Page 87 of The Deepest Lake

“Then I’d have to be careful,” Lindsay says.

The first public buildings of San Felipe are coming into view: a minimart first, followed by a barber shop for locals. But still, it’s quiet here, and they’re alone. There might never be a better time.

“That person who should have been careful?” Rose asks, ready to tell Lindsay everything now. “That was my daughter.”

24

JULES

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I’m sitting here now, at dusk, watching Zahara sidestroke in circles. Occasionally she’ll stand up and smack her hand against the water, where it’s shimmering, like she’s trying to smash a bug. I’ve called her back several times but she won’t answer me. I like her but she’s trouble, that girl.

All of our day’s conversation, muddled by hours of mimosas and tequila and sun, is coming back to me in snatches. Her mom won’t ever read her book. Can’t. That’s a lot to take in.

I’m glad I wrote some of it down, but maybe I got it wrong. Maybe we get almost everything wrong.

But one can hope a little truth and light gets through anyway. Through the cracks. Or despite them.

That’s what I’m still thinking about, in my melancholy haze, eyes pleasantly closed, nodding off, when Barbara comes rushing down the stairs and out to where I’m sitting, shaking the dock with her heavy steps.

“She’s drowning!” Barbara yells, her thick forearm flexing as she undoes the rope from the cleat. “I saw her from the bluff. She went under.”

“What? Where?”

I’m too confused for the guilt to fully hit me—too confused even to think about whether we should get help or start looking for Zahara ourselves, before it’s too late.

“That girl shouldn’t have been allowed to swim so far,” Barbara shouts. “You were supposed to be watching! Get in the boat!”

The last bit of orange has leaked out of the sky. It’s so dark now. I don’t remember it getting this dark.

My knees are shaking as I jump into the rowboat, careful as I step past an extra detached oar and a rock attached to a rope. “The bow seat,” Barbara yells. “Hurry up, and Jesus, get lower or you’re going to tip us.”

“Sorry!”

With her back to me, hands on the oars, she barks, “Look for the splashes. If we hurry, we can still get to her.”

The volcano ahead is a gray silhouette against a navy sky. The lake is black. When I look straight down into the water, I feel a spike of fear. I try looking toward the horizon instead. But I’m not seeing any trace of Zahara. None at all.

I’m hyperventilating now. It’s all my fault. How many drinks did we have? How many pills did Zahara take? How long had Zahara been swimming when Barbara spotted her struggling? How long can a person last, under the water?

My eyes search so hard that they begin to see what isn’t there. The glimmer of moon becomes Zahara’s pale face floating, just below the surface. The bubbles released by some fish near the surface are her final bubbly breaths. But every time the boat lurches forward, the illusions disappear. The lake is a silky sheet that stretches all the way to the volcanoes. Moonlight is only moonlight.

Barbara hasn’t spoken for ages. We’re both silent. Because we’re searching. We’re in this together. I’m facing away from Barbara, occasionally twisting to glance over my shoulder, scanning the lake both ahead of and behind us.

“I don’t think she swam this far.”

Barbara doesn’t answer.

Panic subsides as I try to picture Zahara as I last saw her, splashing and paddling around. Time and fresh air are clearing my head.

“She’s not that good a swimmer,” I say with more confidence. “If she went under, she’ll be in shallower water. We need to turn back.”

So why doesn’t Barbara turn back?