Page 72 of The Deepest Lake
Then she looks up. Eva smells the cigarette smoke, too. She must sense that someone’s been listening because she finally stops talking and squints toward the house, then back at me, with a somber finality that fills me with dread. I’ve already received her confession. I can’t do anything more for her. But she seems to think I can.
She whispers, “I can’t imagine anyone else who would understand. You’re a better version of myself, thirty years ago. We have so much in common, Jules. You’ll do this for me. I know it.”
That’s the only reason she’s managed to confess. Not because she cares whether I understand what she’s done. Only because she needs me to understand what still has to happen next.
She wants a baby—needs a baby. And I’m the one, Eva thinks still, who can give it to her.
21
ROSE
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Later that day, on the way back to the classroom from a bathroom break, Rose follows Rachel to their seats. She wants to say something about the difficult workshop yesterday and the invasive writing exercises today. But Rachel speaks up first.
“I’ve decided to write some hard new scenes involving my children. This time, I’ll use their names.” Rachel laughs, but the mirth sounds forced. “Can I email pages to you?”
“Me?” Rose asks. She feels inadequate to the task—possibly the least experienced writer here. “Why me?”
“You seem like someone who thinks for herself.”
The compliment catches her off-guard.
Rachel adds, “I mean, I understand you don’t have children, so that part of my story may not interest you. And obviously, I led a messed-up life—”
“No,” Rose interrupts. “We’ve all done things we regret. Of course I’ll read your pages.”
“And make a few notes? Eva doesn’t really let us critique each other, but that’s why I came.”
“I’ll do my best. With pleasure.”
Rachel has turned back again, digging into her backpack for a pen, when Rose adds, “Thank you for giving me something to do. I feel so . . . useless sometimes . . .”
She stops speaking. The emotion has balled up in her throat. Any moment now, she could easily break down into sobs, and no one would understand why.
Or maybe, even without any explanation, they would.
Rachel reaches for Rose’s hand and squeezes it.
“Me, too.”
The next two workshops—Pippa, Hannah—are followed by a late lunch. Then they regather for a final activity. Eva rings a bell at the front of the classroom to get their attention. “A little break from talking about writing.”
Good, thinks Rose. Anything but another prompt requiring her to confess something sordid or sad.
“We have a special guest, or that was the plan, if that certain person will please hurry up.”
A Swedish woman named Astrid, who is somehow associated with the local orphanage, asks, “Should I start?”
“Maybe just a few words.”
Astrid is thirty-something and slender, with white hair tied back in a ponytail no thicker than Rose’s thumb. A brightly colored woven belt cinches her slim jeans. On top, she wears an Indigenous-style shirt, embroidered with big flowers, tucked in.
“Guatemala, as you know, has spent many of the decades since its independence in 1821 struggling through various periods of conflict—”