Here is the beautiful, promising Cressida Strauss: a thirty-five-year-old invalid with massive brain damage. Kersti finds it easier to think of her as having died that day.
When Cressida first came out of the coma, Deirdre wrote Kersti to update her with the news. She was in a persistent vegetative state, which meant a partial state of arousal, with no sign of improvement. It sounded bleak, but by the time Kersti was finally allowed to see her three years after the accident, Cressida was able to blink, make sounds, and move her right hand enough to reach for things. And although Cressida did not seem to recognize Kersti that day, she did make eye contact with her.
“She’s looking right at me,” Kersti said.
“She’s in a minimally conscious state,” Deirdre explained. “She’s a bit more aware and responsive than someone in a vegetative state. Although, frankly, it’s hard to tell the difference.”
“What is the difference?” Kersti asked.
“She can focus and sometimes she responds to people,” Deirdre said. “She communicates with us, either by squeezing our hands or blinking. She can occasionally follow instructions and she’s attempted the odd word or phrase over the years, but nothing significant enough to hold on to. It’s all so very inconsistent, Kersti. From one day to the next, she can be alert or totally unresponsive.”
“It must be hard for you.”
“I was so hopeful at first,” Deirdre said. “When she first began to show signs of life. It was so encouraging, but then her progress just sort of stalled.”
“You mentioned she’s tried to speak. What sort of things does she say?”
“Nothing enlightening,” Deirdre shrugged. “‘Mom.’ ‘Cold.’ ‘Thirsty.’”
Kersti turned back to look at her friend and was startled to find tears streaming down Cressida’s cheeks. Kersti was baffled. Was Cressida capable of feeling things?
“She knows me,” Kersti said, leaning over her friend’s body. “Cress? Do you know who I am?”
“This wasn’t a good idea,” Deirdre said, stepping in.
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.
“This is why I like hanging out with you, Kuusk,” he says, smiling at her.
She doesn’t respond, choosing instead to savor the moment and not bungle it with one of her awkward, overthought retorts.
They drive until they reach a red-shuttered farmhouse in the middle of a meadow, where cows are mingling languidly and the air smells of Edelweiss. There’s something charming about the way the place has been preserved in time, nestled in the shadows of the Jorat forest. The name of the restaurant, Auberge de Chalet-des-Enfants, is painted on a wooden sign out front. In spite of the November chill, people are eating outside under a canopied patio.
Magnus orders for her—beer fondue for two and a bottle of Chasselas—which is thrilling. She doesn’t drink wine when she’s out with friends, only beer, and it feels wonderfully grown-up, something her parents would do.
“My mom loves Chasselas,” he says, lighting a cigarette. She notices his knee bouncing under the table. Every so often, it hits the table and their glasses shake.
“Are your parents together?” she asks him.
“No. My mom’s remarried. She lives in Stockholm with her new family. I spend the summers with my dad in California.”
“When do you see her?”
“I don’t,” he says matter-of-factly. “I used to go home for Christmas, but I can’t stand my stepfather and their kids are assholes. I go to Gstaad now with the school.”
“That’s kind of sad.”
“Is it?”
She can’t tell if his response is bravado or genuine indifference. “It must bother you,” she says. “Never seeing your mother?”
He shrugs. The fondue shows up and he looks relieved. It’s sublime and they’re both happy to eat for a while in silence. “Don’t pretend your life is The Cosby Show,” he says, looking up at her.
“I never did—”
“Most of us don’t wind up at the Lycée because we’re wanted,” he says.
She looks down at her plate, stung. He’s right. The chasm between Kersti and her family has become even more palpable since she’s been in Lausanne. Her three sisters are inseparable. They look the same, dress the same, finish each other’s sentences. They even speak their own language, which their mother calls “Estonglish.” They’re twenty-three, twenty-four, and twenty-six. They all still live at home, although Jutta is engaged to her boyfriend, Rasmus, and will probably move out after her wedding. Kersti has nothing in common with them. When Kersti goes home for the holidays, they call her Swiss Miss and exclude her from everything. Even though they’re so much older than her, she finds them immature, silly, and unworldly. She feels much closer to her friends at the Lycée. In some ways, she even feels closer to Mme. Hamidou than to her own mother, whose silent recriminations have always shone through her judgmental blue eyes.
“Don’t sulk, Kuusk,” Magnus says.
She has an urge to smack his smug face, but he returns her anger with an irresistible smile and she softens.
“How do you like the fondue?” he asks her.
“It’s delicious,” she mutters, pulling a rope of cheesy bread out of the pot.
“Wait till you taste the flan.”
He orders dessert and more wine, which alarms her. He has to drive back to Lausanne.
By the time they leave the restaurant, the sky is dark and they can see their breath in the air. Magnus can barely walk in a straight line and Kersti is afraid to get in the car. She’s drunk, but not completely incoherent. “What are we going to do?” she asks him. “You can’t drive.”
“Hmm,” he says. “What can we do?”
She’s not sure what his agenda is, but she’s starting to feel nervous. He takes her by the hand. “Follow me, Kuusk.”
He leads her to the woods and she’s so caught up in the thrill of holding hands with him, she forgets to worry about what’s going to happen next. Leaves crunch beneath their shoes as they trip over branches and rocks, leaning on one another for support. “Are you going to murder me?” she asks, half-joking but really beginning to wonder.
He laughs.
“You know, like that preppy murder in Central Park a few years ago?”
“Murder’s not what I had in mind.”
She stops walking and makes him stop and face her. “What do you have in mind?” she asks him.
“Well. We need to kill at least an hour, right?”
“Don’t tell me a hike through the woods in the dark?”
“You don’t know me at all,” he says. “I smoke too much to hike. You’re not really afraid, are you?”
The moon, just shy of being full, is throwing a fair bit of light across the night sky. “Should I be?”
“Of course not,” he says, laughing and pulling her toward him. Her heart is thrashing inside her chest. She hears some little creature scurrying nearby, but doesn’t care. She’s standing in the forest with Magnus Foley and his face is coming toward her. She closes her eyes and it’s exactly like in her fantasies: his lips on hers, soft and wet; the taste of cigarette, which somehow is a turn-on; his big hands on either side of her face, holding it in place while he kisses her. Everything happens quickly after that.
Magnus manages to find a big rock and, breathing heavily, gently eases her down onto it. He opens her coat. She squeals when she feels his cold hands on her bare skin, but when his fingers find her nipples, the squeals turned to moans. No one has ever touched her like this before, or anywhere for that matter. She’s never even been kissed.
He’s her first. Her first real kiss, her first breast touching, and finally, her first lover. He has a condom in his jeans pocket. “SIDA,” he mumbles in her ear. “We have to be safe.”
She’s too confused, elated, and drunk to protest. She’s outside of herself, experiencing it almost as a bystander. He whips off his coat and, gentleman that he is, lays it on the rock underneath her. He has his pants down at his knees almost as quickly as he has hers down. She’s grateful for the fur lining of his leather jacket. She feels warm. And there’s also the heat from his body and their heavy breathing, and from all the moving and grinding up against each other.
“Are there wolves here?” she asks him. He just laughs some more and resumes what he’s doing, which is making her feel damn good.
“I don’t know what to do,” she murmurs, not really embarrassed but wanting to warn him in advance.
“Don’t worry,” he pants, kissing her on the mouth and then her neck and in her ear. His tongue feels so good. He knows exactly where to put it to make her spine arch. Her fear begins to vanish, her anxiety quiets down.
And then the pain comes. An excruciating stab between her legs, like something tearing. It’s worse than when she had her ears pierced and she screamed in the middle of the depart
ment store. She cries out now, her voice echoing throughout the woods.
“You okay?” he manages, but doesn’t stop. The deeper he pushes himself inside her, the better it feels—for him. His pleasure seems to increase proportionally with her pain. She’s in agony. Each thrust makes her cry out again. She’s gripping his shoulders, digging her nails into his shirt, which has the effect of riling him up even more. He starts pounding harder, faster, making weird noises. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh. Fuck. Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh. Fuck. Uh. Uh.
Kersti’s eyes are wide open, staring up at the dense black canopy of trees where two raccoons are fighting noisily on a branch. She remembers her Natural Biology teacher mentioning something about how the North American raccoon is becoming a problem in some Swiss forests. It’s almost funny, the way they’re scrapping up in the tree while she and Magnus go at it down here. Magnus is still pumping away on top of her like he’s doing push-ups on a gym mat, but she never takes her eyes off those raccoons. It’s a good distraction and makes her think of home—bonfires in the backyard, camping trips in Gravenhurst. She pretends she’s enjoying the sex, moaning where it seem appropriate, calling out his name here and there, like she’s seen in movies.
And then he lets out a loud noise, like a goat bleating, and he collapses on top of her. She’s sopping wet between her legs and hopes it isn’t blood. She strokes the back of his head, something else she’s seen in movies.
“Oh my God,” he says, panting in her ear. “Oh my God. You sweet little virgin. That was . . . wow.”
Now that it’s over, she feels so close to him. She holds him tight while he tries to catch his breath. She’s never felt so wanted, so revered. It’s absolutely empowering, lying beneath the full weight of him, his heart beating against her breast. She tickles his neck with her fingers and he rests his face in the slope of her neck. She forgets they’re on a rock outside in the cold. She’s warm and content, the pain completely forgotten.
The Finishing School Page 7
