Page 114 of The Deepest Lake

“No, that’s not it.”

“She said she was writing—”

“No,” Eva interrupts. “The writing didn’t make her drink. The addiction made her want to drink, and the lack of self-control made her give in. Don’t blame art. Everyone blames art. Weakness preceded any attempt to make art of weakness.”

“You don’t think being at this workshop . . . pushed her over the edge?”

“I think it pulled her back from the edge, long before she got here. She registered months ago. We gave her a point on the horizon. Rachel was living on borrowed time.”

“I don’t agree,” Rose says, but Eva has slipped under the water, unable to hear.

It makes Rose nervous, waiting for Eva’s head to emerge, even knowing that she’s such a good swimmer. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. It couldn’t have helped Rachel, being told she was a horrible person and pushed into writing what she wasn’t ready to write.

Rose tries to keep her cupped hands moving smoothly, until water slips into her mouth and she starts to sputter and cough. Her rhythmic strokes degrade into frantic paddling.

“Eva?”

Eva pops up like a cork, farther away. “This is heaven! Swim harder.”

“I’m not comfortable.”

“Don’t doggy-paddle. You’ll tire yourself out.”

Rose switches back to breaststroke, pausing every few strokes to roll over on her back and calm her breathing. She’s closed the distance between them by half, but Eva keeps kicking, moving away.

“Does it happen often?” Rose calls between strokes.

“What?”

“Do people fall apart? Like Rachel did?”

“I can’t hear you.”

Rose knows that she can.

“I’m thinking of Scarlett, too,” Rose begins to say, the name Sahara further back on her list, saving the most important name of all—Jules—for the moment when Eva has exhausted all of her excuses. “The way you led that workshop wasn’t good for her.” Another breath, so she can say the rest before Eva submerges again. “I know you mean well, but you’re not a therapist.”

This isn’t an easy place for any kind of conversation, at least not for Rose. But it’s worth letting Eva be in her element if it will make her listen. She puts her head down in the water, trying to swim instead of thrash. Without intending to, she opens her eyes. She sees her white hands flashing beneath the green water. She sees the curtains of bubbles released by her flailing feet. It brings it right back: the old panic, the old nightmare.

Rose manages to lift her head again in time to hear Eva shouting, “Still waiting!”

When Rose finally catches up to her, she hears the smile in Eva’s voice. “You’re not a very good swimmer.”

“I . . . told you that.”

“You can tell a lot about a person when they’re at the edge of their comfort zone. Or out of it.”

Rose opens her eyes to blue sky. When she tips her head back, she can make out the profile of the volcano.

“I don’t coddle people,” Eva says.

“No. You hurt people.” She kicks and tries to lift her head higher, gathering her breath and her courage. “And it’s not only this session. It’s a pattern. Don’t you see it?”

If only Eva will take responsibility. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Rose’s late mother loved that proverb, but until now, Rose has never seen it lived out so clearly.

Eva hasn’t replied to Rose’s direct question. Patience is called for. Another of Rose’s mother’s sayings: People don’t change overnight.

Rose’s head, low in the water, picks up that buzzy sound again. She was about to ask about Sahara. Only then would she talk about Jules. But Eva starts crawl-stroking hard for shore, leaving Rose behind. The gap between them grows ever larger. Eva doesn’t slow down or look back.

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