Page 28 of The Deepest Lake

“Someone telling me my pages were shit? Hard? No. At least she was reading what I’d written. That’s more respect than I’d ever gotten before.”

I offer a tentative smile. “That’s quite a story. It would make a good Instagram Reel.”

“No.” Her expression hasn’t changed once. She’s not going to humor me. “You can find other people who will say the same about Eva, because that’s the sort of person she is. She saves lives. Right, Hans?”

“Yep,” he says. Also without a smile.

“Now get someone more photogenic than either of us to say it.”

Barbara turns away to open a cupboard.

Okay.

My eyebrows are stuck high on my face, my eyes wide. For no particular reason I walk with soft steps as I depart the kitchen. I’d do a horrible job of explaining Barbara to internet strangers. Yes, she sucks all the air out of a room. But there’s a certain appeal in someone who won’t play the social media game and has given up on charisma, entirely. I think she might write honestly. I’d be willing to give her memoir a chance.

Unfortunately, I need to bother Eva again, because late workshop payments are coming in and I’m not sure whether to reply to the folks who have paid or only the ones who haven’t, or just turn to the backed-up emails in which people are asking once again about weather, crime and currency rates. (Google is your friend, ladies.) And then there’s always the social media, which is like a baby who wakes up every two hours, needing to be fed and changed. The more you give it, the more it poops out.

Upstairs, on the balcony off her bedroom, Eva’s talking on the phone to her husband, Jonah. She smiles and gestures that I should come and sit on her stone benches, amidst the tropical pillows, hummingbird feeders and magazines—including ones in which Eva has recently appeared, like the O magazine with a magnificent shot of Eva, Oprah and two golden retrievers strolling along the edge of a marshy pond. I try not to stare too long at the photo.

“Yeah, we’ve got a couple cancer survivors,” Eva says to Jonah while pacing, pausing only to pinch the spent blossoms off a potted plant with large, trumpet-shaped flowers.

“Two incest,” she continues. “One kidnapping. One ‘life-saved-by-Jesus-plus-lots-of-cats.’ I don’t know how Trish let her in but now that she’s coming, we’ll deal with it. The usual.”

She looks at me and points at the flower, silently mouthing: Needs more water? Take care of it.

Meanwhile, Jonah has just said something that makes Eva laugh. “No, honey, there is nothing new under the sun.”

She sticks out her tongue playfully, as if to reassure me that none of this is private. I can stay and keep listening.

“How many?” she repeats back to Jonah while looking at me. “Nine?”

I mouth: Twelve.

Her brow furrows.

“Twelve writers, I guess. Well, they don’t all stay. Maybe Jesus-and-cats will leave after the first day.” She crosses her eyes, hamming it up even more, for my benefit. “No, no. The alums are here already as well, but they’re not as needy. Only Wendy is signed up as a full workshop participant. Yes, that Wendy. No talent, but the lady doesn’t quit.”

Eva likes the repeat visitors—“alums”—who hang around the margins, like pretty peacocks strolling her lawn, as long as she doesn’t need to feed or talk to them too often.

“Are you kidding?” Eva says to Jonah. “That, my beautiful boy, is not my problem.”

When she hangs up, I ask, “What’s not your problem?”

She falls back onto the bench, fluffing the pillows behind her, though we both know she won’t stay seated long.

“Whether any of these memoirs get published.”

“Don’t you think some will?”

“Maybe one in . . . a hundred?”

“That doesn’t sound like much.”

“Look at Barbara. She worked on her memoir for nine years but it’s finally coming out.” Eva throws an arm over my shoulder. She smells like a subtle spice that isn’t coriander or star anise, but something close. “Barbara will be ecstatic when her book is published, even if it is a small hybrid press.”

“But most women don’t get to see their stories in print. That’s kind of sad.”

“Listen, I don’t promise anyone publication.”