At home, Caitlin never asked for her mother. Ellen could work a fourteen-hour day and no one would miss her. Caitlin was always happy to be with Marie, happy to spend their days together. Sometimes, Caitlin was already asleep when Ellen came home from work.
“Do you want me to read to you?”
Marie, the efficient and capable babysitter, pulled out the book about a lost teddy bear from her bag beneath the seat and began to read to Caitlin, while Benoît remained in the aisle with his deranged French actress. Marie read to Caitlin as Benoît sat next to Lili Gaudet in the row behind them. While Caitlin turned the page, Marie craned her neck to get a glimpse of the French actress, talking to Benoît in rapid French, holding his hand.
He had left his wife, he had left his home. For her. For Marie. She had saved him from drudgery and dominion. But there he was, sitting with another woman, another woman who kissed him on the mouth, burst into tears, and talked of his grandmother. It was all wrong. The French actress was pretty enough; her hair was blond and long, she wore a black T-shirt that clung to her breasts, but her head was enormous compared to the rest of her body. Her dark eyes were almost ferretlike, darting. She was skinny, too skinny. She leaned her head against Benoît’s shoulder.
Benoît looked at Marie through the crack in the seats, attempting to nod reassuringly, at the same moment the airline attendant brought over two glasses of champagne. Marie was not reassured. It was too soon for Marie to be angry with Benoît. Too early to begin with regrets and recriminations.
Marie did not believe in regret. It was not, for instance, her fault that Juan José had chosen to kill himself. She could not have known that would happen when he appeared at her doorstep. Marie looked away from Benoît, from his French actress. She could hear their glasses clink together, the French actress laughing, a sound that was just as repellent as the French actress’s crying outburst. Marie picked up Caitlin’s hand and pretended to bite it.
“I am eating your hand,” Marie said. “I am eating it up. Yummy, yummy hands.”
Caitlin had such perfect little hands, tiny chubby fingers.
“Don’t,” Caitlin said, laughing. “Don’t. Stop. Don’t.”
“Well,” Marie said. “What do we do?”
“Let’s watch the TV,” Caitlin said.
Marie nodded, reassured. Caitlin still knew how to behave. Marie put the headset on Caitlin’s little head; she found French cartoons playing on the built-in screen on the seat in front of them. A black cat said: “Ooh la la.”
“Ooh la la la la,” Caitlin said. “La la la.”
“Ooh ooh ooh,” Marie said.
“La la la.”
It was not necessary to speak French to enjoy the French cartoon about the black cat. Caitlin did not want her mommy; she had only needed to establish her mother’s location. Elmo was in the suitcase. Mommy was at the office. Caitlin didn’t even need Benoît. Only Marie. Marie found a bag of cheddar cheese goldfish crackers she’d packed in the carry-on bag, and they ate them happily, watching the television. Marie tried not to think longingly of the flat-screen TV in Ellen’s living room, the comfortable leather couch where she had watched so many bad TV movies. The routine she and Caitlin had painstakingly perfected, the life Marie had left behind.
Marie had been happy in Ellen’s home.
The French actress looked fragile. She looked like she relied on men, needed a man to help her breathe. Any second now, she’d lower her head, currently on Benoît’s shoulder, down to his lap.
“Don’t,” she said to Caitlin, “be like that. Ever.”
After they landed, Benoît and the French actress talked all the way through the airport and then through customs, where Marie and Caitlin had to stand in a separate line for foreigners. The French actress and Benoît kept on talking at the baggage claim while Marie scrambled for all of the ridiculous bags. They came in, one by one: the four suitcases, then the stroller, and, finally, Marie’s backpack.
“That’s everything,” Marie told Benoît.
Marie loaded the bags onto a cart while Benoît talked to the French actress.
“Push this,” she told Benoît, and he did.
Marie held Caitlin’s hand. She nodded to the French actress, but that was all. The flight was over and it was time to say good-bye. But when the moment arrived, when Benoît and Marie and Caitlin were supposed to get into a French taxicab and start their life together in Paris, France, Marie found themselves still attached to Lili Gaudet, who ushered them out of the airport and toward a black car that was waiting.
“You will stay with me,” she explained to Marie. “I have plenty of room. You’ll be very comfortable. I have many rooms.” She looked at Caitlin. “I have toys for you. Beautiful dolls.”
Marie looked at Benoît. She had never thought to ask him where they would go once they were in Paris. She had thought they would talk about this, their plans, on the airplane, but instead he had gone off with the French actress. Marie assumed he had some sort of plan. It was his country.
“This is good,” Benoît assured Marie. “It’s lucky that we found Lili. Ellen will not be able to find us in her apartment.”
“Ta femme?” Lili asked. “Ellen?”
“Mommy?” Caitlin said. “Where is Mommy?”
Marie wished Caitlin would stop talking about Ellen.
“He did not invite me to the wedding,” Lili said. Lili was gripping the bottom of Benoît’s sweater, like a child.
“I was in prison,” Marie said.
Lili looked confused, but she didn’t respond. Marie understood what she was doing. The French actress would treat Marie as if she was the babysitter. The servant. As if she did not exist.
“She already knows we are in France,” Benoît told Marie.
“How?” Marie asked. “How does she know?”
“The credit card. The plane tickets.”
Marie nodded. They had thought nothing through. Eluding Ellen would be harder than the police. Caitlin was off her nap schedule. There would be jet lag to contend with.
“You haven’t talked to Ellen?” Marie said. “Have you?”
Marie did not see how he could have, since he had spent every single second with the French actress, but she also couldn’t be sure.
Benoît shook his head. “Just the messages.”
“Wishing me a life in prison.”
“If I pay for a hotel on her credit card, she will know where to look.”
“You don’t have a credit card in your own name?”
“Marie,” he said, irritated.
“I live in the best arrondissement in Paris,” the French actress said, speaking loudly as if that would improve her English. “You can walk everywhere. The best restaurants, the nicest gardens, the best museums. Shopping. Do you know Paris?” Lili Gaudet did not wait for Marie’s answer. “It is a beautiful city. The most beautiful in the world. I used to tell Benoît I could not imagine him anywhere else.”
“That’s what his sister told him,” Marie said.
Benoît had begun to load all the luggage into the trunk of the black car, helping the driver, which made it impossible for him to contribute to the conversation and also made the decision to go to Lili Gaudet’s apartment final. Four bags and a stroller.
“Car seat,” Caitlin said, when Marie tried to put her in the car.
They’d packed everything else, but not the car seat.
Marie never had to worry about these details before. Caitlin had not demanded a car seat the day before, when they took a taxi to the zoo. Marie looked at Lili Gaudet, and her mind flashed back to the prison, the intense heat of the laundry room, the simple monotony of folding clothes. There were no serious mistakes to make in prison. There was only work to do, sheets and towels and uniforms to clean, and then more laundry, a never-ending supply, until her body ached with exhaustion. Marie closed her eyes, just for a second, and she breathed in deep. The Paris air was redolent with exhaust fumes.
“A seat belt is good, too,
” Marie told Caitlin.
“No,” Caitlin said. “Car seat.”
“You’ll be fine, Kit Kat. I’ll just strap you in. You’ll see.”
“She misses her mother, no?” Lili said.
Marie understood that Lili was trying to undercut Marie’s authority. They were not and would never be friends. Marie went to the trunk, where Benoît was still busy with the bags, and she picked a suitcase at random. She opened it and found Caitlin’s Elmo.
“C’est Elmo,” Lili said. “We have him here, too, in France.”
Marie handed the red stuffed doll to Caitlin.
“Elmo,” Caitlin said, hugging the red doll to her chest. Marie buckled Caitlin’s seat belt and sat down next to Caitlin in the backseat, her knees bent to her chest, her feet up on the bump, and Lili sat down next to her. She was wearing a flowery perfume that Marie did not like.
“You will love my apartment,” she said.
Benoît was in front, next to the driver. Marie rolled down the window on Lili’s side, and then they were off.
This is Paris, Marie thought, staring at the congested highway. She closed her eyes, and she was transported back, again, to the prison laundry, standing on the opposite end of a bedsheet from Ruby Hart, Ruby with her broad cheeks, her thin lips, her orange uniform; Ruby taking hold of the end of the sheet as Marie brought the other end to her, halving the sheet, and taking the other end from Marie’s hand, and then they folded it in half again, and then again, until it was a small rectangle, and Ruby would fold one last time while Marie went to the stack to get the next sheet, for them to begin again. Sheet after sheet after sheet.
The walls of Lili Gaudet’s apartment were lined with books. Apparently, she was a smart actress. Marie looked for a copy of Virginie at Sea and she found it, a French edition she had never seen before, next to a collection of poetry by Nathalie Doniel.
Marie took the slim paperback from the shelf. She glanced through it quickly; the poems were written in French. Marie turned to the back page for the author photo and she blinked. She wondered, for a moment, if she was looking at a picture of herself. It was true. Marie looked like Benoît Doniel’s dead sister.
Still holding the poems, Marie reached for Virginie at Sea. Unlike Marie’s edition, which had a black-and-white drawing of a girl and a sea lion on the cover, Lili’s book had a photograph of a desolate beach, nothing more. The title in small black letters was different, too. Virginie à la mer. Marie opened the book, surprised again, and somehow disturbed, to see that this, too, was written in French.
On the shelf was also a framed photo, a black-and-white print of Lili Gaudet and Benoît and Nathalie, the dead sister who was not yet dead. It had been taken when they were teenagers. The three of them were all dressed alike in blue jeans and white button-down shirts, their expressions ridiculously serious, staring into the camera.
Marie could not look away.
Benoît had never before mentioned the French actress, but they had a history, tied up with the dead sister, who Benoît seemed to idolize in death the way Marie remembered Juan José. Marie was stunned by her resemblance to the dead sister. The thick dark hair and the dark eyes. Even the amount of space between their dark eyes. The petulant stare. The substantial chest. Nathalie’s arms were crossed, as if to cover her cleavage. Marie used to do that, too, when she was a teenager. Marie was glad to be thirty years old and in command of her chest.
Marie felt more secure, knowing how much she looked like Nathalie. This man, this French writer, he was not an accident. He was not a passing fancy, a way to get back at Ellen for the inequities of her childhood. Marie was not just another woman in a long list of women. She was a reincarnation of Benoît’s dead sister. They were meant for each other. “Destiny,” that was the word that came into Marie’s mind.
Marie worried she was neglecting Caitlin, but she could hear Benoît and Lili, talking, getting settled into the apartment, taking Caitlin with them on their tour; Marie could hear drinks being poured, the infernal cheeks being kissed again, that horrible sound. She could not stop staring at the photo. At the much younger Benoît. Years younger than even his author photo. Decidedly less handsome. Awkward. His hair was short, too short. He wore a narrow necktie, a fitted jacket, cuff links. He wore a dangling earring in his right ear. His face was wide open, without secrets. He had no American wife. No dead sister. No knowledge of what was to come.
Lili walked over to Marie. She took the books out of Marie’s hands and returned them to the shelf. “I love that photo,” she said. “I also loved Nathalie. Very much. She was my best friend. Both of them, Nathalie and Benoît. My best friends in the whole world, though Benoît, he was more than that. Comprends? He was my very first. You don’t forget your first love. Or love again like that. Comprends?”
Marie stared at Lili, keeping her face blank. She did not want to be hearing this information. It was inappropriate.
“I wanted to kill him,” Lili pointed at Benoît, “when he left for America. He just disappeared. Gone. No good-bye. His grandmother tells me that he has married an American girl, but won’t give me his address, his telephone number. I begged her but she would not. She never liked me. First I lose Nathalie and then him.”
She smiled at Marie, that insane, enormous, deranged toothy smile. Since entering the apartment, she had somehow lost the clingy black T-shirt and was down to a black camisole. “Now he is back.”
She gestured toward Benoît, who stood hesitant in the doorway; he crouched down to Caitlin’s level, holding her hand.
Lili turned back to Marie, waiting for her to respond. Marie had nothing to say. She returned Lili’s gaze, perfectly prepared to outlast her.
“I don’t know what to think of this,” Lili said. “I am in, how do you say, shock.”
Marie searched for Benoît’s eyes, but he did not rescue her from his French actress. Instead, he led Caitlin to the bathroom and closed the door. Marie hoped he would change Caitlin’s diaper. Marie supposed she couldn’t fault Benoît for that. She would need help with Caitlin. Soon Caitlin was supposed to start potty training. Ellen had recently informed Marie that this next developmental stage was imminent; she had given Marie all sorts of child development books to read. Marie had never bothered, because Caitlin hadn’t been her baby. Marie stared at the closed door of the bathroom, willing them to come back.
Lili snapped her fingers.
“It’s amazing, no? That we are all on the same airplane. This is, how do you say, fate? Yes, fate. He has a child. She must look like the wife? Benoît’s wife. Elle est très jolie?”
Marie shook her head.
“She looks like herself. Like Caitlin.”
“Remind me to speak always in English,” Lili said. “Okay? You remind me. Comprends? You understand?”
“I understand.”
“Who are you?” Lili asked. “If you are not the wife? Are you the girlfriend?”
“Yes,” Marie said.
“Vraiment? For how long?” Lili asked.
Marie did not answer.
“For how long have you been his girlfriend?”
Again, Marie did not answer.
“You look like his sister,” Lili said.
Marie nodded.
“That must be what he sees in you.”
Marie would not answer that, either.
“But you are not as beautiful as Nathalie. He might be confused. They did not have parents, you know?”
Somehow, Marie did not know this. But it was a lie, anyway, what the French actress was telling her. Everyone had parents. They might die or disappoint you, but you could not be born without them.
“This whole day,” Lili said, “has been a shock. If I seem rude. Comprends?”
“I understand,” Marie said. “I am his girlfriend. Do you understand?”
The word sounded inadequate next to Lili Gaudet’s black camisole. Not that the French actress had any cleavage. What she had, though, was history. He had returned her kiss on the
airplane. Marie had seen that.
Benoît and Caitlin returned from the bathroom. Caitlin ran over to Marie and wrapped herself around her leg.
“I can’t believe you didn’t come see me at the festival,” Lili said to Benoît. “I was written about in the newspapers. I not only acted, I wrote the screenplay. The Americans, they are horrible, the audiences. They walked out in the middle. They ate hot dogs. You could have called me, Benoît. All this time, you could have called me. I have not moved. My telephone number has not changed.”
Benoît shrugged.
“I had to get away,” he said.
It had never once occurred to Marie that Benoît Doniel knew other people in the world outside of herself and Caitlin.
“Have you seen my movies?” Lili asked him.
Benoît shrugged again. “Oh, Lili.”
“You haven’t seen any of my movies? I have been in many movies. I always thought, Benoît, Benoît will see me in this film, and he will call me.”
“I haven’t seen them.”
“Have you?” she asked Marie.
“I think I told you. I have been in jail,” Marie said. “They didn’t show French films.”
“They do have books,” Benoît quipped.
Marie looked at Benoît and smiled.
“I am disgusted by you,” Lili said to Benoît. “Comprends?”
Benoît nodded. He sat down on Lili’s sofa, a leather sofa much like Ellen’s. He lit a cigarette and put his feet on the coffee table. This was a room he seemed to know and know well. He was unnervingly comfortable.
“You have read his book?” Lili asked Marie.
Again, Marie did not answer Lili’s question. She did not care if she seemed stupid. She refused to compete. She would not acknowledge this competition. She had already won. Ellen had come home from work to an empty apartment.
“She did,” Benoît said. “She read it in the American prison. I don’t want to talk about my book.”
“Did you love it?” the French actress said. “Why were you in jail? How long have you been Benoît’s girlfriend? Do you really believe he loves you? Do you? He only loves himself. He is the most selfish bastard on the planet. He doesn’t see my movies. I have won two César Awards since he left me. I am famous. He does not love you.”
Bad Marie Page 5
