Chapter Text
Marianne gets across to the island by ferry, and easily picks her aunt’s face out of the crowd, despite not having seen her since she was nine. Aunt Pauline hasn’t changed much since then, save for a few grey hairs and a new pair of glasses.
“Oh, Marianne!” she thrills, pulling her niece in for a messy hug. “It’s been too long! Let me see you…”
She pulls out of the hug and holds Marianne at arm’s length, observing her carefully all over the face. Already, Marianne’s stomach takes a dive, and she settles in for teary eyes and those words that have grown all too familiar: “You look just like your father.”
To her immense relief, Pauline only smiles and takes a step back. “You’ve grown so much. And you’re beautiful, of course! The photos your maman sent over the years don’t do you justice.”
“The camera on her phone is awful,” Marianne agrees somewhat shyly, and picks up her bags as she is guided to the car.
--
They arrive at the house rather quickly, and Marianne puts her things in the spare room, which is on the second floor. It’s small and bare with the bed made up. But what draws Marianne’s attention is the balcony. As if by instinct, she opens the doors and walks out onto it. It’s not very high off the ground and seems a little unnecessary and clunky. But she knows she’ll be using it as much as possible during her stay. She stands and looks over the village which is a little gloomy-looking, even against the picturesque backdrop. There is a grassy field that stretches out further away, and beneath the rocky cliffs is a beach.
A beach. Marianne feels some tugging in her chest, which excites her immensely. Is that a scrap of inspiration or want? She realises that she must go there immediately.
She runs downstairs and asks Pauline if it’s too soon to go exploring.
“Where are you thinking?” Pauline asks from the living room, where she sits with a book in her lap, round glasses having slid down her nose.
“The beach. I’d like to do some drawing down there.”
Marianne’s aunt glances at the clock on the wall. “That’s fine. Could you be back in an hour and a half? I’m going to start making dinner.”
“Of course.”
With a flash of dark eyes, Pauline asks a question in the same casual tone of voice. “You’re still drawing?”
Marianne stills, suddenly aware of the weight of the sketchpad she holds in her hand. “Yes.”
“Do you paint, too?”
“Yeah.”
Pauline smiles, though her eyes reveal no joy. “You look so afraid. Don’t worry, I won’t interrogate you any further. Go and explore.”
Marianne gratefully takes the opportunity and exits.
--
Marianne expects that after she walks for some time, there will be other people on the beach. But it seems entirely deserted. If she only faced forward and didn’t turn around, this island could be entirely rural. Maybe it’s empty because of the overcast weather. Or maybe if someone lives in a seaside town all their life, the beach becomes boring. Though Marianne can’t imagine that ever happening. She could watch the waves crash again and again, and it would excite her just the same each time.
Eventually she settles below the cliffs and puts down her shoes (she had taken them off before as to not let them fill with sand). Marianne pulls out her sketchbook and flicks past all the pages full of unfinished drawings and scribbles. Seeing her previous failed attempts disheartens her, so she quickly flicks past them. But when the blank page reveals itself she finds that she can muster no kind of inspiration or urge. That tugging feeling she felt on the balcony is long since lost. Even with the strikingly unreal surroundings, the pencil remains still in her hand.
Marianne tries to force herself into old habits that she knows so well and used to enjoy. She gently sketches an approaching wave, which was clearly a mistake, as it soon returns to the ocean.
“What was I expecting,” Marianne mumbles to herself, not a question. She wishes she had brought an eraser.
Next, she tries to focus on the sky and the clouds, but when they too appear uninteresting to her eye, she faces the rocks. And suddenly they hold no artistic interest to Marianne at all. The beauty is spoiled as soon as she thinks of them in terms of artwork.
Marianne presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth and shuts the sketchbook. She balances it on top of her lace-up shoes, then curls her toes into the sand. Something buzzes in her head. Like a drill.
Marianne stands up, though she doesn’t know what propels her to do so, and walks forward to the sea. The water is grey and brown against the wet sand, and the foam fizzles white around her pale feet. From the balcony at her aunt’s house it all looked so blue. Maybe, Marianne thinks, I should’ve stayed there to draw it.
Marianne looks up. And sees somebody in the water.
Maybe she didn’t first see them because of just how far out to sea they are. So far out that it’s difficult to see anything defining, other than wet hair and arms flailing about.
After a moment, something strikes Marianne in the throat. Flailing. Flailing can’t be good. She looks around, but sees no sign of a lifeguard or anybody at all, and then turns back to the sea just in time to watch the head and arms go under.
Marianne waits. But they don’t come back up.
She is gripped by sudden, blind fear. Without thinking at all Marianne rushes into the water, crying out.
“I’M COMING!” she yells, and begins to shout again but is stifled by a splash of cold water around the ankles. Though soon, Marianne swallows and calls again: “I’M COMING!”
Does shouting even matter? She still can’t see the person. Is it too late? Marianne pushes against the coming waves, which are so shockingly cold that each one elicits a sort of whimper from her. But she keeps running, even as the water reaches her thighs, then her hips, and it becomes much more like wading.
Soon, Marianne realises that she can’t really run in the ocean. And so, with a gulp of seaside air, she throws herself into the water, and after suppressing a shriek, begins to swim. Her clothes make it difficult to move, especially when pulling her arms up. In the wet, chattery blur of it all, Marianne can’t really remember how to swim well, despite having taken years of lessons as a child. She can only think of the flailing arms out at sea, and the totally desolate beach all around.
A wave crashes just as Marianne comes up for air, and saltwater goes down her throat. She starts to cough and instantly thinks: fucking hell, now they’re just gonna find two drowned people instead of one. Great life choices, Marianne. Still, she attempts to keep swimming with her head above the water, though soon the strokes are more like desperate thrashing, and Marianne’s swimming is more like drowning.
Just as more water finds its way down her throat, a hand closes around Marianne’s wrist.
Her ears are clogged with water, but as the grip starts to pull her up, an irritated tone bleeds in, between ripples.
“…get up. Merde, get up!”
Marianne wonders, fleetingly, if that’s a god speaking to her. She hasn’t believed in god for about seven years, but she supposes that if there is one, she might sound a little like that. And have a grip as insistent as the one clutching to her wrist. Marianne tries to do as it says, and takes a moment to focus and stop scrambling. Rather easily, her toes kick at sand under the water, and she pulls her face from the ocean, blinking desperately and still coughing. Once Marianne’s shoulders come up, the hand lets go of her wrist.
Marianne blinks and gasps as saltwater runs from her eyes like she’s crying. She tries to dry her face with the back of her hand or her sleeve, but it only worsens the problem. Marianne is completely soaked. Eventually, she manages to regain some semblance of vision and sees the grey water up to her collarbones, and the shore rather far out. Before her, also submerged in the ocean, is not god. Instead, a girl Marianne’s age with narrowed eyes the colour of the sky.
She’s staring, completely alarmed. As soon as Marianne starts to think properly again, she realises that this girl was the drowning person. Who now doesn’t seem to be drowning at all, and all along was stood in shallow water.
After a long, judging glare, the girl turns away and begins to slowly wade her way towards shore. After a gawping moment, Marianne starts to follow her, still shaky and freezing.
“Hey!” she calls, after coughing up some more seawater and trying not to slip on the ocean floor.
The girl doesn’t respond. Now that the sea is relenting, Marianne sees the black swimsuit sticking to her skin, along with wet strands of dark blonde hair.
Marianne doesn’t shout after her again, mostly because, as she climbs out from the waves the cold starts to set deep in her bones. She begins to chatter, even with the wet clothes sticking to her skin. Marianne hugs herself and digs her chin into her neck. Once she sluggishly arrives ashore, the girl whips around and fixes her with a bold, furrowed stare. “What were you doing? You looked mad.”
Maybe later, when Marianne is not frozen, she’ll feel completely mortified by this. But now, as the sand sticks to her wet feet, she can only think to chatter out a response. “I thought you were drowning.”
The girl blinks. Once, twice. “I was swimming.”
“Were you?” Marianne asks without thinking. The water is still clinging to her face and dripping from strands of loose hair.
“Yes,” responds the girl indignantly. She stands in a very poised manner, and despite shivering, her words don’t chatter when she speaks. “Who are you to judge? I had to save you, in the end.”
Marianne doesn’t respond to that. The girl looks her over and inhales through her nose.
“Stay here,” she orders, and walks away. Marianne thinks for a moment that she’s just going to leave, but then the girl stops and crouches down behind a rock. As if by magic, she pulls out a pair of towels. She drapes one over her own shoulders, and then brings the other over. “Here." She hands it to Marianne.
It’s a deep brown colour. Marianne hugs herself with it. “Thank you,” she says when she manages to settle her chattering teeth.
Marianne thinks, initially, that the girl will wait quietly until Marianne is a little drier, take the towel back and leave. But she doesn’t. After a strange sort of quiet passes between them, the girl asks: “Why are you here?”
After quickly swiping at her face to dry it with the towel, Marianne gives an answer. “I was drawing.”
The girl shakes her head. “No, I mean why are you on the island? You’re not from here.”
Marianne moves around slightly, uncomfortable with the way the sand is sticking to her damp feet and ankles. “I’m staying here with my aunt for a few weeks.”
“Who’s your aunt?”
“Pauline Chevalier.”
“Ah, oui,” the girl nods, satisfied. She still doesn’t move away.
Marianne takes a chance. “Why did you look like you were drowning?”
The girl’s eyes narrow for a moment, and Marianne wonders if she’ll march off. Miraculously, she doesn’t. “I’m trying to learn how to swim before summer ends. I'm moving to Milan.”
“Ah,” Marianne nods, “will there be a beach there too?”
“I don’t know,” the girl admits, pulling the corners of the towel across her chest. “I just wanted to learn because I never have.”
Marianne looks at her some more and feels suddenly compelled. “I’m Marianne.”
She doesn’t break the gaze. “Héloïse.”
Marianne nods. “I would shake your hand, but I think it would be clammy.”
Héloïse nods in return. A pair of shaking heads. “That seems wise. Keep the towel.”
And like that, Héloïse turns around and walks away, grabbing some things from behind the same rock before walking the opposite direction. Marianne is nearly compelled to stand there and watch her go. But a greater part of her wants to get back to Pauline and dry herself off properly.
Still. Marianne pictures Héloïse’s furrowed brow and soaked face as she shivers her way back to the house.