Across the Deep

by Lisa McGuinness

  She stood, one hand on the open door to the walk-in pantry, fingers tapping her lips as she eyed the boxes and bags of ingredients stacked on the shelves. Her cooking abilities were extremely limited, but when she spied the container of rice, she had an idea.

  She picked up a bag of the rice, set it on the countertop, and stared at it for a moment, trying to visualize how her mother used to make the sticky rice she prepared on special occasions. When Suda inhaled, she could almost smell the sweet scent of the condensed milk and ripe mango. It took just a few simple ingredients, she remembered, so Suda decided to give it a try.

  She hummed while she worked, in this new world she was in. She steamed the rice until it was good and soft, then drizzled in the sweetened condensed milk. She sampled a taste and added more of the sweet liquid to the bowl. She stirred again, tasted, and was satisfied with it, so she spooned it into ramekins, set them on a tray, and slipped it into the refrigerator to cool. While the rice set, she took stock of the available fruit. She didn’t want to be presumptuous and use too much, and there was no mango to be had among the ingredients Simone had on hand, but her eyes fell upon some beautiful red raspberries, deep crimson strawberries, and purply-dark blueberries. She nodded to herself, imagining the striking colors nestled against the pale rice. She reached a large serving spoon into the fruit containers stacked neatly in the walk-in refrigerator, drew out a heaping portion of each type of berry and poured them into a bowl.

  She slipped out of the chilly walk-in, leaned against the door to shut it behind her, and then moved to the closest workstation. She carefully set a white plastic cutting board on top of the stainless-steel countertop and began to slice deep red strawberries. Once sliced, she gathered them in her hands and dropped them back into the bowl with the other berries. Suda used the same spoon to combine the berries into a jewel-toned medley and found she was humming the music from one of the songs Simone often had playing in the background.

  She had watched Simone drizzle a squeeze of lemon juice over fruit before, so she did the same and sprinkled on a bit of sugar to create light syrup. Once she was satisfied, Suda spooned the fruit on top of the rice that was cooling in the ramekins. It was then that she remembered the shredded coconut and visualized it lightly scattered on top of the berries. She smiled, walked to the shelf in the dry-goods area of the kitchen, and found a container of shredded coconut. She delicately sprinkled on just enough to look pretty and add a hint of flavor.

  She stood back, surveyed her work and smiled—satisfied. She would surprise them after dinner.

  As Suda went back upstairs, Aanwat’s face, as he shoved her into the shipping container, flashed through her mind unbidden. She had been at Hope House almost a month and was beginning to wonder if the smugglers would have given up on trying to find her. Chai would have told her if he’d arrested anyone, so his silence on the subject made her believe they were still out there.

  With the vision of his face came a sense of betrayal. Although they had been far from friends, the tightness in her chest she felt when she thought of him almost matched the feeling of treachery that came with the memory of her aunt selling her to the karaoke in the first place. Because, although he was working for Gan, Aanwat had given her reason to believe she could trust him. She thought he had been secretly on her side. Hadn’t he sometimes subtly steered the worst men away from her? She knew he had done his best to keep her away from the man who liked to knock her head against the wall. And there were other little things, too. He tried to get her to eat and sometimes brought her favorite dumplings to her before she had even thought to ask. And she was sure he sometimes gave her a look of empathy. His eyes told her he was sorry she was there and wished he could help, as if he knew that she was a real person with thoughts and feelings—not just something to be used and thrown away. Although he’d hardly interacted with her any more or less than he had with the other girls in the karaoke, she had thought he had cared. Had it been her imagination? Clearly she’d been mistaken.

  Aanwat

  Exhaust fumes of fishing boats slowly motoring back to the dock at the San Francisco wharf, the chop of cold bay water, wooden cases of iced crab smacking hard on the top of a stack of the same, voices yelling to tourists and enticing them to buy some local specialties. Aanwat had tried the clam chowder, which he’d found pleasantly briny, the salty clams chewy. He came back most days after that first tasting because it was a hearty meal, even if the cream seemed to upset his stomach a bit. Cheap and filling was the most important thing to him.

  He needed to find a way out of his situation. What he couldn’t decide was whether to try to disappear in San Francisco and then stay in the United States illegally while he continued to look for Suda, or to try to exchange the return ticket to Chiang Rai for one going to Bangkok and then disappear there and start life over. Either way, he knew life as he’d known it was over and his attempt to make some easy extra money had been his undoing.

  He was no closer to finding Suda than he was the first day he’d arrived. How could someone disappear so completely? He had finally concluded she must be either long gone or dead. Or the story about the container being locked but empty was a lie or maybe a cover up for something else, and they were trying to milk Gan for the money they said they had lost. Maybe she was here and already at work. Or perhaps Suda died during the voyage, or they shot her while she was trying to run away. Those were the only explanations that made any sense to him.

  His feet became more painful each day as the soles of his shoes became more battered and worn—giving him less support. He wondered whether Suda was out on the streets, too. Were her shoes also stripped of the soles by now? He felt as if he had walked every street in the city; had visited every nail shop, Thai massage parlor, and Thai restaurant; had inquired at every grocery store, cheap motel, and everywhere else he had thought of, and yet he had not even one positive indication to go on.

  With each painful step and empty search, he became more convinced she was dead. He could feel the emptiness of the world without her. And he was partially to blame. He wished he had convinced her to eat more and stop fighting; then she wouldn’t have been sent away in the first place. Or at least, once he discovered it was Suda he was supposed to shove into the shipping container, he should have grabbed her and run right then. Instead of panicking and going through with it, he should have whispered to her, telling her what was happening, so she would have been ready to run with him. He convinced himself they would have made it. He wished he had told her how he felt about her when they were in Thailand. He hoped she knew from the hints he gave her, but she was difficult to read.

  It doesn’t matter now, he thought as he sat on the dock at the wharf, eating the last of the crackers that came with the soup. He crumpled the little bag they came in and threw it into the trash can then dropped his head into his hands. He was sure she was dead and he was going to be, too, if he didn’t disappear.

  He made his decision that afternoon: He would change his ticket and go to Bangkok and then stay there. He’d never be found.

  As he made the long walk back to his hotel, he peered absentmindedly into the windows of shops and restaurants. The fog’s tendrils had once again wisped in, and the wind had whipped into periodic gusts. He was desperate to be back in a warm climate. He let his mind drift as he turned a corner and then stopped in place when he saw two young women, one of them Asian, run from an alley door to a car parked at the curb. Something about the petite Asian woman felt familiar to him—grabbed his eye. Had Suda just dashed into a waiting car? Could that have been her? He shook his head, disbelieving and convinced he was seeing things.

  But still. He paused; furrowed his brow. Was that Suda’s face? Even with the baseball cap she was wearing, he could see that the girl’s hair was white instead of natural black. And she wore glasses. He shook his head. It couldn’t be her. He must have imagined it. But something about the way she moved had caught his attentio
n. Her upright posture and the lovely thin neck like Suda’s, which he had studied over the years.

  Adrenalin coursed through his body. It couldn’t be, and yet his mind wouldn’t let go of the possibility. The line of her jaw, the distinct cheekbones. He tried to get another look, but the car pulled out and began to drive in the opposite direction. All he could see was the back of the bleached hair as it disappeared down the street.

  Heart racing, he turned from the alley and walked around the corner to see the name of the store. He was pretty sure the side door from which she emerged went to a place called Hope Bakery. Why would she be there? If it even was her. He couldn’t be sure. He told himself that it probably wasn’t Suda.

  But if it was Suda?

  He hardly dared hope.

  His mind inexplicably swung in an ugly direction. If it was her, he could be saved if he wanted to be. He would be the one who came up with the goods, and it would mean money now and probably more money once he got back to Thailand. But could he betray her again when he had just been regretting his past betrayal?

  He told himself that he hadn’t had a choice when he shoved her into the container, but he had a choice now. Did he care about her enough to keep her whereabouts to himself?

  He needed to think. He walked to a nearby bench and sat, first resting his head in his hands and then tilting his head back. He closed his eyes so he could tune out the world around him. He needed to clear his mind. He wondered where the girl was going and how long she would be gone. He needed to get another look at her. After a while, he left the bench and slouched in a doorway, hood of the blue sweatshirt proclaiming his love of San Francisco pulled up so he would be less visible. He leaned his shoulder against the building and settled in to wait.

  He rotated various scenarios through his mind while time passed and finally knew what he would do.

  He slipped away from the doorway where he was lurking to the front of Hope Bakery to see the address. He pulled out his map and carefully noted where it was. His stomach growled, and he realized it had been hours since he’d eaten the soup. As he wondered how much longer he would have to wait, the car came around the corner. He dashed back to the doorway and crouched down. The Honda came to a stop beside the same alley door. From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the passenger, but she wouldn’t notice him unless he called attention to himself. The door swung open, and he sucked in his breath: there she was. He could clearly see her face. Horrible bleached hair but Suda’s face. He had found her.

  He watched as she slunk back into the building with that other woman. He stood, watching the building, and then—yes—a light turned on in one of the third-floor windows, and he watched a silhouette remove a hat. He smiled.

  He was still smiling when a half hour later, greasy Fatburger food bag in hand, he opened the door to his motel. He stopped short and inadvertently gasped when he saw the boss sitting on his bed, a gun resting next to him.

  Claire

  The last few moments of what Claire now thought of as her old life often crept to the forefront of her mind uninvited. The stale smell inside the city bus she took home from school that fateful day; the fact that the sun had broken through in the morning causing unseasonable warmth for some reason entered her remembrances; a lump in her throat she recalled not being able to shake. Her first view of the apartment after she’d opened the door told the story of emptiness. The sun shone on dust motes floating in the air on their way to settling on the worn sofa that, at some point, had been covered in beautiful taupe linen but now just looked dingy. She remembered it had been the first day she’d tried to write a poem—hoping to empty herself of her worry. She’d scrawled the phrase “beautiful relentlessness” on her napkin at lunch—having no idea where the phrase had come from, but once the words had entered her mind, she’d not been able to shake them. They turned over and swirled around each other. Perhaps it had started as “relentless beauty,” but with the mental churning, had reversed into the opposite order, which she preferred, liking the cadence of the sounds.

  Claire had immediately recognized the particular feeling of entering an unchanged apartment. Her mother’s favorite sweater—still thrown across the couch exactly where it had been left—signified the fact that she had not come home.

  She avoided her friends after school and had hidden in the safe haven of the library to do her homework, knowing she would be unable to fake caring about which of her friends liked which boy in her class and which teacher was a jerk, because her mother was gone and Claire had a very bad feeling about it.

  Her goal had been to be away from the house as long as possible to ensure enough time had passed for her mother to get back before she returned home, but her plan hadn’t worked. When she’d arrived, Nick was still conspicuously present in their apartment.

  “Hi, beautiful girl,” his voice was jovial with a forced undertone. “I’m making your favorite dinner.”

  “Thanks,” she swallowed hard, pausing for a moment to moor herself before asking the question. She dropped her backpack in her room. The smell of Bolognese sauce bubbling on the stove was a hopeful sign. “Is my mom back?” She tried to keep her hopefulness tamped down. “I texted a bunch of times and tried and tried to call her, but it keeps going straight to voicemail.”

  “Not quite yet,” he smiled warmly. “She was feeling under the weather, so she decided to stay put, but I promised her I’d take good care of you.”

  “Under the weather?” Claire questioned dubiously.

  “You know. She must be getting the flu or something.”

  “Stay put where? She doesn’t have any friends. She would want to spend the night here, especially if she’s sick. She should come home.”

  “Look, Claire,” Nick began in a soothing tone. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but your mom is sick. Really sick. And she doesn’t have good health insurance, so she decided to stay put for now with my friends,” he paused. “My friends, um, Amy and Frank are looking after her.”

  “Really sick, like pneumonia?”

  “Kind of like pneumonia, yes.”

  “I want to go see her.”

  “No, kiddo, she just needs to rest. I’m sure she’ll be fine. Let’s just eat dinner. Come on; it’ll be fun,” he said, dishing spaghetti noodles onto two plates and spooning deliciously aromatic sauce on top. He handed her a wedge of Parmesan cheese and a grater. “You can grate the cheese.”

  He smiled and topped off his glass of red wine. He even held up a wine glass to her and raised his eyebrows, making her understand that he was asking if she wanted some.

  “Um, no thanks,” she said and moved past him to get a glass of water from the tap.

  “Suit yourself,” he said and placed the two plates of spaghetti on the table across from each other.

  She twirled too many noodles onto her spoon, which made the first bite a struggle to get down. She picked up her water and took a large gulp to help.

  “So,” he searched for a topic of interest. “How was your day?”

  “Weird,” she said, not looking up, concentrating on twirling a smaller amount this time.

  “Weird why?”

  “Weird because my mother is missing apparently.” Claire looked at Nick with an accusatory expression.

  Nick raised his hands, “I haven’t done anything.”

  “And yet,” she paused, looking again at her food, not sure how far to push it.

  “And yet what exactly?”

  “Where’s Mom? I’m not buying the whole ‘she’s sick’ thing.”

  “Fine, I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but I think your mom needs to go to rehab.” He paused dramatically. “She’s been doing drugs.”

  “Drugs?” Claire asked incredulously dropping her fork and spoon, which clattered onto her plate like a couple of unruly thugs. “No kidding? Really?” the sarcasm dripping. “I’m pret
ty sure she’s been ‘doing drugs,’” she made air quotes around the words, “since before I could walk.”

  Still speaking in the soothing tone that was bugging her, Nick said, “You don’t have to use air quotes around the words ‘doing drugs’ and stop acting like a brat. I wanted to shield you from this bit of nasty information, but since you’re pushing, I guess I’ll just come out with it and tell you that your mother overdosed.”

  “What?” She felt the blood drain from her face.

  “I’m trying to protect you, here. I’m not the enemy.”

  “Mom overdosed? What happened? What did she take?” Claire’s heart raced, and her mind was suddenly on hyper focus. Was it heroin? She kept hearing that there was practically an epidemic of it these days. But she didn’t think her mom went in for that. Was it pills? She seemed to always be taking something, but what was it? She had no idea. “Is she in the hospital? Which hospital?” She leapt up from the table and ran to her room to grab her backpack.

  “Claire,” Nick got up from the table and came around to her. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, but your mom …” he paused. “She didn’t make it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying she died.”

  “What the fuck!” Claire screamed. She had never sworn around a grown-up before, but it seemed to come out of her mouth of its own accord. “You’re lying to me. You’ve been lying all along. Where’s my mother?”

  She heard the hysteria in her voice and tried to check it. It felt like her world was fracturing—every one of her worst fears happening at once.

  She had always tried to be good. Always tried to do things right. She’d studied, been polite, didn’t eat too much of the scant food they had so her mom could eat, too. She’d tried and tried to make sure nothing bad happened but now … She couldn’t bear to finish the thought. She was at once furious with her mother for putting them in this situation and desperate to have her back.