She gently pulled Kersti from her daughter’s bedside and curtly asked her to leave. “It’s too much for her,” she said.
Kersti was hurt, but frankly a bit relieved. She hated seeing Cressida like that. And yet as she was leaving, something gnawed at her. She wondered why Cressida was crying. Was it a matter of not wanting to be seen that way, or because Kersti was such an unexpected reminder of everything she’d lost and of whom she’d once been? Maybe Cressida was perfectly aware she had no more freedom or potential; maybe it wasn’t beyond the scope of her reasoning at all.
The possibility of that gave Kersti a chill.
A few years later, Kersti returned to Boston on Cressida’s twenty-eighth birthday, exactly one decade after her accident. She had a book signing at Trident Bookstore and decided to stop in. Deirdre told her that Cressida had edema and wasn’t allowed visitors. Kersti didn’t believe her, but she left flowers and hasn’t been back since.
“Hi, Cress,” Kersti says, stepping into the room. The Price Is Right is on. Cressida is staring at the television. Her head turns in Kersti’s direction and Laylay—who must be her nurse—moves closer, on standby.
“How are you?” Kersti asks her, approaching the bed.
There’s a flash of recognition; a spark of something.
“Answer her, Cressida,” Laylay says brusquely.
Cressida manages to utter something—“hi” or “fine.”
“Wow, you’re talking,” Kersti says, in a tone much like one she would use with a toddler. She reaches for Cressida’s hand and is surprised when Cressida squeezes back.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in so long,” Kersti says. “I would have come back much sooner, I just wasn’t sure—”
Up close, Cressida is still so lovely. She barely looks older than she was when she fell, as though the accident froze her in time, stopping all growth and preserving her like a doll in a glass case. “You look amazing,” Kersti whispers.
“Deirdre insists,” Laylay chimes in. “She wants her to be pretty every day.”
Indeed, Cressida’s nails are beautifully manicured, her skin supple and moisturized, her teeth—which Kersti notices when Laylay puts a water bottle to her lips—sparkling white. She’s even wearing jewelry.
Still, it’s hard to see her like this. She was the smartest person Kersti ever knew. After a while, Kersti says, “Lille died.”
Tears instantly spring to Cressida’s eyes. She remembers.
Kersti is excited and wants to ask if she remembers what happened to her the night she fell. If Cressida remembers Lille, maybe enough bits and pieces have come back to her over the years. How can anyone really know what’s going on in her brain?
But Laylay is hovering around them, policing the reunion, and Kersti doesn’t want to upset either of them and risk being banished again.
Moments later, she hears Deirdre’s crisp British accent behind her. “Kersti?”
Kersti lets go of Cressida’s hand and spins around to find Deirdre standing in the doorway. “You look well,” she says, looking Kersti up and down. “And you seem to be doing well, too. I read your last book.”
She doesn’t mention if she liked it or not. Who could blame her for her disdain? Her daughter’s life was ruined at eighteen years old. The last two decades have taken their toll on Deirdre’s frail beauty; though it would be more accurate to say she’s the one who’s done the damage—by way of Botox, fillers, facelifts, collagen, and chemical peels to the point of disfigurement.
“Cressida has improved,” Kersti says.
“Relative to what?” Deirdre responds.
“The last time I was here.”
Deirdre doesn’t agree or disagree. Kersti steps away from Cressida’s bedside and says, “Can I talk to you outside?”
They walk into the hallway and Deirdre fixes her frozen marionette eyes on Kersti.
“Lille Robertson died,” Kersti tells her.
“How sad. She was so young.”
“Breast cancer.”
Deirdre lets out a muffled oh no and shakes her head. “Cressida was very fond of Lille.”
“She wrote me a letter before she died,” Kersti says. “Mostly about Cressida.”
“What about her?”
“Lille didn’t think she fell by accident.”
“What did she think?”
“I’m not sure. She didn’t finish the letter.”
“The school confirmed what happened to Cressida,” Deirdre says, her mouth tightening. “Why wouldn’t Lille believe the official party line?”
“Do you think it was a party line?”
Deirdre sighs, wringing her hands nervously as though she’s trying to pump the circulation back into them.
“Lille was dying when she wrote me,” Kersti perseveres. “I think she knew something. I get the feeling she needed to unburden herself—”
“Or maybe she was just speculating. The mind goes at the end—”
“I don’t think so,” Kersti says, challenging her. “And I don’t think you really do, either.”
Deirdre doesn’t respond at first. She just stands there contemplating something, her paper-thin skin pulled back so tautly over her cheekbones there’s no way to guess at what she’s feeling. Finally, she turns and walks down the hallway to the living room, her heels click-clicking on the swirling black and white marble. Kersti follows her.
“There’s something I never told you,” she says.
Kersti’s heart accelerates.
“There was a note,” Deirdre confides, her voice a whisper. “A suicide note.”
Chapter 10
LAUSANNE—November 1995
On Saturday morning, Kersti spends the entire two-hour study hall choosing something to wear. Cressida can’t help her with an outfit because she’s at Model United Nations practice again; they’re going to The Hague at the end of November, so she’s never around. Kersti will be happy when it’s over.
Lunch is the usual roast chicken and french fries, but Kersti saves her appetite for beer fondue. When the bell rings and they’re released from school, all the boarders spill out the front door, wild with their freedom. Kersti hangs back for a few minutes, not wanting Magnus to think she’s overly anxious, and then saunters out to find him leaning against his uncle’s Mercedes, wearing a leather jacket over a Nirvana T-shirt. Kersti tries not to look at him as she slides into the passenger seat. She doesn’t want him to see how red her face feels or how hard it is for her not to smile.
They drive through the countryside outside Lausanne, neither of them saying much. Kersti is looking out her open window, still awed by the scenery. In the autumn sunlight, the grass shines like emeralds against a backdrop of flaming red and orange trees. Beyond the hills, which are patched with cobblestone villages and red-roofed farmhouses, the jagged Alps rise up to meet the white sky, taking her breath away.
“Does it still impress you?” she asks Magnus, turning to face him for the first time since they left the Lycée.
“What?”
“This countryside, the Alps, Lake Geneva . . .”
He shrugs.
“How can it not?” she asks, incredulous.