Across the Deep

by Lisa McGuinness

  “Did you know that the Bible is full of prostitutes, compromised women, screwups, murderers, adulterers, liars and God loved them. He could see into their hearts and know the good in spite of all the bad. And, I’ve got some news for you, Claire. There is so, so much good in there. In addition, nothing that happened to you was your fault. It happened to you.”

  “There were fuckups in the Bible?” Claire asked, and Grace decided to give her a pass on dropping the F-bomb for once. “I assumed everyone was perfect.”

  Grace burst out laughing. “I assumed that, too, before I actually got to know what’s in the book. It’s opposite, as it turns out. It was a bunch of people bumbling along for the most part, interspersed with a few amazingly great people. So, yeah, the Bible has some Simones in there, but, for the most part, the people who God loves are like you and me. And some others who are worse, way worse.”

  “Huh,” Claire paused and gave that some thought. “Maybe, you could tell me about some of the badass Bible chicks some time.”

  “I will. But in the meantime, know that you are loved, you are pure, you are beautiful, and you are clean.” Grace took a hold of Claire’s hand, and they sat there quietly together for a bit. “You might want to get baptized someday, too. Ceremonially wash away any remnants of filth you feel and come back up sweet and clean just like before any of this happened.”

  “Thank you, Grace,” Claire whispered after a while.

  “Don’t thank me. I’m just the messenger.”

  Claire must have dozed off after that because the next time she opened her eyes, it was the middle of the night, she was alone in bed, and a nurse was in checking her IV. Once the nurse tiptoed out in her quiet-soled shoes, Claire slipped back into a contented, restful sleep.

  When she peeked her eye open again, sun was shining in the window, and she felt as if she couldn’t stand to be in bed for one more moment. She swung her legs down and, along with the IV pole, made her way into the bathroom that adjoined the room. When she reemerged, the morning nurse, cheerfully dressed in blue polka-dotted scrubs and a bouncy brown ponytail, was writing notes on her whiteboard.

  “Can I go home today?” Claire’s voice came out more whiny than intended, and she flinched.

  “The doc will be by doing rounds in a few, and if she says you can go, then you can go. I think the news will be good,” she winked at her patient. “Want some breakfast? You must be starved. You slept right through dinner last night. You were out cold.”

  “I don’t know. Is it something gross?”

  “Not too bad actually. Scrambled eggs, sliced apple.”

  “I’ll try it,” Claire said, wondering when someone from Hope House would be in. She decided to give Grace a call to see if she could entice her to bring some good coffee.

  Simone

  It was a Monday morning, and Simone was in the bakery’s kitchen, humming to herself, a sunbeam spilling through the window onto the worn hardwoods. She was pulling scones out of the oven, when she heard the bakery door chime and Chai’s voice. Her body became aware, and she could feel his presence even from the other room. She knew Grace had the front of the house covered, but still, she wanted to burst up there to see him, but checked herself.

  Chai hadn’t said a word about the comment he made to Claire about “marrying Simone” when they were leaving the hospital. She was starting to feel a little jumpy around him. Still, if he could ignore the topic, she could ignore it harder.

  She set the scones down and deliberately placed them on a cooling rack one at a time. She heard Grace chuckle at a comment Chai made, but Simone was too far away to decipher the words. She stood still, rhythmically tapping her fingers on her lips while she pondered and then turned and picked up a tray of croissants. She couldn’t resist emerging from the kitchen, as if oblivious, carrying the tray on a fake errand so she could see him. When she came through the door, there he was, clean-shaven, looking fresh and somehow vulnerable, hands in his pockets, concentrating on the display counter. He wore a crisp long-sleeved button-down, and it felt as if she were seeing someone she had become intimately familiar with anew. He looked up, caught her eyes, and smiled. And then he was familiar again. Chai. And she knew she was his, and he was hers without anything being said.

  “I just met with my sergeant,” he said. “I’m officially back to detective work, new cases.”

  Simone searched his face to see how he felt about that fact but found his eyes unreadable.

  “How does that work?” she asked. “Do you have to move and switch precincts so no one will see you as a police officer?” She kept her voice light but was holding her breath, wondering what it would mean for them.

  “No, but it will be a bit tricky. I’ll meet with a couple of other guys I know who made the transition and see what’s what.”

  “How are you feeling about it?”

  “Ambivalent.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Grace placed Chai’s coffee on the counter between them and turned back to the espresso machine to start on the coffee order for the next customer.

  “Thanks, Grace.” He reached for it and took a small, tentative sip, checking to make sure it wasn’t too hot while watching Simone over the top of the cardboard to-go cup.

  “I’ll still be involved peripherally because I’ll be Aanwat’s handler.”

  Simone chuckled and raised her eyebrows. “He’s gonna love that.”

  “Yeah,” Chai drew out the word slowly. “He was none too pleased to see me walk into the room when they were negotiating a deal.”

  “I bet.”

  “Hey, how’s Claire doing?”

  “It’s interesting, actually. I think she turned a corner. Like somehow fighting—and winning—the altercation with Aanwat gave her a renewed sense of control in her life. Every day she seems a little bit lighter than the day before. Startles less easily, argues less, seems more engaged. Smiles even.”

  “I can see how that could be. In a way, she got to fight the physical manifestation of her fear.”

  “And get this,” on the way home from church yesterday, Claire said, “‘What the fuck, I guess I finally get it. I’m in with Jesus. Team love, right?’ Her tone was sarcastic, but she had the biggest smile I’ve seen cross her face. Happiness actually reached her eyes.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yes, and then she said, ‘I’m dragging Suda along with me. She and I discussed it. She’s in, too.’”

  “I love that they ‘discussed’ it. I don’t know how they communicate so well given the language barrier, but they seem to.”

  “I know: right?

  Chai wrapped Simone in his arms. “You’re good with them.”

  “I love them, even though they can be a huge pain in my tush.”

  “I know you do,” Chai paused. “And so do they.”

  Aanwat

  The air on the 747 had made his eye socket dry, so Aanwat dropped some saline onto his prosthetic eyeball and blinked so the moisture could sooth the scratchiness he felt inside. Another hour on the plane, and he would be back in Chiang Rai. His last weeks in San Francisco had been a blur of physical and emotional pain. Over and over, he relived the combined agony and terror of that girl plunging the toothbrush into his eye socket. It had happened so fast, and the unexpected searing pain had been intense. He imagined it would have felt the same had his head been sliced in half with a machete. He flinched even now thinking about it. He was sure he was going to die on the way to the hospital. When he awoke from the anesthesia after surgery in police custody, he almost wished he had. Even more so when he learned that they were unable to save his eye and had to remove it. Then there were the relentlessly boring weeks spent in the crowded, noisy infirmary of a holding facility while he healed enough to put in a permanent fake eye before he was deported. And they had been stingy with the pain meds.

  He looked at his face
in the mirror and practiced getting his new eye to track using his muscles so that it looked natural, even though he could see only out of his one remaining healthy eye. He still got dizzy and had headaches but at least the socket had stopped itching. That had driven him to distraction. His hair had grown long during the months he had spent in San Francisco, and when he looked at himself, he hardly recognized the man who was looking back.

  He made his way from the airplane bathroom back to his seat and turned to look out of the window at the lush, green landscape below. He was relieved it was almost over. The entire trip had been one calamitous nightmare. He rubbed his hands across his face. If only he could go back to being the guy who cleaned the karaoke as he was when Gan first took him in. He sighed and shook his head subconsciously when he thought about everything that had happened since.

  When Tea had showed up in his hospital room with a police badge hanging around his neck, Aanwat had known it was over and he had lost Suda. When the police chief informed him of their intention for him to be their inside man in exchange for his freedom, he understood that he had also lost the ability to get out of the organization. He knew he was trapped and always would be.

  Now, his job was to try and get in farther. He was to find out who was above his boss and then send the information he collected to the local police who would relay it to their counterparts in San Francisco. He figured he would eventually be caught and killed, and the thought of it froze him with fear. He would try to figure out a way to escape once he was back. Assuming Gan didn’t rip out his other eye when he learned that he had never found Suda and that he wasn’t paid a dime for her. It was a complete loss. There was nothing he could do about it, and he had nothing left to lose, so whatever happened, happened.

  In the meantime, he decided to live in the moment. He looked around the plane. The flight attendants were beautiful, and they spoke Thai, which was a relief. He was tired of having to think in English all the time. If he never heard the language again, he would be fine with it. He would eat the mango sticky rice the lovely flight attendant had placed in front of him and relish the idea of being back in a warm climate.

  It would be nice to be around the women in the karaoke again. He had missed them while he’d been gone. The people coming and going, the drinks. He had been lonely while he was away. Maybe he would go with one or two when he was back. Sample the pleasures of the karaoke himself for once.

  He might visit his family again and see if there was a little money to be made there. After all, he would need an extra source of income and connections if he was going to get away at some point. He could keep himself away from the heroin—though, he told himself. Maybe just deliver packages here and there if his brothers wanted him to. How hard could that be?

  The plane touched down and taxied to the gate. The aisle filled with passengers, and he got up and took his bag down. He walked off the plane and into his new reality.

  Hope House

  “Hot plate coming over,” Simone said and then set a cast-iron skillet of steaming hot, homemade macaroni and cheese in the middle of the dinner table. Suda, Simone, Chai, Grace, Claire, and Nittha sat together to celebrate the news from Suda’s immigration lawyer over dinner. She was now the proud recipient of a green card and would be able to work toward becoming a citizen.

  “Cheers,” Grace said, and they touched their glasses filled with sparkling apple cider.

  “I thought we were going to have to marry her off,” Claire said. “Seriously, it was a good idea.”

  “I have to admit: when you suggested that, my mind started cycling through friends who could help us,” Chai told them.

  “I would have done it. No problem.” Claire held up her hands.

  Nittha leaned close to Suda and whispered what they were saying to her.

  “No, no, no!” Suda, waved her hand dismissively. “No marriage. Me only. Baking bread.”

  “Maybe once we’re done with the program, you and I can move to an apartment together. Somewhere safe. And close by,” Claire raised her eyebrows appraising her own idea and liking the sound of it.

  “Speaking of the program, we are going to get a new resident in a few days,” Simone told them.

  “What’s her deal?” Claire asked.

  “I’ll leave it to her to tell in her own time, but suffice to say, she’s going to need a lot of love, understanding, and compassion.”

  “It’s a journey,” Grace said. “As it is for all of us.”

  Claire

  Later

  As her afternoons wound down, Claire liked to stop by Hope Bakery. Her favorite table was tucked into the corner by two large windows. The late sun, slanting through the panes, warmed her and caught the blonde strands that were no longer hidden by a baseball cap.

  Before Claire had a chance to ask, Suda set a cup of coffee next to her.

  “The foam art still isn’t as good as yours used to be,” Suda looked at the cup critically, and Claire glanced at the tulip swirled on top of her latte.

  “Overly modest as usual,” Claire told her and poured two packets of sugar into the cup, swirled the milky-brown latte and took a sip. “Delicious, thanks.” She smiled at Suda.

  Her friend was still slim but had long since lost her frail appearance. Her hair was back to a shiny black and had been cut into a fashionable chin-length style. She again wore black-framed glasses—no longer to disguise herself—but because she’d become nearsighted. They had a tendency to slide down her small nose, so she was forever pushing them back up.

  Six eventful years had passed since Claire and Suda moved out of Hope House and into an apartment of their own, but still, the bakery was Claire’s favorite place to write.

  “Was the bakery busy this morning?” Claire asked. “I’m surprised there are any croissants left.”

  “I’ll get you one,” Suda popped behind the counter, put one of the flaky pastries on a plate, and brought it to the table.

  Suda’s love of all things bread and her devotion to Simone hadn’t waned, and getting up long before sun up had become as much a routine to Suda as it was to Simone. Claire on the other hand, had studiously avoided the wee hours required of bakers since the day she left.

  “Mmmm,” she inhaled the scent of buttery croissant and tore off an end. “It’s so good,” Claire chewed, “but I don’t miss having to make them. I just never got the knack. I think it takes a softer touch and more patience than I’ve ever had.”

  “How were your classes?” Suda asked, kindly avoiding commenting on Claire’s true self-assessment of her pastry skills. “Did you finally turn in that paper?”

  Not long after “the Aanwat incident” as they all called that crazy day, Grace had convinced Claire to set aside her pride and finish high school through a combination of online courses and local night school. Claire had surprised herself because she not only didn’t hate being back in classes, she adored having a reason to study with a purpose. She found that keeping her nose in books was the perfect way to avoid both people and the reality of her situation. Books were safe. They were consistent. They never betrayed.

  “I did turn it in, but I’m afraid it was kind of rushed. Not my best work. Maybe sucked.”

  “You always say that, and then you get an A, so …” Suda shrugged, having long understood that Claire was her own worst critic.

  After she had her high school diploma safely tucked among the books on her shelf, Claire had applied for college and qualified for a federal grant to attend University of San Francisco.

  “How is it?” Grace had asked her after her first day of classes.

  Claire paused, trying to express the feeling she’d had in the midst of all the other students.

  “I think kind of like being a foreign exchange student,” she mused. “I spent the day with a bunch of people who couldn’t have had more different life experiences than me. It was like being thrown into
another country.”

  “How did that feel?” Grace wondered aloud.

  “Weird. A bit like I was faking it.”

  “You’re a student. They’re students. Just keep that in mind. You’re not pretending. You’re worthy of being there as much as anyone else.”

  “Thanks, Grace. On the upside, the buildings are beautiful. I love the atmosphere.”

  The students had smiled at her, included her in class discussions and study groups as if she belonged. But stranger than being around peers, who seemed endlessly carefree to Claire, was her realization that in spite of her feelings that first day, over time she came to understand that they saw her simply as one of them—not a homeless girl—not a victim of sex trafficking, but as a contemporary. The P for “Prostitute” that she felt had been blazoned on her chest was visible only to her, and as the months and years progressed, it faded to only a hint of the torrid color it had previously held in her mind. She majored in comparative literature with a minor in poetry and felt that it must be somewhat akin to heaven. Not only was she able to read novels upon novels, but she actually got credit for doing so.

  As for love, it was too soon to tell whether she would someday succumb. For now, she couldn’t quite bring herself to trust another person enough to become vulnerable. But someday— who knew. Until then, she had four people who truly knew her: Simone, Grace, Suda, and Chai. And while she might never truly open up to others in person, she found she could do so on paper. So she wrote—often while sitting at a table at Hope Bakery, where she always felt safe.

  “Hey,” she said to Chai, who came through the door, badge over his tee-shirt.

  “Hey, yourself.” He squeezed Claire’s shoulder. “Good to see you.” He plunked down beside her and turned to Suda. “Has Simone gotten back from the farmers market yet?”