“And then someone wrote a fake suicide note for no apparent reason? Or wait, maybe she wrote it and then accidentally fell. What a coincidence!”
“Okay, so maybe she jumped. Maybe she was fooling us all and she did want to die. She hated her parents; she grew up in a boarding school. Wouldn’t be the first time someone who seemed to have it all was really miserable inside. My point is, Kuusk, I don’t think you’re ever going to know the truth. Too much time has passed.”
“Mrs. Fithern was there,” she says, ignoring him. “She was the one on duty. She must know something. Do you think they even questioned her? Or anyone?”
“No. I’m pretty sure they just cleaned up the whole mess and swept it under the rug.”
“I’d like to speak to her.”
“So now you’re going to Europe?” he says, teasing her. “She’ll never speak to you.”
“I’m good at research. I can find things out.”
“Is that what this is about? Research for your next novel?”
“Maybe,” she says, already feeling excited about the possibility.
The bill comes and this time Kersti insists on paying half. “It was good to see you,” she tells him, not quite sure she means it. She can’t say anything has been resolved for her as far as Magnus is concerned, or that there’s been any diminishment of that baked-on, twenty-year-old hurt. What does closure feel like, anyway?
“Do you want to come back to my place?” he asks her, smiling that cocky grin that used to make her melt inside. Nothing’s changed. She despises his arrogance and is fiercely attracted to him at the same time.
“You never told me why you went to Huber House that night,” she says. “Why did you want to see her after she broke up with you?”
“Cressida wasn’t at Huber when I got there,” he says. “She hadn’t come back.”
“Why did you go to her dorm then, if you knew she wasn’t there?”
“This is starting to feel like an interrogation.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I’m curious. I’ve wanted to ask you these questions since the night it happened.”
“I went to talk to the house mother on duty,” he says.
“To tell her what?”
“Where Cressida was.”
Chapter 18
LAUSANNE—February 1997
It’s Saturday morning study hall. Kersti is still lying in bed, rereading the letter from her mother.
Dad wasn’t able to find cheap flights. He tried right up till the last possible minute. We won’t make it for Parents Weekend. Sorry to disappoint you.
Kersti crumples the letter and tosses it at the garbage can. It misses, but she leaves there, not caring.
“What’s wrong?” Cressida asks, looking up from her book. She’s reading Gatsby again.
“My family’s not coming again this year.”
“They’re telling you the week before?” Cressida says. “I thought it was all booked. You told me it was for sure this year.”
“It was supposed to be,” Kersti says, embarrassed.
That’s what they promised her over the holidays. It was supposed to be her Christmas present from them. She opened up her card and inside it said: Four plane tickets from Toronto to Geneva in February! Love, Mom, Dad, Tuule & Maaja.
Her parents and two of her sisters were going to fly over for five days and let Kersti show them around. Kersti was thrilled. She even brought the card back to school with her, hung it on her wall, and was secretly counting down to Parents Weekend.
“Why aren’t they coming?” Cressida asks her.
“They can’t afford it.”
“I’m sorry, Kerst.”
“Whatever,” she mutters, but hot tears are already sliding down her face. “They just don’t want to come.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“They don’t give a shit about me,” Kersti says. “Let’s go down for lunch. I’m hungry.”
“Let’s skip it and go to McDonald’s.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“So?”
“We can’t just not show up for lunch.”
“Of course we can,” Cressida says. “Hamidou’s in Bern and Ms. Bowell is on duty.”
Ms. Bowell is basically senile. Aside from having a name that demands ridicule, she’s also really old—at least in her eighties—both of which render her utterly ineffectual as a teacher.
“We’re free,” Cressida says, throwing on a pair of Uggs with her sweatpants. “Let’s go.”
Kersti grabs her ski jacket and tuque and they set off, deciding to brave the cold and walk all the way down to the Gare. They link arms and sing most of the way down.
“What if God was one of us?” Cressida bellows, deliberately singing off key.
“If God had a face,” Kersti chimes in, already feeling better, “what would it look like?”
“Monsieur Bueche,” Cressida returns.
The following Saturday morning, Cressida charges into Kersti’s room, flushed and breathless. “You’re still in pajamas?” she says.
“I told you I’m not going with you and your parents.”
“Get dressed and come down,” Cressida says. “You at least have to say hello to Armand and Deirdre.”
“No I don’t. I’m staying here all weekend.”
“Stop sulking and come and say hi to my parents,” Cressida says, starting to sound annoyed.
“It’s humiliating.”
“Stop thinking about yourself,” she scolds, which Kersti finds both hilarious and ironic coming from Cressida. “They’ll be insulted if you don’t make an appearance.”
Kersti reluctantly rolls out of bed and puts a cardigan over her pajamas. She slides her feet into her fur-lined moccasins and follows Cressida out into the hall. “I know they’re going to try to convince me to spend the day with you guys,” Kersti says. “And I’m telling you now, I’m not.”
“Fine.”
They head downstairs, Kersti shuffling her feet to annoy Cressida.
“You could have brushed your teeth,” Cressida mutters.
When they reach the main floor, Kersti looks around. Other parents are showing up to collect their daughters—it’s the usual flurry of hugging and crying—but no Deirdre or Armand.
“They’re in the smoking lounge,” Cressida says.
Kersti rolls her eyes and follows her there but when she steps inside the first person she sees is her father, filling most of the small room with his substantial height and girth. He pulls her into his arms and squeezes her tight against his belly before releasing her. Anni pops out from behind him and then her sisters, Maaja and Tuule, rush over to her with outstretched arms. Kersti is flabbergasted.
“Was that letter your idea of a joke?” she says to her mother. “Were you planning on coming the whole time?”
“Not exactly,” Anni says, looking over at Cressida.
“I don’t understand. Why did you tell me you weren’t coming?”
“We weren’t,” Paavo says, his deep voice reverberating off the walls.
“We couldn’t afford anything,” Anni tells her. “We tried, but even one flight with our best rate through the agency was too much for us right now.”
“It hasn’t been a good year,” Paavo mutters.
“Cressida called us and told us how upset you were,” Tuule explains.