“You see? Love is ageless, too,” Hamidou continues. “Should I have deprived us all of that passion? Of the physical experiences we shared? I chose not to. I chose to express my love for them, and to let them express their love for me.”
She pauses and closes her eyes, and then utters wistfully, “Cressida most of all.”
“I can’t hear this—”
“I can see how uncomfortable it makes you,” Hamidou acknowledges. “But Cressida was the great love of my life. And she felt the same way.”
“I doubt that.”
“We should have been together forever,” she murmurs, her eyes watering.
“She was pregnant with Mr. Fithern’s baby,” Kersti says. “Remember?”
Hamidou flinches.
“She was in love with him.”
“She was not,” Hamidou snaps. “She was using him.”
“For what?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Fithern was meaningless to her. She loved me.”
“You started abusing her when she was in grade two or three!”
Hamidou purses her lips.
“I know you know it was wrong,” Kersti says, leaning forward. “You had two students expelled for attempting to speak up.”
“They were troublemakers, those two.”
“I’m sure they were.” Kersti has some water. “Alison doesn’t think she was your girlfriend. She thinks you ruined her life and she’s going to ruin yours now.”
“Alison has narrow views about age and sexuality.”
“How many were there?”
“What is it you want from me?” Hamidou asks her. “I understand you are going to tell Bueche and I will lose my job.”
“You’ll go to jail is what will happen.”
“Jail?” she says. “Because of what Alison is going to tell them? Because of a photograph of me that could have been taken by anyone?”
“Because you pushed Cressida off her balcony.”
At this, Hamidou’s eyes turn black. “You think I pushed Cressida?” she says, her voice trembling. “I loved her more than—”
She jumps up and starts to pace. “I loved her. I would never have harmed her! Never.”
“The day Amoryn Lashwood sent Cressida the ledger,” Kersti says, “Cressida told Alison—and probably some of your other victims—that she was going to show it to Bueche. Did she tell you, too? Did she threaten you?”
“She did not.”
“Bullshit.”
“I could never hurt her—”
Kersti almost believes her. Almost. “Someone left something for me at my hotel today,” she says. “A dirty note and a couple of Polaroids in an envelope. One of them is of Cressida, which is very strange. How would someone wind up with a picture you took of Cressida?”
Hamidou sighs.
“There’s someone else in Lausanne right now who has evidence against you,” Kersti continues. “Do you know who it could be? And why they would give it to me?”
Even as Kersti asks the question, she can see the horror registering on Hamidou’s face, clouding her eyes.
“Why me?” Kersti repeats. “Why now?”
Hamidou is shaking her head. Something is dawning on her—the shock of having been sabotaged by someone, or the realization that her entire life is about to blow up.
And then a key turns in the lock and the front door swings open.
Chapter 36
BOSTON—July 2001
Kersti follows the home care nurse down the hall with a terrible feeling of dread. Cressida has massive brain damage and very little awareness, Deirdre warned her in preparation for this visit. It’s the first time since Cressida fell that Deirdre has allowed Kersti to see her, although her acquiescence has come with plenty of warnings. She’s not the Cressida you knew. There’s very little brain function. Expect the worst.
Kersti just wants to see her. The last time they were together was in the dining room at Huber House, right after Cressida got the ledger from Amoryn. No one could have predicted the catastrophe that lay ahead, the complete derailment of life as they knew it. It’s three years later and Kersti still isn’t over it. In spite of her best efforts, she hasn’t quite managed to move on or fill that void. Cressida, of course, will never move on.
Now just a few feet away from that long-overdue reunion, Kersti is terrified. She’s done some research on the Internet about vegetative states, trying to find the most optimistic information and best-case scenarios. Though most victims show no outward signs of awareness, some do recover an “inner voice.” Kersti desperately wants to believe this will be the case for Cressida; that she might still be in there.
The nurse opens the door and the first thing Kersti notices is how bright the room is. The blinds are wide open with sunlight pouring in, as though its rays might miraculously restore Cressida’s health. An adjustable hospital bed is set up in the middle of the room with one of those sliding tables and a bedpan on the floor. The TV is on—a soap opera—which Deirdre is watching. Cressida lies there, absent.
Cressida. The sight of her like this is almost more than Kersti can handle. She forces a smile, which feels overwrought and inappropriate.
“Kersti,” Deirdre says, noticing her in the doorway. “Come in.”
Kersti approaches the bed. She’s brought Villars chocolate bars and Ovomaltine, which she found at the Swissb?kers in Boston. They were Cressida’s favorites.
“You can set those down on the table, Kersti.”
Kersti does as she’s told and musters the courage to look at Cressida, really look at her. Her first thought is, No one is there. She’s gone. Remarkably, she’s still gorgeous. A living ghost, ethereal and far, far away. Deirdre is obviously still tending diligently to her appearance. Her hair is freshly washed—Kersti can smell the expensive shampoo—and she’s wearing makeup. Maybe Deirdre did this for Kersti’s benefit. It’s something she would do; fix her up like a doll to make a good impression. Maybe she does it every day.
“Hey, Cress,” Kersti says trepidatiously, reaching for her limp hand.
Cressida’s eyes follow the sound of Kersti’s voice. She blinks and stares up at Kersti’s face.
“Wipe her chin, will you?” Deirdre says. “There’s a cloth right there.”
Kersti reaches for the cloth and wipes her best friend’s chin. And just like that, tears start rolling down Cressida’s cheeks.
“She’s crying,” Kersti says, feeling her own tears beginning to form.
“This must be too painful for her,” Deirdre says, jostling Kersti aside. “This wasn’t a good idea. I had a feeling—”
“She recognizes me,” Kersti says.
Cressida’s tears are still flowing freely, though not a sound escapes her lovely lips.
“She doesn’t want to be seen like this,” Deirdre surmises, wiping her daughter’s tears. “She wouldn’t want any pity.”
Kersti isn’t sure how Deirdre knows this. Who can possibly know what’s inside Cressida’s locked mind?
“You have to leave now, Kersti.”
“Can I come back?” Kersti asks, as Deirdre steers her brusquely out of the room.