Page 119 of The Deepest Lake

“You almost drowned, and that triggered—”

“No. This too. This!” She points at the tea. “Where did you get this?”

“It was in a big pot downstairs. Hans made it. We’ve all had it before.”

“Not like this. He added spices to it. It’s the way I used to make it, the way Jules liked it. I can’t even explain or you’ll think I’ve lost my mind. You already think so!”

“Trauma—” Lindsay starts to say.

“Don’t talk to me about trauma, please. I have to do something, and not later. Now.”

“What could you possibly do now?”

That’s the problem. Rose doesn’t know.

36

JULES

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I can’t tolerate sitting here, waiting for my fate to be decided by others. Eva, flitting in and out of her fantasy desire to mother both me and “my baby.” Barbara, struggling to find the resolve to finish what she started.

I stand up, next to my bed, and put my left foot on the floor. My leg can bear some weight. But how does that help, when I can’t get out the door?

A lizard skitters across the screen that covers the roof hole above my head, shifting the leaves that obscure the light.

Sun. I need sun.

Is the screen attached? Could I at least prod it enough to clear the leaves and let more sunshine in?

There’s not much in this room, aside from two buckets, the clothesline I already took down, a broom left only recently—a sign I’m supposed to be doing more to keep this place clean.

Standing on the bed, I can barely reach the roof hole with the end of the broom. I just manage to nudge the screen, which isn’t fastened. A few more stretches, and I’ve managed to knock the screen off. I hear it sliding down the curved outside of the roof. Sun floods the center of the temazcal. For the first time, this dim, spooky hut actually looks like the hopeful, healing, glowing chamber it was always meant to be.

I sit back down on the bed, cross-legged, and bask in it, eyes closed, swaying side to side. Three months without sun. Can it really have been that long? Can one even heal properly without vitamins? I look down at my skinny arms. I pinch the sagging flesh around my knees. My legs are the color of a banana—mostly white, with a slight tinge of yellow.

The sound of someone opening the outer door startles me into vigilance. I listen, straining, trying to distinguish Eduardo’s light steps from Barbara’s heavy ones. A quick hard knock on the inner door makes me jump.

“Jules,” comes the whisper of a familiar male voice. “Jules, it’s me.”

I crawl out of bed, tiptoeing toward the door, and press a hand against it. “Mauricio?”

“I was so worried about you!”

“Oh my god. Mauricio!”

I hear the familiar scraping sound of the second latch being withdrawn.

“It’s a little stuck, but I’m coming.”

I put my hand over my mouth, stifling a sob. If he’d known where I was, he would have come earlier, I’m sure of it.

“Wait, I hear something,” he says, quieter. “Let me go see.”

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