Page 81 of The Deepest Lake
It’s just like babysitting, if one were allowed to administer small doses of sedative to the toddlers in one’s care.
We sprawl on the deck, tanning and drinking mimosas that warm as the day passes. After a while Zahara decides to wade into the lake. She’s wearing her white gloves, which is a good sign. She can’t be too drunk if she’s remembering to protect her hands.
I continue catching up in my journal, one loose page at a time, unwilling to toss those spreadsheets Eva was so worried about because this handful is all the paper I have. I tuck the finished ones into my backpack until I can store them safely later, with the others, in the cabin. When I have to pee, I hop off the base of the dock into shallow water, wade to my waist and let her flow. But no farther.
“If you’ll come dry off, I’ll find us a bag of tortilla chips,” I tell Zahara.
“And another bottle of white wine. And a cup of ice? And while you’re gone, can I borrow a piece of paper from you? My phone’s dead. I need to write something down before I forget.”
As we enjoy our second batch of mimosas, heavy on the wine and light on the OJ, she finally tells me what happened during the workshop.
“I’m not in denial. I’ve already written two songs—three if you count today—about what happened in that fucking hotel room. I don’t need Eva to drag it out of me. With a song, you can get the emotion and the imagery without having to be all . . .”
“Anatomical?”
“Exactly. And my mom! What about someone like her? I don’t want my mom having to read hundreds of pages about those five days in Las Vegas. If it’s just a few pages I can slice them out with an X-Acto knife and send Mom that copy with a note, ‘Cleaned it up for you.’”
“You’d do that?”
“Absolutely. And she’d understand. It would be like me picking one of those wicked long red chile peppers out of the chicken kung pao and telling Mom, ‘I’m just pulling out the part that will hurt you.’”
“Aw, my mom used to do that for me, too—pick out the chile peppers!”
“That’s what moms do.”
“That’s what moms do,” I repeat, getting misty. Oh shit, babysitter down. All those mimosas are nothing for Zahara, but I’m getting wobbly.
Zahara pulls out her phone to show me pictures of her mom.
“Battery’s dead,” I remind her as she keeps pressing the button. “Oh fuck. I miss my family so much!”
I break down, then, and tell Zahara that it’s my birthday, and I’m not even getting messages, and no one seems to know I’m here, and I just want to be home now.
“Oh, honey!”
I’m heading from self-pity to indignation. I’m tired of being the voice of reason. I’m craving abandon. And that’s not good.
I fetch the tequila bottle and bring it back to the dock with a lime sliced in half. The light is getting soft. Shadows are creeping up the base of the volcano. The lake has turned from bright blue to a flatter, silkier navy.
Zahara wishes me a happy birthday every time we drink. She tells me more about her life as a musician. I tell her about my own career confusion.
“Look at you, writing all the time!” She gestures to the pages sticking out of my backpack.
“Doesn’t mean—”
“That’s the only thing that means. Trust me. If you write, you’re a writer. If you make music, you’re a musician. Identity comes first and it’s yours once you claim it and start doing the work. Not when you’re published, not when reviewers say you’ve done a good job, not when you get awards, not when you have a million followers. We’re not going to see each other after this week—”
“We might!”
“Girl. Get real. We won’t. But this is my gift to you.”
She kisses me on the lips. Not sexually—I don’t think. She hands me the tequila bottle again and I drink.
Several more shots later, Zahara gets a funny look. “If you’re still missing your mom, try smoke signals.” She extracts two cigarettes from her pocket and hands me one. One ittybitty social cigarette on my twenty-third birthday can’t hurt.
“Now do this,” Zahara says, blowing perfect smoke rings that hover over the water, dissolving slowly in the soft light. “And now, when you blow out, think of your mother hard, put the thoughts into the smoke.”
“That’s the last thing my mom would want, me thinking about her while I ingest carcinogens.”