Bad Marie

by Marcy Dermansky

  Marie picked up the glass rabbit and flung it into the ocean. She watched the rabbit land with a splash and then disappear. Caitlin did not stop crying, her tears turning into hiccups.

  Marie started to walk.

  She started to walk, walking away from Caitlin, who did not want her. Away from the sound of Caitlin’s hiccups and incessant wails, away from the piercing noise of the construction crews. She stopped for as long as it took to take off her high-top sneakers, and then she kept going, barefoot on the sand.

  Marie walked, not knowing where she was headed. She could walk to the fancy resort she would never be able to pay for. She had no money. She couldn’t afford a cerveza. But if Uncle Roberto worked in a resort, so could Marie. She could work in the laundry room, live up to her potential, labor side by side with the Mexicans she was so busy oppressing.

  How could Maribel think that of Marie?

  Benoît, he had blamed her for ruining his life.

  The movie star hadn’t even wanted to have sex with her.

  Everyone thought the worst of Marie. Ellen had never forgiven Marie for Harry Alford. She would never forgive her for this, for taking her husband. Her daughter. Marie had been an idiot to think for a second she could be forgiven. Marie had never wanted forgiveness, not from Ellen. It had been Benoît Doniel who’d betrayed her, who left them alone, in Paris, practically forced them to go on the run. Marie had left prison only a month ago, guardedly optimistic, with no idea that she would end up back on the same beach where she had once made love with Juan José. Juan José had killed himself, hanged himself with a bedsheet, the kind she had laundered. She had not been reason enough for him to live. Marie had thought she could keep Caitlin, only she couldn’t do it.

  “Not you,” Caitlin had said. “Not you.”

  Marie kept walking, leaving Caitlin farther and farther behind. Step after step. Leaving her entire life behind. Like Virginie at Sea. Marie could disappear. Become a girl in a book. It was as if Nathalie Doniel had gotten back inside Marie’s head, providing Marie comfort when she needed it most. Marie could create her own ending. Like Juan José. Like Nathalie Doniel. Like Virginie herself. Marie dropped her backpack on the sand, and began to stride, determined, into the ocean.

  The water never rose past her waist.

  Marie walked and walked, but the sea never rose any higher. Marie looked back toward the shore. The sand was barely visible, there was only turquoise blue water from every angle, a flock of sea gulls flying overhead. Marie did not see how she could drown in this calm, shallow water. Small yellow-and-blue-striped fish swam in circles around her legs.

  “Pretty,” Marie said out loud, and then she remembered, again, what she needed to do.

  Marie held her breath and sank down to her knees, and finally, she was submerged beneath water. Marie closed her eyes, felt the water flow over and around her, the push and pull of the gentle waves. She waited. Marie wondered what would happen next. She felt a fish swim into her leg and then dart away.

  Marie stayed beneath the surface until she couldn’t. She had to breathe. She wanted to breathe. She came up for air. It was all very romantic for Virginie to poetically disappear off the page, but the ending of Virginie at Sea, it was complete and utter bullshit. Marie had been deceived. Deceived by Benoît Doniel. Deceived by his dead, suicidal sister. Anybody could write a better book than that.

  Marie headed back to shore, swimming feverishly through the shallow water. She had abandoned Caitlin, left her all alone. On a beach. In Mexico. Her favorite person in the world. Of all the wrong choices she had ever made in her life, this was the worst possible thing. Caitlin’s small ears exposed to the sun. Her little nose, her pale and delicate scalp. Marie had left her.

  Back on the beach, she couldn’t see Caitlin anywhere. Marie’s backpack lay on the sand in the place she had left it, but Marie didn’t deserve to have her things, not the red silk kimono or the Chanel halter top, not the letters from Juan José. Marie left all of her worldly possessions behind and started to run. Marie ran as fast as she had ever run, not knowing how she would be able to live if something had happened to Caitlin. Marie ran faster still, ignoring the piercing cramp in her side, running through it. She had left Caitlin all alone to die, and she would have to live with that knowledge for the rest of her life, not in a watery, poetic blur, but behind bars, this time for murder, first-degree murder, knowing what she had done to her Caty Bean.

  And then Marie saw Caitlin, exactly where she had left her. Caitlin had managed to take the T-shirt off her head and was burying it beneath the sand.

  Caitlin looked at Marie and she smiled.

  “Hi Marie,” she said.

  Marie bent over, hands on her thighs, catching her breath, taking a moment until she was able to speak. “Hi Caitlin.”

  “Hi Marie.”

  “Hi Caty Cat.”

  “You are all wet,” Caitlin said.

  Marie gazed at Caitlin in disbelief. Caitlin, playing in the sand as if nothing had happened. Not burned to a crisp. Not raped and murdered. Not kidnapped. Playing. Happy. Marie collapsed onto the sand, putting her arms around Caitlin, kissing her all over. Her blond head, her chubby arms, her shoulders, her beautiful face. Marie made loud smacking noises, kissing Caitlin and then kissing her some more.

  “Stop,” Caitlin said, but she was laughing.

  “I’m sorry I put a T-shirt on your head,” Marie said.

  “It’s all gone,” Caitlin said.

  She pointed to the small mound of sand on top of Marie’s T-shirt.

  “You are so smart,” Marie said.

  Marie picked up a handful of sand and watched it fall through her fingers, landing on top of Caitlin’s pile. She scooped up another handful, and began in earnest, building a sand castle.

  “Look at our beautiful castle,” Marie said. “It’s getting tall, isn’t it? Do you think it’s tall?”

  “Tall,” Caitlin said. “Very tall.”

  Caitlin smashed the sand castle with her fists and started to laugh. Marie loved that laugh.

  “You don’t hate me?” Marie said.

  Caitlin looked at Marie.

  “Silly Marie,” she said.

  The sun was beginning to set. Marie’s ankle had begun to throb. Sand was encrusted inside of her jeans. Her face was sunburned. She made slow progress, Caitlin heavy in her arms, fast asleep. Marie had walked more than she had ever walked before, swam farther, run harder, and felt more afraid than she had ever imagined possible.

  Marie was convinced that Maribel had lied about the resort when she came upon what seemed like a mirage: a high-rise hotel. Sleek and new. There were teakwood lounge chairs on the white sand, hammocks hanging between picture-perfect palm trees, a tiled swimming pool filled with water bluer than the ocean. There was a shirtless Mexican, cutting open coconuts for guests with a machete. Marie shifted Caitlin in her arms, took a coconut, and kept on walking.

  “White people’s paradise,” she whispered to the sleeping girl, before sipping the cool coconut milk.

  The receptionist was a pretty Mexican woman wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a blue blazer. She might have blinked when she saw Marie, barefoot and sunburned, carrying a sleeping child beneath a silk kimono, but Marie also might have imagined it. Like Maribel had said, this was where Marie belonged. She felt victorious, reaching this front desk, like a survivor of a long and arduous war who has reached safety at long last.

  This was the end of the road.

  “Welcome,” the receptionist said, “to Las Alamandas.”

  “Thank you,” Marie said, pleased to be addressed in English. “I am happy to be here.”

  Marie took a deep breath, taking her time. It did not matter how she looked. She was a white person in Mexico. She had a credit card.

  “I think I’ll take a room, please.”

  Marie did not ask the price. She did not offer to wash dishes. She rested first Caitlin and then the coconut on top of the hotel counter. She looked at the rec
eptionist and smiled, as if nothing about the situation was unusual. From the back pocket of her wet Chanel jeans, she carefully removed the movie star’s platinum credit card and her own soggy passport. Benoît Doniel, she knew, had used Ellen’s credit card to buy the plane tickets, leading Ellen straight to Paris.

  “A suite,” Marie said. “With a view of the ocean.”

  “Of course.” The polite receptionist was impeccably trained. She accepted Marie’s offering without any noticeable disdain. She studied the credit card a moment too long. Marie watched her trying to feign disinterest; she gently nudged Caitlin farther onto the counter, making sure she would not fall.

  “Oh. Eli Longworth. I loved his last movie. He got robbed of the Oscar, don’t you think? Is he here?”

  Marie smiled to herself. He had been an actual movie star, known by receptionists in Mexican resort hotels. Marie had refused to give him a blow job. This was the kind of thing Marie would hold on to.

  “He’ll be joining us soon,” Marie said. “When he’s done with his shoot.”

  “Well.” The receptionist smoothed her smooth hair. She pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “That’s wonderful news. I am an enormous fan.”

  Marie gave the polite receptionist all of the requested information: her name, the address of Ellen’s brownstone in New York. She watched as the woman ran the movie star’s credit card number through the machine, watched as it went through. It did go through.

  “Excellent. We have a wonderful room for you and your daughter.”

  “My daughter,” Marie repeated, noticing the ease with which these words flowed from her lips. “She’s all tuckered out.”

  She scooped Caitlin, cradled in silk, off the counter and back into her arms. Marie was surprised when her arms began to shake. She had carried Caitlin so far, miles and miles down a sandy beach. There was not much farther to go. She followed the porter to an elevator. As she had no luggage, he offered instead to carry Caitlin, but Marie refused.

  “Mine,” she said.

  Caitlin wouldn’t be hers for much longer. Ellen was winning. Again. Always. She would get her daughter back, and Caitlin would forget Marie, would never know that this had happened. Caitlin would never remember being hungry or thirsty, abandoned on a beach in Mexico.

  The porter opened the door and Marie found herself in a spacious suite, high off the ground. Lush, luxurious surroundings. The walls were painted a pale orange, the gauze curtains a pale shade of yellow, billowing gently from an ocean breeze.

  In the bedroom, Marie found a king-sized bed, a bouquet of white hydrangeas on the bedside table. It was, without doubt, the nicest room Marie had ever stayed in. She would add this to her list of accomplishments.

  “Look at us,” she said to Caitlin, kissing the top of her sleepy head.

  “Marie?” Caitlin said.

  “Hi you.”

  “Hi Marie.”

  “Hi Kit Kat.”

  “Hi Marie.”

  “Hi Caty Bean.”

  Marie juggled the girl in her arms. She was heavy, but Marie was loath to put her down. Instead, she licked Caitlin’s cheek.

  “You taste salty,” she said.

  In the book she would write, Marie would stay the.re with Caitlin, forever and always, in this expensive resort hotel. Swim in the tiled pool. Drink café con leches and eat fresh fruit, watch educational Mexican shows on the enormous hotel TV.

  Marie opened the doors to their terrace. They had a stunning view of the ocean.

  “Look at this,” Marie said.

  The view was better than the Eiffel Tower. The view took Marie’s breath away. There were no pickup trucks, no piles of trash. Only the white sand, the blue water. Rays of pink and purple streaked the sky. Marie could see both the sun and the moon. She kissed the top of Caitlin’s head. That soft white-blond hair.

  “Down,” Caitlin said.

  At last, numb with exhaustion, Marie put Caitlin down. Her arms, muscular and strong from prison, were empty.

  Caitlin pointed to the sky.

  “Orange,” she said.

  “Orange,” Marie agreed. She knelt down next to Caitlin and again kissed the top of her head. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. Caitlin did not object. “I see orange. And blue. And purple. And I can see the moon. Do you see the moon? Over there? Do you see it?”

  “I do,” Caitlin said. “Good night moon.”

  Marie, she was not going to cry.

  “Come here,” she said.

  She took Caitlin’s hand, leading her to the bathroom. Marie could not have been more pleased with what she saw.

  “Look at that bathtub,” Marie said, squeezing Caitlin’s small hand, holding it tight.

  It was a beautiful white ceramic tub, wide and deep, with a border of dark blue tiles, like the swimming pool outside. They were both dirty, and while Marie still had the chance, she would make sure that Caitlin was nice and clean. Tomorrow, if there was still time, they would swim in that pool.

  “I want to take a bath,” Caitlin said.

  “So do I.”

  Marie smiled, envisioning the bath they would take. But first, she called for room service. Macaroni and cheese, a bottle of whiskey. Milk for Caitlin. Chocolate pudding.

  “I like pudding,” Caitlin said.

  Marie ran the water for their bath.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More…

  About the author

  2 Meet Marcy Dermansky

  About the book

  4 About the book

  Read on

  7 Five French Films from Which I Have Found Inspiration

  8 Five Novels I Have Compulsively Read and Reread

  9 An Excerpt from Marcy Dermansky’s Debut Novel, Twins

  About the author

  Meet Marcy Dermansky

  MARCY DERMANSKY is the author of the critically acclaimed novel Twins and a film critic for About.com. Her short stories have been published in numerous literary journals, including McSweeney’s, Alaska Quarterly Review, Mississippi Review, and Indiana Review. A former MacDowell fellow, Marcy is the winner of the Smallmouth Press Andre Dubus Novella Award and Story magazine’s Carson McCullers short story prize. She lives in Astoria, New York, with her husband, writer Jurgen Fauth, and her daughter, Nina.

  About Me

  After my first novel Twins was published, I was frequently asked: Are you are a twin? I am not. I wonder now, with the release of Bad Marie, if people will ask me if I am a kidnapper. And no, I am not.

  I do have a baby now, a daughter named Nina, who did not exist when I wrote Bad Marie. Clearly I must have had baby on the brain. Now that I am a mother, I wonder if would write the same book. It’s impossible to say. For the record, I do have many things in common in Marie.

  I love to take baths. I enjoy my whiskey and chocolate pudding. I am always thinking about my next meal and angling for a way to get myself to the beach. Any beach. I compulsively read and read my favorite books, much like Marie reads Virginie at Sea.

  I have only ever wanted to be a writer. I feel pretty grateful that that is what I am. I have moments though, swimming in other people’s swimming pools, when I wonder why I did not become a doctor or a lawyer or a corporate raider. Fortunately, this feeling usually passes. I can take delight in the good fortune of others and rejoice that their good fortune is shared with me. I like to believe that I give back, too, with the stories that I tell, creating books that will be read, again and again and again.

  About the book

  BAD MARIE BEGAN with the image of a bathtub and a glass of whiskey. I put a naked Marie in the tub, added a baby and some rubber ducks, threw French author Benoît Doinel and his undeserving American wife into the already crowded room. The story took off from there.

  I am a novelist, but I also moonlight as a film critic. I probably see more movies each year than I read books. I think it’s fair to say that Bad Marie is my attempt at writing a French movie. Because of all movies, I love French movies be
st. One of the biggest treats for me each year is the “Rendez-Vous with French Film” series at Lincoln Center. I get to indulge in French movies, sometimes two or three a day, and in between films, I take myself out for lunch. I experience occasional fits of guilt for spending my time this way, the rest of the world seemingly hard at work, but, as I remind myself, I find genuine inspiration.

  I am in love with that moment in François Truffaut’s Stolen Kisses when Antoine Doinel stares at himself in the mirror and repeats his name. Antoine Doinel. Antoine Doinel. Antoine Doinel, Antoine Doinel, Antoine Doinel. Jean-Pierre Léaud is so good in the role—funny and gorgeous and wonderfully intense. It pleased me enormously when that scene snuck into Bad Marie. Marie is in the early throes of love when she stares into the mirror and repeats the object of her affection’s name. Benoît Doinel. Benoît Doinel. Benoît Doinel. Just saying it makes Marie happy. Writing those lines, I was happy.

  When I close my eyes and picture Benoît Doinel, I see the French actor Mathieu Amalric, who first charmed me in Arnaud Desplechin’s Kings and Queen, swoopy hair in his eyes, having a fine time in a mental institution while avoiding his ex-wife and the tax collector. If Amalric is in a film, I will see it. I am also in love with French actresses: Isild le Besco, Emmanuelle Devos, Ludivine Sagnier, the incomparable Catherine Deneuve. And yes, of course, that poor miserable cat in Bad Marie is named after Ludivine Sagnier, though they are nothing alike. Sagnier is a luminous creature. My fictional cat is missing her front teeth and is covered in scabs.

  It both surprised and distressed me when I realized that Marie would have to go to France. I have only spent one long weekend in Paris. I wasn’t sure I could pull it off. In fact, I tried to convince Marie to go elsewhere. In an early draft of Bad Marie, she and Benoît get into a green Jaguar and drive to Vermont. They look at the foliage and eat sharp white cheddar cheese. It was wrong, all wrong. Paris was where they had to go, and scared as I was, Paris is where I took them. Out to dinner and down the Champs-Élysées, to the Eiffel Tower and a housing project on the outskirts of town. It turns out, through the movies, Paris is a city I know well.