Page 11 of The Deepest Lake

Rose gets to the top of the alley, a T-intersection on the main road, where all the colorful three-wheeled tuk-tuk taxis line up. She pauses, out of breath and overwhelmed. This larger road’s swirling dust makes her eyes sting.

Guatemala is just different. Mom, I can’t explain.

The drivers give her a moment of peace before one of them calls out in good English, “Señora, are you trying to go somewhere? Do you need a ride?”

She must look dazed. She is lost, more lost than she’s ever been in her life. Rose has had dark days: depression in her early twenties, divorce not much later, the loss of her own mother to cancer. None of it came close to this. Nothing prepared her for the singularly devastating experience of losing a child.

Jules, I’m so sorry.

Her vision blurs. She has to turn away, pretend to be studying the glass window of a small corner grocery, puzzling over the display of Coke products and a chalkboard boasting the currency exchange rate.

She doesn’t want to keep apologizing. She’s here, isn’t she? But this is a new apology and a new realization, one she couldn’t have had back in Illinois.

Jules, you had every right to travel alone. You had every right to go out in the world, to see new places and talk to people and be yourself. You were absolutely right. Every place can be dangerous. And every place can be kind. We can’t just stay home, being afraid.

And yet, how she wished Jules were home. She’d trade every beautiful view in the world, every exotic experience and every stupid fucking postcard for just one more hour with her daughter, cooking dinner, talking and laughing as they brush past each other, the steam rising from the pasta pot, the salmon darkening under the broiler, pausing only long enough to change the music on Jules’s phone, resuming their dancing and laughing, refusing to rush. Her daughter, smart and funny and compassionate, the best friend she could ever have, even though you weren’t supposed to put that much pressure on a child. Jules has her own friends; had her own friends. Just one hour. One or two glasses of wine, together. Give her another hug and don’t rush it. Smooth her hair one more time, feel the softness of her arms and her chest against yours. Laugh when you are still hugging, while the steam billows and the kitchen timer rings.

Rose wipes her nose on her bare forearm, but one discreet swipe isn’t enough. She was supposed to be doing something—looking for clues, making notes, noticing. Instead, she is back to wishing she could turn back time, a delusion more easily fostered from the comfort of her own home. The tuk-tuk drivers are all staring at her. The only way she can stop crying is to be angry at someone. The image of that dreadlock-wearing woman with the crocheted bikini top comes to mind. Didn’t anyone teach you to have respect for the places and people you visit? Her daughter had respect. Always. Her daughter didn’t stay up all night, running half-naked along the stone-covered beach, making the married women nervous, sleeping with the local men.

At least, Rose doesn’t think so.

4

JULES

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“You are so, so nice to meet with me on such short notice,” I say, clasping my hands together to keep them from shaking.

“You met Mauricio at the pizzeria in town?” Eva asks over her shoulder as we climb the stairs to the second story of her house, an adobe-walled building with huge windows overlooking Lake Atitlán.

I’m glad she can’t see my stressed and sweaty face as I fumble for an answer. “Yeah, just a chance meeting. We didn’t talk long. He said you’re always looking for staff.”

In less than a minute, I’ve told three lies.

First, it wasn’t chance. Mauricio walked by my table and saw I was reading my old copy of Eva’s first memoir, Last Gasp. He’s never read it, but he recognized the cover, of course.

Second, we talked all afternoon, ending up on the beach, where we finished off a six-pack of Coronas, chatting the whole time in Spanish.

Third, Mauricio didn’t say Eva was looking for staff, only that the “lady workshoppers” were on the way and everything was getting crazy. When I pressed for details, he got skittish. He wanted to see me again, in town, but he didn’t want to lure me to Eva’s semihidden lair—my words, not his. I have to assume it was for my own benefit—you’re on vacation, why would you want to work?—but I don’t need anyone, even a gorgeous twenty-year-old guy with café au lait skin, hazel eyes and dark wavy hair, telling me whether or not I need a job. The answer is: I do.

“We’re almost there,” Eva says, gauzy fern-green pants fluttering as she strides through the living room and toward a large bedroom, a corner of which is occupied with a desk, printer and banker’s boxes. “Not the best layout. Pardon the mess. We’ll use the balcony.”

I swallow hard, eyes so dry that every time I blink it feels like I’m clicking the shutter of an old-fashioned camera, taking in the huge framed photo of Eva posing in an adoring crowd of twenty dark-skinned children, all dressed in matching T-shirts, like it’s a charity event. Red dirt. Acacia trees. Africa, probably.

Another click as I try to capture the décor: narrow kilim rugs from the Middle East, underfoot. Guatemalan tapestries on the wall and folk art on low tables.

A final click as I pass a framed photo of Eva standing in a one-piece bathing suit at the end of a weathered dock. I saw that one a year ago, in the New York Times Travel Section.

Eva calls out to some invisible helper: “Iced coffee, please, out to the balcony!”

I hope she isn’t calling Mauricio. He’d be appalled to see I’m here, carrying my backpack, having checked out of the hostel one night early. I’ll settle things with him, later. The truth is that I’ve fooled around with three guys—sorry, four—on my Central American tour. But I’ve only met one famous author, and she happens to be my favorite writer of all time. A girl has to have priorities.

“I emailed you my resume,” I tell Eva, following her through a combination bedroom-office, then back out into the open sunlight, through French doors. On the balcony, she moves yellow legal pads and piles of paper-clipped printouts, clearing space on a white stone bench. Aside from the clutter and a few wilted plants that have seen better days, it’s gorgeous up here: Red and turquoise throw pillows, everywhere. A small table with an inlaid mosaic in sunset colors.

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