Page 56 of The Deepest Lake
Our hands separate. She faces forward. I lean back.
Just past the yellow door in Eva’s gate, the tuk-tuk driver stomps on the brake. A cloud of dust rises and quickly settles again. It reminds me of a magician’s flash powder, the perfect bit of stagecraft to signal the end of one trick, or the beginning of another.
“I see,” Eva says, chin up, with a girlish grin.
I try to return her smile. “Sorry?”
“I don’t have quetzales.” She slides off the bench without looking back at me. “Pay him?”
I dig a hand into my pocket, glad I happen to have the right coins.
“And Jules. Think about it.”
But I have. I’ve given her my answer.
“There’s so much I need to tell you about my last pregnancy,” she adds, turning back to give me an attempt at a smile, which really looks like a waxy grimace. The facial, instead of adding to her glamour, has left her with a shiny face and red eyes.
“I think—”
“It’s about trust,” she interrupts, her words smothering mine.
Her need is an uncomfortably warm, pulsing thing. She wants to confess something, and she also wants my body. She wants my youth and my health. I wrap my arms around my rib cage, feeling the need to protect myself. It’s not logical. She can’t talk me into something I don’t want to do. There isn’t any part of me that thinks she would try. And yet: something has changed now.
Eva adds, “We’ll talk more when the workshops are all done. It’s impossible to think clearly until then.”
17
ROSE
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If Rose hadn’t gotten that nod from Mercedes, she would have walked out of this workshop and never turned back. But at least one person in the kitchen recognizes Jules. Her daughter might have worked in town, but she spent enough time at Casa Eva for a kitchen helper to recognize her.
The other women’s reactions were just as telling. Concha barely looked at Rose’s phone. The other women looked to Concha before making up their own minds. Mercedes’s reaction was cautious. Rose can’t be misreading all of their body language. They’ve been told to forget Jules.
Rose returns to the classroom, mulling over what she saw and glad that she can sit without being called on. If the next workshop is like the last one, they won’t be asked many questions.
“This next one is extra hard,” Eva says when everyone has finished their five-minute break. “It’s Rachel’s turn. And Rachel is not a weak writer. Strong syntax. Active verbs. No dead language.”
Rose feels herself relax. She doesn’t want to hear Rachel being interrogated about her present situation without any discussion of what she has written. To be honest, she struggled with Rachel’s submission: the drugs and the vomit and the car crash in which Rachel nearly killed her own children. But now Rose has met Rachel. Rose wants to understand her story. She can imagine Jules here, wanting to listen and help—wanting also to learn. How is meaning extracted from grief?
“All right,” Eva says. “The vomit scene. What did we think?”
Lindsay’s hand goes up. Eva doesn’t call on her.
“Too long,” Eva says. “We’re not willing to follow you as you vomit in the taxi, down the front hallway, in the bathroom and finally all over the bed. A few colors and textures: fine. Cramps, shivers, spasms, spins, spittle, dry heaves. But Rachel, really?” She’s turned her head to one side, one eye shut, like she’s looking through a peephole at Rachel. “You expect us to read all that? Five pages?”
“No,” Rachel whispers, looking down.
Eva laughs. “Good! That part was easy. Now some more craft-specific stuff. I know you went to graduate school for writing.”
Rose detects disdain in Eva’s mention of schooling. Evidently, informal learning is good enough. That’s what Jules had always said, too. Mom, I don’t need an MFA!
Eva spends the next twenty minutes outlining three key points on the whiteboard.