Page 122 of The Deepest Lake

Then he says something about my mother.

“At the house,” he whispers. “She isn’t safe.”

“But you . . . I’d feel better if I—”

“Go.”

“Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll get help. I promise.”

Limping, I reach the rough road, which clings to the lake. I squint toward the dim outlines of the volcanoes, orienting myself. Eva’s place is to the right. I hobble, dragging my left leg behind me, lungs full of smoky air, thinking: You’re not getting away with this.

I think of my mother standing at the top of the bluff. Walking down the dock. Clambering into a boat. She doesn’t know what Eva can do, what Barbara has already done. My mother has to get away from them. I just don’t know how to help her in time.

Then again, I’ve never walked far in this area without a truck pulling over to ask me if I need a ride. In these woods and down this road there are people who can help. That thought, instead of reassuring me, makes my heart race, my anger and indignation replaced by pure animal fear.

The paranoia cultivated for months almost convinces me to dash back over to the shoulder and hide in the brush, arms wrapped around myself, eyes closed. I have to fight it. Not every stranger is out to get me. I have to remember who I am—who I was. The person who traveled across Central America, who befriended locals, who was afraid of the occasional wave or tumble, perhaps, but never of people.

I take another step toward the center of the road, ignoring the pain, and when I see the first glint of metal as a truck comes around the curve, I thrust up my hands, waving for them to stop.

37

ROSE

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Weird enough to be lying in your retreat leader’s bed. Weirder still to step into her shower, choosing between her three shampoos, moving aside her pink razor to reach for the soap. Rose waits for the water to heat up and then moves under the hot falling spray, letting it pound her skin, the way she’s done ever since Jules died. The way she had imagined Eva would have—or should have—after her baby died.

Lindsay has promised to wait for her, so she isn’t alone here, even though she knows the house is full of other people: Concha, Gaby and several more of the other Guatemalan staff. Rose must leave before Eva gets back. She’ll deal with a confrontation when she has someone tough and trustworthy standing alongside her, just as Lindsay advised.

Rose is almost done showering when a knock comes at the door. It’s Lindsay, and she sounds tense: “There’s something going on.”

Rose isn’t sure she heard right. She turns off the shower even though she’s still soapy, to hear better. “Did you say fires?”

“Hurry up.”

The entire time they’ve been here, there have been fires. Smoke in the air. Wisps and orange blazes on every hillside. Gorgeous bronze sunsets. And always: Don’t worry. Slash-and-burn. They know what they’re doing.

But now Lindsay sounds concerned. “They want us to leave. The fires are too close.”

“Coming,” Rose calls back, rinsing as fast as she can.

A few minutes later, she runs out of the house and down to the dock, where Astrid and Lindsay are standing.

“The fire jumped the road.” Astrid points to flickers of orange above the distant trees.

“What do we do?”

“Stay near the water. Maybe . . . get in the rowboats and row out, away from shore, to be safe. Everyone’s coming. They’re grabbing essentials, in case the whole house goes up in flames.”

The dock populates with the staff: Concha and her kitchen staffers first. Gaby is carrying a pile of Eva’s first edition books. Mercedes is carrying the Bible. As they all wait at the end of the dock, Mercedes steps up to Rose and tries to hand her the Bible, as if she is foisting the very word of God upon her.

When Rose refuses to take it, Mercedes looks around, then opens the big book, extracts a sheaf of loose pages and presses them into Rose’s hands instead. Rose looks at the topmost sheet, recognizes the handwriting in a flash. She sees words: “Eva,” “confused,” “Mom,” “frustrated,” “help.”

Every word, in that familiar handwriting, is precious.

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