appearance of a man wearing decent clothes, which was a far cry from any of her mother’s previous “friends.” He actually looked fairly normal.
“Is this the lovely and studious Claire I’ve been hearing so much about?” the guy asked.
“Indeed it is,” her mother responded having produced a smile replete with a twinkle in her eye. Her hair was clean and her face was made up nicely.
“Indeed?” thought Claire. What was happening?
“I’m Nick,” he said and shook her hand as if she were an adult.
Claire looked warily between the two.
“Dinner in about a half hour, sweetie,” her mom said, pouring herself a glass of red wine. When had she gotten actual wine glasses—let alone wine? Her mom’s go to was usually Coke and the cheapest brand of rum available, but Claire wasn’t about to let the opportunity of a good meal go to waste by blowing her mother’s cover.
“Sounds good,” Claire responded. “I’ll just hang in my room until then.”
Her mind was reeling, but dinner turned out to be weirdly wonderful. Her mom and Nick explained how they’d met while they were each waiting for a BART train during the wee hours and had hit it off.
“Gross,” Claire thought and looked away, horrified, when she heard the words “hit it off” because now that she knew a thing or two, she couldn’t help but visualize something seedy in the corner of the station.
“I gave him my number,” her mom said coyly, as if it had needed to be coaxed out of her.
“I texted her while we were still on the train,” Nick said as if they were being interviewed on The Bachelor and were recounting their charming first meeting.
“Which was amazing because I looked like a wreck,” she said, putting her hand to her now-fresh and styled wavy blonde hair.
“You were beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”
Claire simultaneously wanted to vomit and felt a spark of pride for her mother who was lovely when she cleaned up.
“You look so much like her,” Nick turned to Claire.
“She’s the spitting image of me when I was young,” her mom said.
“Really?” Claire asked. “You’ve never said so.”
“Well, I’ve thought it many times,” she told her, scooping more penne onto Claire’s plate as if they ate that way every night.
Claire tried to keep up her reserve, but instead she drank in the attention as thirstily as her mother sipped her delightfully robust cabernet.
Suda
Suda had long ago stopped feeling. It was easier that way. Instead she had become an observer. She watched herself from afar. She watched others. She existed—nothing more.
But still, after Grace and Nittha left, Suda felt a terrifying, miniscule sense of hope. A crack in her wall, a pea-sized crevasse that oozed blood of yearning; she put her hand to her heart to stop it. Was safety a possibility? The concept was so unbearably desirable that she hardly allowed herself to consider it.
Although Nittha had brought the bag of clothes, Suda hadn’t wanted to change out of Simone’s pajamas. There were two pieces: a long-sleeved shirt that had buttons and a collar and long pants with an elastic waste that helped them stay up in spite of Suda’s tiny frame. Navy blue with thin white stripes, they were made of the softest material Suda had ever felt—somehow both smooth and fuzzy. How could that be? She rubbed her cheek along one of the sleeves, and it felt warm to the touch. Almost like a blanket.
She was thirsty but was afraid to help herself to a glass of water. It would be horrifying if Simone walked in and found her with the cupboards open. And even though Chai had brought her breakfast earlier, her stomach was gnawing at her again. She didn’t want them to think she was stealing or being sneaky and send her away, so she put aside her thirst and hunger and decided to climb back into bed. They had told her she could rest all she wanted and that mattress and the thick white comforter were calling to her, so she decided she would nestle back in.
On the way, she tiptoed into the bathroom, her feet cold on the tile floor. She looked in the mirror and was absolutely shocked when she saw the shape she was in. Her wrists looked like a small child’s and the pajamas she wore looked as if they were hanging off of a skeleton. Her hair was clean but still uncombed from sleep. Her brown eyes, sunken. Still, she thought, none of it mattered as long as she wasn’t going back.
She was in a strange country where she didn’t speak the language, but for now she wouldn’t worry about that. She would focus on getting better, and then she would decide what to do. And if needed, she would plan her escape as soon as she was strong en
ough.
She wondered if her aunt knew she was no longer in Thailand. Would the money she was making for her end? She supposed so. What else could possibly happen? She both hated and loved her aunt. Hated her for selling her into the karaoke, but she loved her, too. She looked a little bit like her mother, which pulled at her heart. If only she hadn’t died, Suda thought, and tears burned her eyes even though it had happened years ago. Suda knew her auntie had only done what she had because she needed the money for the family. It was the way it worked in her village, plain and simple. The girls provided. The family had to eat, and Suda was what allowed them to do so. Sacrifice one for the good of all. That was the way. She wondered what would happen to them now. Her cheeks burned at the thought of letting them down, and she hoped they weren’t hungry at this very moment.
She tried to put that out of her mind, though, as she snuggled back in bed. Ignoring her own hunger pangs, she fell into an exhausted sleep only to startle awake sometime later, drenched in terrified sweat, dreaming of the moment the storage container door clanged shut and she found herself in complete darkness. It was now night, but she could see a light coming from the kitchen. She listened intently but couldn’t hear any sounds. Was there someone there waiting for her? Had Gan sent someone to get her? They must be looking for her. What would they do to her when they found her?
She threw the blankets off and tentatively got out of bed. She crept down the hall to peek into the living room and stopped short, terrified when she saw the man who had brought her here standing with his back to her. He had a gun tucked into a holster at his side. Her heart raced. Had he been lying to her? Was he going to kill her? He said he was going to help her, but now here he was, waiting for her with a gun.
She flattened herself against the wall, trying to become invisible. Was this it? Had they all lied? Were they working with Aanwat? She walked silently backward, formulating a plan of escape, but unwittingly brushed against a picture on the wall, and it came crashing down. The man turned, startled, and saw the terror on her face.
She gasped, gulped down a shriek and pointed to his gun.
“Why do you have that?” she asked, keeping her eyes locked on the weapon.
“Oh!” he realized what had frightened her. “I’m sorry. I should have put it away. I sometimes forget it’s on me when I’m on duty. Police; remember?” He gestured to himself and put his hand on his chest.
He explained it to her in Thai. “You’re safe. We’re not going to hurt you.”
“Where are the others?” she asked suspiciously, wondering why it was only him in the apartment.
“Simone’s been here all afternoon while you’ve been sleeping, but she just stepped out to check on something. She’ll be right back. She left me here so I could talk to you if you woke up.”
Suda looked at him, cautious relief showing on her face, but she continued to keep her distance as well as one eye on Chai’s gun.
“I made you some tom yum goong,” he said gently, as if trying to lure a frightened kitten toward a saucer of milk. He gestured to a pan of spicy shrimp soup warming on the stove, but Suda shook her head and backed away.
“All right, no soup. How about gang kiew wan?” he asked, knowing he could quickly order some of his favorite green curry chicken and rice from a nearby Thai restaurant.
She shook her head again.
“Bread?” she asked, remembering the sweet muffin she’d eaten for breakfast, but forgetting the name for it.
“Sure,” he said, opening cupboards, trying to find a loaf of bread and striking it lucky in the second cabinet he searched. He took out a couple of slices and put them on a plate. “Do you want butter?” he asked. He then opened the refrigerator and took out Simone’s butter dish. He slid the dish with a full cube toward her and then backed away so she wouldn’t be afraid.
Suda tentatively walked over, picked up the plate of bread, and lowered herself onto the floor with it, knees folded under her. She knew how to sit at a table perfectly well, but sitting on the floor is how she had always eaten growing up, and it still felt the most natural to her. What he had given her wasn’t the muffin she had in mind, but in her stage of extreme hunger, simple slices of bread would do just fine. She had no idea what the cube of yellow stuff was, so she left it untouched.
“Do you mind if I eat the soup?” Chai asked, and Suda shook her head to indicate that it was fine.
He poured a generous helping for himself, sat on the floor a comfortable distance away, and began eating. It was into this scene that Simone entered, holding a bag and looking at them each, cautiously.
“Everything good?” she asked Chai, keeping her face neutral.
“Yep, we’re good. Suda doesn’t like my soup, but she’s eating some bread, so I thought I’d join her. Want some soup?”
“Sounds great.” Simone put the bag down, helped herself to a bowl, and then sat down on the floor with them, carefully tucking her feet under her as Suda had. She smiled at Suda, who gave her a surprisingly warm smile back.
“We have a bedroom available for her,” Simone told Chai. “Will you ask her if she’d like to have her own room? It’s on the level below me, but it’s right next to Claire’s room. Grace told me she and Claire have already met.”
Chai turned to Suda and explained, but she looked terrified and mutely stared at the floor. He explained that it was safe, but she still wouldn’t meet his eye.
“Hmm,” he looked over at Simone.
“She doesn’t seem enthusiastic.”
“She’s probably afraid she’ll be kept in the room against her will.”
“Yes,” Simone thought for a moment. “Would she be more comfortable if she stayed here with me?”
“I’m guessing so, but that’s a lot to ask of you. As it is, I showed up in the night and foisted a half-starved, semiconscious young woman on you. Having her move into your space would be above and beyond.”
“Don’t worry about it. You should have seen how crowded my apartment was before we got a grant and moved in here. It’s the least I can do. And after all, what’s the alternative?”
Chai rubbed his hands over his face. The truth was that the situation was getting more and more complicated, and to say he was skirting the law was an understatement. He was compromising Simone as well now and wasn’t even sure how much he could tell her.
For now, though, all he said was, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she told him, gently taking Suda’s empty plate from her, putting two more slices of bread on it, and then handing it back. She took Chai’s soup bowl and refilled it for him as well while he explained to Suda the option of staying with Simone.
Suda looked up, relieved.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Simone smiled.
“I would say so.”
“We can bring a bed up from downstairs,” she pointed to the far end of the living room, “and put it there.”
“How long do you think this case will take? Are you close to getting evidence against the men who did this to her?”
“The best evidence is Suda herself, but I would like to get something more as well, to really nail them because if I have to bring Suda in, she’ll end up in immigration hell, and she’s already been through enough. I have plenty on the minor players; don’t get me wrong. But it’s the higher-ups that are more difficult to nail down.”
“Is it legal, what we’re doing?”
Chai looked at her impassively but didn’t answer.
“I’ll take that as a definitive “no” but luckily for you, I’m not above skirting the law here and there where someone’s safety comes into play.”
“Thank you,” he exhaled. “I can’t express my appreciation. You hardly know me, and yet you’ve …”
Simone waved her hand dismissively, which Chai noticed seemed a common expression of hers. “In case you haven’t notic
ed, this is a safe house; we’re used to keeping a low profile.”
“In this case, it’s going to have to be even lower profile than usual because if these guys even get a glimpse of her, it’s serious trouble.”
“Good to know. Have you told her she has to stay inside for now?”
“I had Nittha explain it to her. It seemed like it would be better coming from a woman.”
“You’re probably right. So, that’s it. We’re settled. We’ll let her rest, try to fatten her up a bit, and start therapy with her as soon as we can get our hands on a therapist who speaks Thai,” Simone said matter-of-factly.
“Um …”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Simone asked when she saw him hesitate.
“Well, kind of. The reality is that young women are a dime a dozen to these traffickers. They would usually just try to find her for a while and then replace her with another young woman.”
“But?” Simone prompted.
“But,” Chai continued, “this is the first girl this particular guy sent over. He’s new to the organization. He was trying to make his mark, and because it didn’t go according to plan, it doesn’t look good for him.”
“So, now what? He’s trying to make it right, so to speak?”
“Exactly. He’s worried he’ll be out.” Chai paused. “Or worse if you know what I mean because he’s now considered unreliable. And my guess is that he’s freaked out. I heard he’s sending one of his guys over. And from what I gather, it’s the guy who put her in the container in the first place. He’ll be motivated to get himself cleared, and he knows exactly what she looks like.”
Simone exhaled loudly.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Ok, well, we’ll double down on keeping her out of sight while he’s here and then you can let us know when the coast is clear.”
Chai smiled at Simone, loving her efficiency and attitude.
“I brought her to the right place,” he said. “I knew it without even giving it a moment’s thought. It’s strange.”
Across the Deep Page 7
