Among the other paraphernalia is an old menu from 1918, featuring Zürcher Geschnetzeltes and R?sti for supper; a poster for the first Festival de la Cité, June 28–29, 1968; the very first school yearbook from 1916–17. Beneath the glass display, there’s a gleaming mahogany bookcase lined with all the other yearbooks from 1918 to 1997.
Cressida kneels down, the slit of her skirt opening and revealing the full expanse of her lovely white leg. She runs her finger over the identical yellow spines of the yearbooks, tracing the gold writing as though she’s reading braille.
Her finger stops at 1973–74 and she pulls it out of its tight slot. She stands up and flips through the yearbook. Kersti knows exactly what she’s looking for. “Why are you so interested in those girls who got expelled?”
“I’m curious.”
“About what?”
“What they did.”
“Why?”
“No one gets expelled here,” she says, slipping the yearbook under her sweater.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Let’s go,” Cressida whispers, hugging the yearbook against her body.
Kersti follows Cressida out of the library and they run all the way back to Huber House, exploding into a peal of laughter as they reach her room. When the door closes behind them, Cressida lifts her sweater and the yearbook falls out. They sit on the floor, breathless and giddy from having stolen it. Cressida starts to look through it page by page, as though she’s looking for the clue to a mystery. Maybe she is.
The mildew smell makes Kersti queasy. She’s never liked the smell of old books. It reminds her too much of her parents’ house—damp and neglected. Cressida studies the grad portraits, where the seniors are posed with their best friends. The students of that era all looks the same—long straight hippie hair parted down the middle and hanging in their faces like nuns’ head coverings.
“Here they are,” she says, pointing to a photograph of three attractive girls sitting side by side, arms linked. Their curtains of hair conceal most of their features, revealing just a sliver of skin and lips, tips of noses, corners of eyes. None of them are smiling.
“These are the two girls who got expelled,” Cressida says. “Brooke Middlewood and Tatiana Greenberg.”
“Who’s the third girl?”
“Amoryn Lashwood.”
“As in Lashwood House?”
“Maybe,” Cressida says, staring at the photograph, which must have been taken before two of the three of them were expelled. The quote next to the picture reads:
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness . . .
—Allen Ginsberg
Cressida continues going through the yearbook, pausing every so often to read a caption or examine a photograph. “Look at this,” she says, turning it so Kersti can see. “Amoryn Lashwood’s Bequeaths.”
The Bequeaths are where the grads list inside jokes and special memories or leave personal messages to their friends. Kersti is already planning to bequeath a certain history teacher to Cressida, nipples to Lille, a smoke-filled bathroom to Alison, rolling paper to Noa, et cetera, et cetera.
Amoryn Lashwood’s Bequeaths are comparatively short: “I bequeath the HS & the Ledger.”
“Here’s another one just like it,” Cressida says. “I bequeath the HS & the Ledger.”
“And this one,” Kersti cries, finding herself swept up in Cressida’s excitement. “I bequeath the HS & the secrets in the Ledger—”
They find a total of five similar Bequeaths.
“HS has to be the Helvetia Society,” Cressida says, pleased with herself. “The girls who left these Bequeaths must have been Helvetians. The ledger was probably like a meeting log or something.”
“I wonder what secrets were in there.”
“Probably the same thing that got them expelled.”
“You mean whatever they spray-painted on the statue?”
“Their Bequeaths were obviously a message.”
“To who?”
“Bueche,” Cressida answers, with such certainty Kersti considers she might know something. “What the fuck happened to that ledger?” Cressida wonders aloud, getting up and going over to her mirror. She gazes at herself for a moment before putting on some lip gloss and a dusting of blush.
“Going somewhere?”
“To meet Magnus.”
“Magnus?”
“He’s still my boyfriend,” Cressida says, turning away from her beautiful reflection in the mirror. “I still have feelings for him.”
Kersti bites her lip.
“Besides,” she rationalizes, “if Charlie doesn’t leave Mrs. F., why should I leave Magnus?”
Kersti wants to shout: “I actually loved him! I’m the one who deserved him!” But Cressida has long since forgotten that Kersti was the collateral damage in their love story. And although part of her can’t help rejoicing that Magnus is finally getting his comeuppance, it still makes her bristle that Cressida would so easily dump him for someone better. It feels almost personal, slyly vindictive.
Cressida shoves the yearbook in one of her drawers and runs a hand through her curls. “I love you, Kuusky,” she says sweetly, wrapping her arms around Kersti. “You’re always here for me.”
Kersti’s muscles tense. “Are you going to bring the yearbook back to the library?” she asks her.
Cressida looks at her strangely. “Does it matter?” she says. And for some reason, it does.
Chapter 25
TORONTO—April 2016
Kersti lifts her head out of the toilet bowl and lies down on the cold tiles. You asked for this, she reminds herself, loving and hating her morning sickness equally. Loving it because it’s a privilege and a constant physical reminder that she’s carrying two babies inside her, and hating it for obvious reasons. She’s ten weeks pregnant. There were two heartbeats at her eight-week ultrasound; two healthy, normal heartbeats, the sound of which was met with a floodgate of relief and tears. It was the sound of life and hope and possibility itself.
“We did it,” Jay whispered, his hand on her stomach, tears streaming down his face, the music of those racing heartbeats in the background.
At the clinic in Colorado, they gave Kersti and Jay a thick binder of instructions on how to tell their children they come from donor eggs, but Kersti is going to tell them in her own way. She’s going to write it. She’s been working on a letter to them since the day she heard those heartbeats. Maybe since the day she knew she would use Cressida’s eggs. She wants them to understand that everything she did was for love; the kind of pure, inflexible maternal love that knows no limitations.
She reaches for the pack of saltines on the floor beside her and stuffs one in her mouth, her only relief from nausea.
“You okay in there?” her mother calls out, opening the door and finding her on the floor.
“When does this end?” Kersti asks.
“Twelfth week with every one of my pregnancies,” she says. “Do you need help back to bed?”