The Finishing School

by Joanna Goodman

  “No, I don’t think she did,” Kersti said. “I haven’t had a chance to really talk to you about it, but I don’t think she did. And at some point, when all this is behind us, I’m going to prove it—”

  “Wasn’t she fucked up, though? Didn’t she do some messed-up shit? These can’t be the genes you want for our child.”

  “I knew her, Jay. She had a good heart. She was her own worst enemy, that’s all. She was raised in a boarding school from the time she was seven. How could she not have been fucked up? But that’s got nothing to do with genes.”

  “Still—”

  “You want to talk about genes?” Kersti went on, getting more fired up. “She had a brilliant mind. She was scary smart. And obviously gorgeous and perfect in every way—”

  “This is madness, Kersti. You know that, don’t you?”

  Kersti fell silent when he said that. “Yes,” she confessed, welling up. “I know it.”

  And for the first time since she’d left Deirdre’s that afternoon, all her rationalizations and justifications fell silent too. It was madness, even she couldn’t refute that. But it was also exquisitely, poetically ordained.

  “I want a baby,” she said plainly. “I know you think I’m losing my mind—and maybe I am—but this opportunity has presented itself and I can’t turn it down. I feel like it’s meant to be, that it’s our last chance.”

  “And you’re going to do it with or without me, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not,” Kersti said, not sure she was telling the truth. “We’re partners, remember?”

  He was quiet for a long time. She had a few bites of her molten cake while his crème brûlée sat untouched. The irony of their situation was not lost on her; in using Cressida’s eggs to make a baby, Kersti was showing herself to be a lot more like Cressida than she ever realized. As poor Jay contemplated her outrageous request, she knew she would get her way one way or another, no matter how scandalous or controversial.

  Was she really all that different from Cressida then? In their relentless pursuit of a passionate, personal desire, in their stubborn willfulness and refusal to accept no or back down, did they not possess at the core the very same self-centeredness and single-mindedness? Maybe it wasn’t even a bad thing. Maybe it spoke more to inner strength and perseverance than to poor character. That’s how Kersti decided to frame it, anyway. And with that realization, she came to have a new respect for Cressida and for her younger self.

  After a while, Jay said, “Give me a few days to think about it, okay?”

  She knew then he would do it. She could tell he was almost on board. She sensed that something about his demeanor had shifted. Perhaps it was the money, as well as the fact that their donor wouldn’t be a stranger, but she was convinced he wanted a child as badly as she did.

  It’s a good thing, too, because once the seed was planted there was no turning back for Kersti. The idea of breeding her own little Cressidas was too compelling. Beautiful, intelligent, magnificent creatures just like their biological mother, only with all the love and nurturing that Kersti and Jay would provide. In Kersti’s more stable hands, Cressida’s genes would surely flourish and thrive in a little girl or boy.

  She watches Jay now as he follows the nurse down the corridor and her heart swells. He turns back to her and gives her the thumbs-up, a big smile on his face. Desperation can make a person do unimaginable things, she thinks. Or become someone they never thought they’d be.

  Two weeks later, Kersti finds herself lying on the couch, waiting for that portentous, dreaded phone call. The pregnancy test results. They went to Mount Sinai this morning for the test; drove downtown in absolute silence, their moods solemn. For most couples, it’s the moment of joy and celebration. For them, it’s sheer anxiety.

  Two weeks ago today, on Valentine’s Day, two perfect ABB blastocyst-stage embryos were painstakingly transferred inside Kersti’s uterus with all the promise of a sunrise. They stayed in Denver for a week after the procedure, with Kersti overcautiously lying flat on her back in the hotel room the whole time. Since returning to Toronto, she’s been obsessing over potentially real or imagined pregnancy symptoms. She knows from experience and from having read too many fertility blogs that swollen breasts and fatigue can be symptoms, but her doctor warned her these could also be the effects of the progesterone she’s injecting and not to get too excited.

  The call usually comes close to noon, after the hospital gets the blood results back from the lab. Kersti’s had several of these calls before and they usually begin with, “I’m sorry, Kersti.” Twice the results were positive—she was technically pregnant—but in the follow-up blood tests, her hCG levels did not increase the way they should have, and by the time she had her eight-week ultrasound, no heartbeat was detected. Dr. Gliberman called them miscarriages, but later told her that neither of her brief pregnancies had ever been viable. She wasn’t sure what that meant, if it was supposed to console her or be less traumatic since they weren’t “real” pregnancies in the first place, but it felt like a cruel joke after everything they’d already been through.

  After an unsuccessful attempt to nap, Kersti goes into the kitchen, boils water for chamomile tea—she’s been forbidden caffeine—and butters toast, just about the only thing she can eat due to her nerves. She settles at the counter with the mail, wishing Jay hadn’t gone to work. She knows it’s how he copes, but it would be easier if he was here and they could talk and pass the time together. Her mother offered to come over, but Kersti isn’t up to facing Anni or any of her sisters. Not if it’s bad news.

  There’s a thick envelope from Deirdre in the mail, probably more copies of the legal documents. She had her lawyer draw up a series of ironclad contracts. Kersti opens the envelope and pulls the rubber band off what appears to be a pile of letters. There’s a note from Deirdre attached to the top.

  Kersti,

  I should have given these to you a long time ago, when you were in Boston. I intended to, and then we were sidetracked by more “pressing” matters. You know me by now and you will soon see why I kept these to myself for as long as I did: shame/embarrassment/prudishness. My daughter never ceased to shock me. I was nothing like her as a teenager, I assure you! I know it’s not the mysterious ledger, which I promise I do not have, but these notes may give you insight into what was going on before she fell. I never knew whom they were from before you told me, though I confess when you were here, I did know she’d been seeing someone other than Magnus. These “love notes” (if you can call them that) were sent to me with her things, hidden between the pages of a book. I have to get rid of them now—Sloane is at a snooping age—and it’s either to you or the incinerator. Perhaps they can help you, should we decide to investigate further after you have the baby.

  That said, I’m waiting by the phone for your good news. I have every faith that our Cressida’s eggs will bless you with one if not two (three or four?) beautiful children. Take good care of yourself and our precious cargo. Best, D.

  Kersti opens one of the notes.

  C,

  No one else makes me cum like you. It’s all I can think about all day long. I’ll be waiting for you tonight. Wear that thing you wore the last time.

  C-

  Kersti has never thought of herself as a prude, but even she’s a little shocked by it. Cressida would have been sixteen or seventeen at the time.

  Kersti doesn’t recognize the handwriting, but assumes it’s Mr. Fithern. Charlie, as Cressida used to call him.

  C,

  Why after all this time would you worry about me getting caught? It’s not for you to worry about. It’s my problem. I love you. Now get over here soon so I can fuck you.

  C-

  C,

  When you came last night and your beautiful body was convulsing in my arms, I knew I could give everything up to have you forever. And yes, to answer your question again, no one makes me cum like you.

  C-

  C,

  Dreaming of
your perfect body and what I’m going to do to it when I see you tonight. And no more talk like the other night. You know you are the only one for me, the only one I love. You mustn’t forget that, no matter what the situation seems on the outside.

  C-

  C,

  Why do you say we can’t be together? Your age and all the other irrelevant points you make are utterly meaningless to me, this at least you should know! I don’t like all these doubts you’re having. I can’t live without the taste of you, the feel of you, the smell of you. Our relationship transcends societal norms. You’ve never adhered to any rules before. Don’t start now. We do as we please. We always have.

  C-

  Kersti feels flushed and embarrassed even though she’s alone. She imagines Mr. Fithern slipping these notes into Cressida’s history textbook during class, or handing them to her as they passed each other on their way to class. Did he give them to her when he was returning a test or homework he’d graded? Did he fuck her in the school bathroom, with Abby Ho-Tai in the stall beside them, sick from her laxatives? Did they get off on crossing lines, shattering boundaries, disregarding everyone at the Lycée but themselves?

  He must have had his own pile of dirty notes from her, tied up in rubber bands and stashed all over his house; the house he’d shared with his wife. Does he have them still? Did he keep them as a souvenir, a reminder of his youthful virility, his underage conquest?

  Kersti can’t help wondering what Cressida would have written to him. How was she able to do it? One minute, giggling and gossiping and being silly with her girlfriends up in the third-floor bathroom like any normal teenage girl, and the next, writing those things to her married lover, things Kersti had never even heard of, or wouldn’t have dared think about, let alone say to another person.

  Maybe Mrs. Fithern found Cressida’s letters and read them. She must have been shocked and horrified—more than Kersti is now. And not just by the betrayal, but by their vulgarity and the sheer recklessness of their behavior. She must have despised Cressida.

  And yet, when Kersti spoke to her, she’d sounded positively sympathetic. Charles was the predator. Something about that comment never rang true for Kersti. Their whole conversation had left her feeling unsettled.

  I think she was an unhappy girl who got in over her head and tried to kill herself.

  As Kersti broods over their conversation, she realizes she’s already made the decision. She’s going to go to Lausanne for the centennial celebration and speak to Bueche and Harzenmoser herself. If by some miracle she’s pregnant, she’ll be past the first trimester by then; if not, it will be her consolation trip. Maybe they can go to Estonia, do that Baltic cruise Jay had talked about, travel around for a few weeks to regroup. Either way, she can’t stop here. There are too many loose ends and unanswered questions.

  When the phone rings, Kersti nearly jumps off her stool, having completely lost track of the time. She takes a deep breath and tries to steady her galloping heart before she reaches for it.

  Please God Please God Please God

  “Kersti?”

  “Yes,” she manages, on the brink of vomiting.

  “Congratulations, Kersti!” the nurse says, her voice the most beautiful sound Kersti’s ever heard. “Your test was positive. Your levels are great.”

  Her levels are great. Kersti exhales and realizes she hasn’t breathed in at least a minute. The phone is shaking in her hand. “I have to call Jay—”

  “We want you to come back Wednesday for your follow-up blood test.”

  Not out of the woods yet, but it’s different this time. She can feel it. This is Cressida’s baby and it’s meant to be.

  Chapter 24

  LAUSANNE—January 1998

  Kersti keeps a careful eye on Cressida, curious to see how she’ll handle herself surrounded by the entire faculty. She’s standing over by the lavish pastry table with Mrs. Fithern, wearing a floor-length jersey skirt slit up to her thigh. They’re talking animatedly. A waiter approaches them and hands them each a glass of champagne. They clink flutes, laughing.

  It’s the grand unveiling of the new library, a project M. Bueche undertook as part of the Lycée’s eightieth anniversary back in ’96. After two years of fund-raising and construction, the new library is complete with new IBM computers, an elegant mahogany study hall, and an expanded historical archives department. Kersti watches as Cressida’s eyes find Mr. Fithern’s at the opposite side of the library, both obviously aware of the other’s every movement. Something lustful and secretive passes between them, and Kersti is disturbed by how effortlessly Cressida is able to simultaneously enjoy herself with Mrs. Fithern—no doubt trading their usual quips, debating literature, and glibly mocking the stuffy alumni together.

  Alison follows Kersti’s gaze and frowns. “It’s sickening,” she mutters, and walks away in a huff. Kersti regrets telling Alison and Lille, but she couldn’t keep it to herself. Cressida’s secret was like a grenade; she would have exploded with it if she hadn’t gotten rid of it. As far as boarding school gossip goes, it’s the gold standard. Deliciously irresistible.

  Kersti continues to watch Cressida until she finally looks up and notices her. She excuses herself to Mrs. Fithern and comes over to Kersti, champagne flute in hand. “Isn’t the library absolutely breathtaking?” she jokes, mimicking M. Bueche’s earlier speech.

  “Formidable, formidable,” Kersti plays along in French

  They drift over to the new archives, where framed photographs from the last century are hanging on the walls and a collection of Lycée artifacts is displayed in a museum-style glass case. There are athletic ribbons from the twenties and thirties; an original school uniform—a high-collared Edwardian blouse and navy ankle-length skirt—as well as a later version, a navy blue tunic with the motto sewn onto the crest. Bene qui latuit, bene vixit. One who lives well, lives unnoticed.

  Among the other paraphernalia is an old menu from 1918, featuring Zürcher Geschnetzeltes and Rösti 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 eye
s. 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.