Bad Marie (15 page)

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 receptionist 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 leche
s 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.

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

Meet Marcy Dermansky

M
ARCY
D
ERMANSKY
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.

Five French Films from Which I Have Found Inspiration

Guillaume Canet’s
Tell No One
(2006)


Arnaud Desplechin’s
Kings and Queen
(2004)


Benoît Jacquot’s
À Tout de Suite
(2004)


Agnès Jaoui’s
Look At Me
(2004)


François Truffaut’s
Stolen Kisses
(1968)