Page 65 of The Deepest Lake
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“Write about the meanest thing you ever did to a friend,” Eva instructs them on the second morning of the workshops as she hands out pretty gift journals with Guatemalan-style fabric covers. “Not in childhood. That’s too easy. In the last decade. Make it count.”
They open their journals. Workshopping is a slow-going process, Eva explains. It will be days before everyone’s had a turn. Eva wants them to be more candid, to take more risks and have more energy.
“I’m giving you only five minutes for this prompt. Be brave!”
Rose gets stuck on the “friend” part, which bothers her tremendously, because it only underlined what Jules had told her—that she didn’t have enough friends. Then she remembers a time when Ashley, her office manager, admitted she wanted to open her own kitchenwares boutique. Rose agreed to critique her business plan. Her notes for Ashley were all doom and gloom, predicting her business would fail. The facts were sound, but the motive was suspect. Rose wasn’t protecting Ashley. She was protecting herself.
Rose has filled a page when Eva calls, “Time! Now pass your journal to the left.” They all look up, stunned. She didn’t explain they’d be sharing these entries. If she had, maybe Rose would have written something different, less self-incriminating.
At the front of the room, Scarlett shares a loud, unconvincing laugh. “My handwriting’s too messy for anyone else to read.”
“Nonsense. Pass to your left. Hurry up. Pass, pass, pass.”
They do, the wave of discomfort rolling around the circle as they hand over the textile-covered journals.
“Next prompt!” Eva shouts. “The most recent time you masturbated, including what you were thinking about.”
Several women titter uncomfortably.
“If you’d be kind enough to explain,” Pippa says in her droll British accent, tugging at her long earlobe. “Are we actually going to read each other’s entries? I need more information.”
Eva says, “Trust each other. With luck, the reader will trust you.”
From the back of the room, someone whispers, “But do we read each other’s entries? I just want to know.”
“Quiet, please. We don’t have all day for this. The answer to procrastination is time limits. Another five minutes. Go.”
To Rose, the masturbation prompt seems more like a party-game challenge than serious provocation. They can feel daring without risking truly damning revelations.
Rose writes about the last man she dated, one year ago. His name was Boris. He wanted to watch her masturbate. It wasn’t the performance she minded. It was his insistence on turning on every damn lamp. At her age, what she is willing or not willing to do with a man depends a lot on the lighting.
“Time,” Eva calls. “Pass the journals. Ready. Next prompt: the first time you were forced into having sex without your consent. Ladies: tell the truth.”
The room is so quiet they can make out the waves gently shushing against the beach, just beyond the bluff. Out on the lake, a man stands in a small boat, casting a net on the silky waters. Hand over hand. Rose finds herself thinking of how deep the lake is beneath him, how black and bottomless. Yes, she has had sex without her consent. Alcohol, pressure, mixed signals—and times were different then. She doesn’t particularly want to think about it. Did Jules do these exercises? Did she have to write in a gift journal and share her every private thought so openly? Did it help her feel like a real writer—whatever that means—or did it make her feel exposed and judged?
Eva says, “Two minutes left. Some of you aren’t writing. I want those pens to keep moving. Pass the journals.”
Someone sitting behind Rose clears her throat. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Please wait until the hour is finished,” Eva says. “This isn’t comfortable, but writing never is. I want you to go to the deepest place within yourselves. It may be dark, it may be cold, it may be lonely. If you’re not willing, you’re free to leave.”
Someone behind Rose whispers, “Leave this part? Or the whole workshop?”
But no gets up. No one refuses.
“Good,” Eva says. “Next prompt: the time you wanted to kill yourself and chickened out. Go.”
So many choices, Rose thinks glumly. She could write about the day they called off the lake search. She could write about several moments this week when she felt all hope of ever understanding her daughter’s death slipping away.
But the worst time—the time about which she feels the most shame—was when Jules was ten weeks old.
It’s not exactly a secret—everyone knows Rose went through a tough time after Jules was born. But no one knows how deeply she plunged. They all kept saying she was just tired. It was normal. But it didn’t feel normal. Rose felt dissociated from herself—not just hating her wounded, bloated, postpartum body, but already hovering above it, as if ready to say goodbye.
And the baby. The baby, whose name they had fought over: Juliet? May? In the Guatemalan journal, Rose refers to her only as her and the baby. That’s how she referred to her newborn daughter in real life, as well, conflicted over what name to use, but not only that.
Once they got home, the baby seemed alien to her. Just a mewling thing that made Rose wince. Not the girl they’d dreamed of. Not anything. But Rose wasn’t anything either. She was an empty sack, or something hard and heavy, made of wood. Which is it? Words can’t capture the feeling. And why would Rose even want those moments captured or exposed to the light, anyway?