Across the Deep

by Lisa McGuinness

  For days, she alternately laid in her bed sobbing in frustration and paced back and forth, chest tight with anxiety. She couldn’t stop visualizing the video he would send. She knew it was coming and felt powerless to stop it.

  The police weren’t able to track him, and Hailey found herself waiting, waiting, waiting until she felt as if she would burst with anxiety.

  Every hour felt like a century. Every day an eternity.

  Until the waiting was over.

  He sent the video of her to a few key students who spread it around until almost everyone she knew had seen it. It was taken down, of course, but the damage was done.

  She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep. She could hardly look at her mother, and meeting her father’s eyes was out of the realm of possibility. She spent her time lying in her bed in the dim light.

  It was months before her parents felt it would be safe for her to leave the house even for the closest of errands. Hailey wasn’t convinced it was clear, but she hadn’t heard from him in weeks and had gradually allowed herself to hope he had given up. That he had punished her by showing the video and now it was actually over.

  She started by going to an In-N-Out Burger drive through. She got behind the wheel, started the car, and rolled the window down on the way there. She allowed the breeze to blow against her face and reveled in the feeling of freedom. She turned up the radio and even allowed herself to tentatively sing along. Placing the order was uneventful—even though she had a slight feeling of being trapped when she was hemmed in by the other cars on either end of hers in the order line. But, she came home with burgers and shakes for herself and her parents. True when she was back in her own driveway, she had dashed out of the car, slammed the car door shut, and—heart racing—bolted to the front door as quickly as she could. But still, she had gone out. And returned home. It had felt like a victory.

  Another few days passed before she wanted to go out again. She thought going to the grocery store with her mother would be a good second outing. It was just the local market. A quick errand, and her mom would be there the whole time.

  “Stay with me,” her mom told her while she dug through her purse for her grocery list.

  “Do you think he is going to grab me by the cucumbers?” She tried to laugh lightly, but in reality the thought of it made her sick.

  “I don’t know,” her mom looked levelly at her daughter, “but I’m not willing to take that risk.”

  Hailey smiled and took over pushing the cart.

  “I’m scared, too. I just don’t want to let him have that control anymore; you know?”

  “I do know,” her mom ran her hand down the back of her daughter’s hair.

  “Cucumbers,” Hailey said with bravado, looking at the list, then steered the cart toward the vegetable section all by herself—deciding to be brave.

  Her mother still didn’t know exactly when or how he had grabbed her. They had finished shopping and loaded the car with the bags of groceries; she turned her back for just a moment while Hailey steered the cart off to the side of the car. And then she was gone. Just like that. Every parent’s worst nightmare.

  It took the police months to recover her, and by then she was hardly recognizable: skin and bones, track marks up her arms. Her parents wept with relief and horror when they got her back. “It could have been worse,” they said to themselves and each other, over and over again. They told themselves they were the lucky ones.

  They never brought her home from the hospital. Instead they whisked her away. They moved cities, changed their phone numbers, got new credit cards, and erased themselves as thoroughly as they could, but still they were terrified he would find her again. She was traumatized—they all were—and she clearly needed more help than they knew how to give her, which was when Hope House was recommended to them. That had been almost two years ago, yet she was still fragile and quiet. Nothing like the vibrant girl she’d been. Still, she was safe.

  But healing slowly, Simone thought. She’d observed progress: an occasional genuine smile and a bit of light in those brown eyes. She would get there, Simone believed. Hailey had been going to church with Simone and seemed to be opening up to the idea of forgiving herself for getting involved with Dante. Everyone said it wasn’t her fault; that she was the victim, but it didn’t feel that way. Not at all. But the idea that she could give away the guilt? That was a start.

  When Claire arrived at Hope House months later, she and Hailey found that they’d shared a similar experience. They learned that being caught in someone’s snare happens—even to intelligent girls—and that it just maybe wasn’t their fault.

  Even so, Hailey couldn’t let herself off the hook just yet. She had ruined her family’s happiness and their sense of safety as well as her own.

  Now, Simone saw her heading toward the stairs, on her way down to help in the bakery.

  “Hey,” Simone said and walked over to her, enveloping her in her arms for a quick hug. “Shoulders back. Remember: posture of strength,” she lifted Hailey’s chin and smiled into her eyes. “You’re loved; you’re strong.”

  “Thanks Simone,” she smiled meekly—the counterpoint to Claire’s brashness.

  “Go bake some bread.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Don’t ma’am me, young thing. I’m not an old lady,” Simone bantered with her, trying to bring her out of her shell.

  “Not yet at least,” Hailey smiled mischievously much to Simone’s pleasure.

  There, Simone smiled inwardly. That’s definable progress, right there. Hailey rarely spoke when she first arrived; the thought of saying something playful would never have been considered let alone undertaken.

  As Hailey disappeared down the stairs, Simone’s mind switched over to Suda and with her, to Chai. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed.

  “Hey,” she said when Chai picked up.

  “Hey, yourself. Is everything all right there?”

  “Yeah, fine. Just wondering how the investigation’s going. Just thinking about what would happen if the safe house were discovered. Should I put a plan in place in case someone comes after Suda?”

  The thought of organized human traffickers being involved made Simone shudder. She wasn’t exactly sure how dangerous a situation she had landed in.

  Suda

  Plaid flannel pajamas, heavy blankets, nubby sweaters, and a fresh breeze that came through the window left open a crack, even when it wasn’t warm out. The floral scent of shampoo and conditioner and hot shower water. The sound of Cheerios—Simone’s favorite—as they hit the ceramic bowl on the way to becoming breakfast. Suda saw her pick up a handful and toss them into her mouth before she poured the milk. She smiled, watching the easy way Simone moved through the world. She was quietly confident and clearly at peace with who she was. Suda hoped she could be like that someday.

  Simone saw Suda watching her, raised her eyebrows in question, and held up the box of cereal. “Want some?”

  Suda nodded, hopped off the couch, and joined Simone in her apartment kitchen. She believed she could live on cereal. She had been wary of it at first. After a lifetime of steamed rice, the thought of pouring a bunch of milk over the little crunchy things seemed like it would be disgusting. She wasn’t used to cow’s milk, or any milk for that matter, but once Simone got her to try it with almond milk, she was hooked. Suda found it tasted best while eating it standing at the counter with Simone. Not talking but companionably crunching away. She felt the same about fluffy sourdough bread with butter. The unusual tang didn’t exist in Thai food. Croissants, raspberries, apples. Jam. All were new and beloved tastes. Simone kept a shallow cream-colored ceramic bowl of Fuji apples on her kitchen counter, and they were beautiful and delicious.

  And Suda was allowed to eat whenever she wanted. She could help herself to anything. It still felt strange—just picking up an apple and eatin
g it. She had never experienced a bounty of food before. When she was young, food was scarce, and they mostly subsisted on rice with—when good fortune was upon them—a bit of scrambled eggs mixed in. When she first arrived at the karaoke, the only good thing about it had been that she’d had more food. But even that had been ruined once the smell of it became associated with being trapped in her room—her body being used. Even thinking about the scent of fish sauce wafting into the tiny, stifling hot space where she was kept, and the smell further entwining with the scent of human bodies, made her involuntarily gag. Here though, food smelled different and new. Meals were a time of everyone coming together. It was unlike the family meals of her childhood, but she was getting used to it and found that she enjoyed mealtime even though she didn’t speak to anyone. She simply drank in the babbling voices—incoherent-yet-soothing to her.

  At what stage do four walls become a home? Although she couldn’t speak English and had arrived in this country against her will and near death, she wanted to stay. She didn’t know what it would take, but she wanted to make it happen. Day by day, a feeling of security she hadn’t felt since she was a small child was growing inside her. She felt safe with Simone, Grace, and Nittha, and she had begun to trust Chai, even though he was a man. The language barrier made it difficult with Hailey, who seemed to feel as awkward with Suda as she did with her.

  Then there was Claire. Suda scrunched her eyebrows together just thinking about her. She found the beautiful young blonde woman confusing. Suda often got the feeling that Claire disliked her, but when she was near, Claire spoke to her almost constantly—as if she were picking up a conversation she had just left off. She knew full well Suda had no idea what she was saying, and yet, she kept it up. Suda usually smiled and nodded to show that she was trying to understand. And sometimes a word or two was now familiar. She guessed she would figure it all out if she were lucky enough to be allowed to stay.

  Still, she looked around the room at mealtimes, taking in each person, wondering if any of them would betray her the way both her aunt and Aanwat had. She reminded herself to be wary, to remain on guard. Be careful, she thought, standing next to Simone, chewing on her delicious crunchy cereal, looking out the window and watching the treetops bending in the light wind. Yet in spite of her determination to remain on guard day after day, she allowed a ray of optimism in.

  The next time Nittha visited, Suda asked her how to say, “What is the word for this?” in English and used that one phrase incessantly while gesturing toward objects whose name she wanted to learn. Her list of nouns was growing exponentially and included things like shirt, pants, hairbrush, toothbrush, bowl, spoon, almond milk, and of course her newly beloved, cereal. She learned how to say please, thank you, hello, and good night.

  “Nittha,” Suda turned to her one morning when Nittha had come to check in. Suda spoke in a low voice, relieved in this instance to speak a language different from Grace and Simone. She wanted some information but didn’t want to see the disappointed look that the others tried to hide from her when she didn’t get the answer she hoped for.

  “How can I stay here? In San Francisco, I mean. How do people get papers?”

  “Do you want to stay?” Nittha paused. “I mean, once this is all over. Would you want to stay here instead of going back to Thailand?”

  Suda hesitated and rubbed her chin, as if to show that she was considering Nittha’s question, when in fact she already knew the answer. “Yes, I would like to stay.”

  “Do you have any idea what happened to your Thai identity card when you got to the brothel?”

  Suda shook her head, but her answer wasn’t what Nittha has expected.

  “I’m pretty sure I never had an identity card.” She looked at

  her feet. “I don’t think my parents ever registered me. Or my brother. We were born at home. We’re from a hill tribe. No papers.”

  Nittha took a deep breath and then let it out gradually. “It will be tricky.”

  Getting the necessary papers to remain legally was going to be difficult if not impossible. But Suda was in danger, that was a proven fact, so didn’t that make her eligible to stay? Nittha was pretty sure it did, but she would have to check with Chai. He knew more about that than she did.

  “I’ll work hard. I’ll do anything,” Suda said, “as long as it doesn’t involve sex. I don’t want to do that anymore.”

  Nittha squeezed her hand. “Of course you don’t. And we’re going to make sure that never happens to you again.” She gave Suda a reassuring look. “I’ve been praying, and I will keep praying!” Nittha said with enthusiasm.

  Praying, Suda mused. That word seemed to mean something special to Simone, Nittha, and Chai.

  Simone prayed before dinner, so they followed suit. Suda had difficulty grasping this. When she tried to pray, she found herself visualizing a large statue with folded arms, but she saw that Simone, Nittha, and Chai all had a peace about them when they prayed that she found noticeable.

  “The pastor at my church says, ‘God will make a way when there seems to be no way,’” Nittha told her.

  “That makes no sense,” Suda frowned.

  “Faith is weird,” Nittha shrugged and smiled.

  Suda had been living at Hope House for almost three weeks when Simone thought she was finally strong enough to help out in the bakery if Suda wanted to.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Suda used her favorite English word when Simone—through Chai—broached the possibility.

  She had been down to the bakery before, but on the first day that Suda walked into the large industrial kitchen to actually work there, she felt as if the possibilities for her future life were suddenly viewed through a new lens. She loved everything about it: the warmth of the oven, the smell of yeast, the stretchiness of dough. Simone taught her the skill of meticulous cutting, cutting, and cutting in of chilled butter to make croissants. She felt as if she could be happy for the rest of her life if she was allowed to bake every day. The open space and industrial oven were entirely different from her past frame of reference. At her childhood home, they had cooked over an open flame outside the kitchen door, and in the brothel, well, the kitchen had been off limits.

  Simone and Grace had painted the walls a slate blue-gray, but because the windows were huge, it didn’t look dark inside. Instead, the walls acted as frames to the outside scene. Aside from Suda’s health, the large windows had also deterred Simone from letting Suda try her hand at working in the bakery. Suda’s first argument that the windows faced a narrow alley rather than the street didn’t sway her. What finally did it was Suda’s idea to bleach her hair white and start wearing fake, heavy-rimmed glasses when she was in the industrial kitchen. The 4:30 a.m. start time helped as well. Because, really, how many people were out before dawn?

  Suda didn’t mind getting up early with Simone. Knowing she was going to the warm kitchen made throwing off the covers and getting out of bed easy. Besides, it was a relief to be free of the nightmares that plagued her sleeping hours.

  Simone drank cups of jasmine tea one after another out of the oversized light gray mugs that reflected the steel and chrome surfaces in a way Suda noticed and liked. She stacked loaves as they came out, baked golden brown and still hot to the touch. She couldn’t understand many of the words being spoken, but the murmur of the customer’s voices from the front of the bakery—although out of her view—was a welcome contrast to the background noise of her old life. In Chiang Rai, her waking hours were filled with the sound of street vendors selling their wares, drinks being ordered at the karaoke, and the sounds of the other women with men through the too-thin walls.

  These noises felt safer. Even with her lack of understanding, the cadence of orders being taken, friendly conversation being made, and the wrestle of baked goods being slipped into paper bags was a comfortable cacophony and a welcome change from the years she’d spent in the brothel. She was even beginni
ng to pick up a familiar turn of phrase here and there. She looked forward to the day she could work in the front. She was desperate to learn how to operate the complicated espresso machine. She appreciated the hissing sound it made as it forced steam through the thin pipe and the roar of the milk being frothed. The loud noises pushed her thoughts of her previous life to the back of her mind.

  She noticed Claire was the best at making art out of the steamed milk. Intricate layered hearts, vortexes of swirls, tulips. Often when Suda was working in the back and Claire was in front, the lanky, aloof young woman snuck to the bakery’s kitchen and headed straight to Suda, arm outreached, holding a cup, the top adorned with one of her elaborate designs.

  “Here,” Claire said, no preamble.

  Claire’s tone was dismissive, but Suda could sense a fearful kindness behind it. When Suda’s eyes met Claire’s, she recognized a wounded soul and gleaned that Claire’s life must have been derailed in some horrific way to land her in Simone’s care. Before reaching for the cup, Suda pressed her palms together and bowed to Claire, fingertips delicately touching her forehead, so Claire would understand the gesture of kindness was appreciated.

  “Thank you,” Suda said, pleased with her ability to communicate her pleasure and gratitude. She made a mental note to ask Nittha how to say, “It’s delicious,” the next time they were together.

  One afternoon, as the wee morning hours gave way to afternoon sunshine, Suda’s shift in the bakery had come to an end, but she didn’t want to leave the haven of the kitchen. She wanted to create something of her own—do something for Simone and Grace—to show appreciation for everything they were doing for her.