Page 36 of The Deepest Lake

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The baby is dead, stiffening, in the crib. Dawn is an hour away. Eva could call an ambulance. She could call her doctor directly. She could call Jonah. But there’s no hurry now, is there? Nothing is going to change.

Instead, she makes a French press of coffee, extra strong. She brings the coffee, her favorite mug and a box of thin ginger cookies to her bedroom. She turns on her laptop. She begins the book that Rose is reading now, which Eva will write in a seven-week delirium. She writes the very first page, the very first line that tugged at Rose’s heart.

There was one thing I wanted more than anything in the world: to hold a child, my very own flesh-and-blood child, again.

12

JULES

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It’s hard to wake up on my third day at Casa Eva, even when sweet Gaby comes to my bedside at dawn with a cup of coffee. For our roommate Mercedes, who has been granted the day off, Gaby brings a special sedative healing tea. It helps with her seizures, Gaby explains.

I shouldn’t be envious when I see Mercedes snuggle back under the covers, but I am.

I jump up to dress, already anxious about the many tasks facing me today. Gaby watches me getting tangled in the overcomplicated straps of my sports bra.

“Tomorrow, I can bring you a bigger coffee,” she says.

“Is it that obvious I need it?”

She doesn’t ask why I left the cabin in the middle of the night. I have a feeling she knows where I was going, and why. I just hope I can trust her not to say anything to Eva. Mauricio told me about a time Eva went into a sulk just because a seventy-year-old workshopper gave Mauricio an innocent peck on the cheek. She’d blow her top to discover what Mauricio and I do when no one’s looking.

Eva’s protectiveness makes sense, though. When she first met him, after losing her baby and while she was recuperating at Lake Atitlán, Mauricio was staying in the orphanage. It’s a local charity for children thirteen and under. Except that really, he was already fifteen. Like half the kids he grew up with, he doesn’t have a birth certificate, never mind a passport.

Mauricio told me that he appreciates the employment and emotional support, the way Eva clearly took something sad—the loss of her own dream of becoming a mama again—and tried to turn it into something good. Royalties from In a Delicate State have bought Mauricio and other local kids lots of teddy bears and soccer balls over the years. But now that he’s approaching the age of twenty-one, he has to decide when to tell her his real age. She’s often talked about Mauricio coming to live in the US with her, and how that might be legally accomplished. It’s all a bit . . . intense.

When I did finally sneak into bed last night, I couldn’t sleep, worrying because I hadn’t sent Eva the essay she requested, and at the same time, worrying that this was starting to feel like “homework” rather than a self-directed effort to create art, or at least truth. But maybe that preciousness was part of my writer’s block since graduating. I’d always thought college was getting in the way of my creativity. Instead, the deadlines were helpful and now, without them, I’d been flailing. Eva was giving me yet another gift. I didn’t have to write something perfect. I just had to write.

I pulled out my journal and flashlight and burrowed deep under the covers, intent on scratching out a few paragraphs. When I drilled some test wells into my subconscious, only a few topics sprang up. One was Mauricio—which wouldn’t work, obviously. The other was Mom.

I remembered an argument we had just before I left, the one after the restaurant scene where I expressed disdain for her spendy food habits, the one before our final discussion about my plans to search for my own apartment soon.

The argument had been about clothes. She’d ordered me some travel pants and a long-sleeve matching shirt from a conservative retailer that sells ridiculously expensive outfits to women who evidently dream of going on safari.

“They . . . certainly have a lot of pockets,” I said, lifting the pants and shirt from the gift-wrapped box. “And they are . . . rather large.”

“But do you like them?” she asked.

“I think they might look good on you.”

“They’re quick-dry.”

“So is skin. I mean, I just wear shorts and a T-shirt most of the time. Or less.”

“What do you mean, ‘less’?”

“Like, a bathing suit. Under shorts.”

“But if you go somewhere nice, maybe in the evening . . .”

“Mom, I don’t plan on going anywhere nice.”