Page 41 of The Deepest Lake

Rachel is trying to say something. “It’s interesting to think . . . about the selection of details. The . . . the . . . the French press.”

“Yes,” Diane says, “and the cookies. The ginger thins.”

But that’s the second thing Rose wishes she could ask Jules. Would a woman who’d just lost a baby want to make coffee and eat cookies?

For Rose, eating was one of the hardest things to do. When Jules went missing, her stomach started doing flip-flops. When they found out Jules’s most likely cause of death, Rose’s entire GI tract, from aching throat to doleful belly, rebelled completely. She can’t imagine sitting peacefully, munching ginger thins, next to a blue-gray infant corpse.

And then again: grief affects everyone differently. Some people retreat into paralysis. Some may disappear into work or a hobby. Rose thinks of her late mother, gardening with a vicious fervor the day of Rose’s father’s funeral, tearing at root balls, planting so haphazardly that half of the annuals died in a week.

The difference with Eva Marshall is that she didn’t make a mess of that manuscript she started writing hours after her infant died. In interviews, she claimed—still claims—that In a Delicate State emerged fully formed, requiring less revision than any of her previous books.

They climb out, and Rose follows Rachel through the gate, hoping she’ll say more. She doesn’t. Maybe there’s no more to be said. The telling detail. The French press.

Rose simply can’t connect what she knows firsthand with Eva’s behavior. It bothers her, perhaps more than it should, as if her own sense of grief—or even motherhood—feels threatened by this alternate possibility. And then again, maybe it has nothing to do with those things. Maybe it only has to do with art, which is something Rose knows nothing about. The real artist, it could be argued, channels her fiercest emotions into productivity. At least she thinks so. Jules must have thought about these same things. How could she not after reading In a Delicate State?

Stepping from one stone stair to the next, down the lushly vegetated path, Rose can only continue the discussion in her head, with Jules, the only person she’d trust to explain.

Is writing what you would have focused on, Jules, if you’d just lost your own child?

14

JULES

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At the water’s edge, I’m all set up to read. The volcano is the color of an old brown fedora with the same crushed dent near the top. A light breeze etches delicate veins across the navy-blue water. The stories in my lap are far from perfect, but they are STORIES.

A woman named Beatrice just found her son hanging in the garage. (I red-flag it: This happened six months ago? A little early for critical workshopping, maybe? Tell Eva.)

Another found out her husband had not just one “other family” but two—one in the Philippines, one in Haiti. Men—the energy!

I pay extra attention to the manuscript by the indie singer, Zahara, who seems to be a hot mess. Reading her excerpt, about the kidnapping by the psychotic boyfriend, I should think, I am so lucky. Instead I note that she’s only three years older than me. She already has a career, or rather, several of them. Her first side hustle, in the years before her music took off, was selling homemade purses covered in recycled computer keys. Her second side hustle is modeling.

It’s one thing to know that Barbara, an older woman with a long resume of life tragedies, including divorce, breast cancer and bankruptcy, has a book about to come out. But Zahara is close to my age. What I lack most is experience, not only in writing, but in living. Mom thinks I’m reckless and antsy. Which is ironic, because little does she know how stupidly cautious I am.

All trip, I’ve tried to take chances, but each time I get a little dose of adrenaline, I panic. The scrapes on my knee: that was from my first tumble while rock climbing. I didn’t do it again. Obviously, I didn’t get up the nerve to try surfing in Costa Rica. Doggy paddlers don’t belong in surf zones. So why did I even bother going to the coast?

But it’s not just about physical risks. I know how my Instagram looks for those first weeks, before I basically stopped posting. Like I’m fearless. But the truth is I kept moving because it was the easier thing to do, not the harder thing. If I’d stayed longer in Panama or Nicaragua, if I’d gotten to know any community or even one person, I might have had something to write about. And yet, still not enough. The proof would have been in the pages. I don’t have stories to tell. I don’t have anything to say.

My reading slows, but I make it through the final manuscript pages. I sit on the end of the dock, letting the insignificance fill me, like gases in a bloating corpse, which isn’t even a good metaphor, but I’m all metaphor-ed out. Do I wish I’d experienced rape, incest, kidnapping, drug addiction, deportation, war or extreme poverty at some point in my life? Of course not. Do I wish I’d started taking chances earlier, risked more, worked difficult jobs that helped me understand the heart of America, hacked through more jungles, cavorted with more lowlifes (only the interesting ones) and maybe had just one eensy brush with death that ended safely? Possibly.

I reach for my phone out of habit, knowing who’ll try to help me feel better. Mom. But I don’t want to feel better. I knew before coming here that I had a long way to go before I’d be a writer. Before I’d earn that precious label. Now I’m starting to wonder if some of us just aren’t meant to be read or heard. The world is so full of talent already: so many books, so many movies and songs. Barbara is stubborn, insistent on telling her story anyway. Many of these women are. But maybe the rest of us don’t have what it takes.

I just wish people would be honest about the fact that we can’t all get what we want. I think of Ulyana, the only woman who was willing to tell me about her fertility problems and warn me, “You probably can’t wait as long as you think. It’s the big lie that no one wants to admit.”

There are lots of lies out there. You can’t prioritize career and financial security and family all at once. You don’t necessarily choose the ideal time to become a mom. You don’t get to be a famous actress or painter or writer just because you want to, either.

And this is why I didn’t finish my new round of grad school applications. I started them, just as I told Mom and Dad. I ordered undergrad transcripts and assembled the rec letters and the work samples, checking all the boxes in the online application portal, just as I told Mom and Dad. I just didn’t pay the final fee or sign the final digital form. I didn’t commit. When Mom asked if she could help out by driving the applications to the post office, I laughed at her—I laughed!—and told her she was so silly. The whole process was online now. I finished those applications days ago!

But I didn’t.

Because I am a liar. And a cynic.

For months I’d been reading a private online forum for MFA wannabes, scrolling the endless laments, and I agreed with all of them. “There are too many gatekeepers.” “The writing matters, not the degree.” “If you don’t have connections, you’ll get nowhere anyway.”