Page 93 of The Deepest Lake

Click. Forward again.

In my fragmented sleep, I try the same thing, convincing myself that if I just roll over and find a cooler spot on the tiny pillow, if I squeeze my eyes shut, if I just purge the last picture in my brain and make room for a new one, then the next dream will be better. It has to be.

A woman is cooing sympathetically as she dabs my forehead with a washcloth and smooths my tangled hair. Mom.

But it isn’t.

“Just put it there, Eduardo.” I crack open one eye and see Eva pushing a garrafón jug into the small, round room.

She’s been the one voice in my head for who knows how long. The one nursing me.

“Water,” I croak, though the second syllable sends nails into my mandible.

“You’ve had enough,” Eva says. “The tea is better. Take the straw.”

I push my head away. The straw scrapes along my cheek. Eva holds the back of my head and forcibly turns me back, mashing my lips against the straw. Then she repositions her strong fingers at the nape of my neck and squeezes.

“Wakey wakey,” Eva says as my eyelids flutter. “This is helping your bones knit. You can’t heal without it.”

So, I drink and drink. Ignoring the burn at the back of the mouth and the resistance in the straw as twigs get sucked in, blocking the flow. Something in the tea must be irritating my chapped lips. The inside of my mouth stings.

“Eduardo,” Eva says. “Help me with this.”

Next, I am being lifted and held in position over a bucket, my eyelids again too heavy to open. When I was a child, I sometimes dreamed I was going to the toilet, only to wake up with the realization that I was still in my bed, about to wet myself. I have the same worry now. I don’t want to make a mess if the bucket isn’t real.

“I don’t have all day,” Eva says. “Stop holding it. There we go.”

Even while I am trying to find the words, I hear the patter of urine into the bucket, like rain against a roof. Is that where I am, camping in some rustic cabin?

“You’re in a healing hut,” Eva says, as if I’ve asked—have I? I don’t know.

To Eduardo, she says, “Add the deadlock to the second door.”

I listen hard to what sounds like a broom whapping at a carpet, outside the hut, faster and faster. I can’t get the image of a carpet out of my mind until the noise reaches its peak, right over the hut. Then I realize I’ve been hearing the rotors of a helicopter—approaching, circling once, then fading away.

I’m under again, the sound of the electric drill adding new colors to my next dream—a bright bolt of blue lightning every time the noise starts up. A relaxing moss-green when the drill stops.

Despite the soft comfort of the mental moss, my brain wants to find its way back to reality: it’s a drill. Why is he using a drill? Why are there helicopters? Why can’t I stay awake—and why do I care? It’s so much easier to sleep.

“For now,” I hear Eva’s voice coming from farther away. She sounds annoyed, and maybe frightened. “I don’t know. We’re just taking it a day at a time.”

28

JULES

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“How long?” I manage to say through clenched teeth.

“How long until your jaw is better?”

“No.” I close my lips, inhale through my nose, prepare for the hurt. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“Oh,” Eva smiles, palm soft against my forehead. “Does it matter? Your job is to get well. That’s all you need to worry about.”