The Finishing School

by Joanna Goodman

  “You’re sick.”

  “I was in love with all of them. They were my lovers. I didn’t just ‘abuse’ random students; otherwise it would have happened to you. I had relationships when I had feelings for someone.”

  “Children!”

  “They were not children,” Hamidou argues. “Cressida, Lille, Alison. They all had old souls. They were wise on a level you would not understand. The spirit has no age, Kersti. Society labels us with a number. Fourteen. Forty. Sixty. But the soul has no age.”

  Kersti doesn’t even know how to respond.

  “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 Swissbäkers 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.

  “I hope so,” Deirdre says. “I’ll be in touch, dear.”

  But Kersti knows she won’t be. And as she steps outside onto Beacon, she breaks down and cries. She’s not sure what’s worse—being thrown out by Deirdre, or seeing what’s become of Cressida. She
’s not sure she’ll ever recover from either.

  When she finally manages to collect herself, she pulls out her map of Boston and starts heading toward Charles Street, where Aleks is waiting for her at a coffee shop. She walks quickly, wanting to get as far away from what just happened as she can. All she can think is, Why did the sight of her make Cressida cry?

  Chapter 37

  LAUSANNE—June 2016

  Kersti turns to see who it is. It takes her a moment to recognize the woman stepping inside the apartment and then her heart stops. It’s Angela Zumpt.

  “Hello again, Kersti.”

  “What are you doing here?” Kersti manages, frozen on the couch.

  “I live here,” Angela responds, as though it should be the obvious assumption. “With my wife.”

  Shocked, Kersti turns back to Hamidou. “You’ve known the whole time who sent me those Polaroids, didn’t you?”

  “The same person who pushed Cressida,” Hamidou states. “The one I thought loved me most.”

  Kersti looks back and forth between Angela and Hamidou.

  “I told you every relationship I ever had was mutual,” Hamidou continues, her tone smug. “Angela is thirty-six. Surely you can’t think I’m abusing her?”

  Angela is standing in the foyer, filling the entire space with her height and breadth, making no move to come any closer. Blocking any possibility of a smooth and hasty exit for Kersti.

  “If that’s true,” Kersti says, “why did she give me pictures that prove you’re a child molester?”

  Hamidou turns her dark, accusing eyes on Angela. “You must have known when you did this that we would both lose everything?”

  “I’ve already lost you,” Angela says, her tone flat.

  “How can you say that?”

  “I’d rather us be locked up than have you move back to the Lycée to be with Amandine.”

  Kersti rides out a wave of nausea, remembering the young girl from the other day.

  “You did this to punish me?” Hamidou murmurs, incredulous.

  “I did it to stop you from being with Amandine,” Angela says, sulking, sounding like a child. “When you told me Kersti was in Lausanne asking questions about Cressida, I just thought—”

  “You thought you would ruin both our lives? Over a student? Do you know how many others there have been?”

  Angela looks down at the floor. She’s still in the doorway, hasn’t budged since she arrived.

  “Mon Dieu,” Hamidou rails. “You know what I have to do now, don’t you?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t care? Did you think any of this through? Do you even understand?”

  “You love Amandine,” Angela says, her voice breaking. “You haven’t loved anyone like this since Cressida.”

  They both fall silent at the mention of Cressida, staring at each other defiantly, neither of them so much as flinching. Kersti watches numbly, transfixed, finally piecing it all together. “Is that why you pushed Cressida?” she asks Angela. “Out of jealousy?”

  Angela says nothing. Her expression is blank, her blue eyes strangely vacant, as though all hope has gone out of them.

  “Angela and I have an unspoken arrangement,” Hamidou says, reaching for a cigarette.

  Kersti holds her breath, bracing for the truth. Her heart is pounding so hard it feels like the room is shaking. She instinctively places her hands on her belly and looks over at Angela, fixated on her body barricading the door.

  “Cressida never threatened me with the ledger,” Hamidou says. “Angela is the one she went to.”

  Kersti stares at Angela. It makes sense now. Cressida went to each and every one of Hamidou’s victims—Lille, Alison, and Angela—and told them what she was going to do.

  “She came to my room at study hall,” Angela recalls, sitting down on a green velvet armchair by the door. “She said she had something that would make us free. She said Claudine would never harm another girl again.”

  She shakes her head, looking as bewildered and confused as she must have looked to Cressida back then. “I told her Claudine had never hurt me and that we were in love, but she laughed at me and handed me the Polaroid photograph of herself in Claudine’s bed. I asked her where she got it. She told me she took it from Claudine’s room and that she had others. Keep it, she said. There are plenty more where this came from.”

  At the other end of the room, Hamidou lights a Gauloises off the one she’s already smoking and fills the air with more of that pungent smell.

  “It made me very angry,” Angela says. “I went to Claudine’s room and I looked in her drawers and I found more pictures.” She looks over at Hamidou, her face and neck splotchy. “And their love notes, as well.”

  “I loved all of you,” Hamidou interjects softly.

  “Cressida told me she was going to speak to Bueche,” Angela resumes. “She was going to tell him about my relationship with Claudine. I asked her how she knew about us and she said she used to sit on the stairs and wait for me to come out of Claudine’s room.”

  Kersti remembers the night they caught Angela creeping around on the second floor. Cressida must have known why Angela was there. It breaks her heart to imagine Cressida huddled on the stairwell in her nightgown, waiting to see who would tiptoe out of Hamidou’s room each night. Had she been jealous? Or merely gathering evidence?

  “I warned her not to go to Bueche,” Angela says, her voice rising. “She knew it would destroy Claudine’s life, but she didn’t care.”

  Kersti is very still, doesn’t dare speak. Angela is watching Kersti watch the door. She must be aware of Kersti’s discomfort because she gets up, folds her arms across her chest, and plants herself in front of the door again before continuing with her story.

  “She went out that night and I waited for her in her room,” Angela says, never taking her eyes off Kersti. “She came back very drunk. After curfew, of course. Claudine never made Cressida follow the rules. Isn’t that right, Claudine?”

  Hamidou doesn’t answer and Kersti realizes she’s witnessing the bitter end of their sick relationship.

  “Cressida was drinking from a bottle of vodka. I asked her to give me the photographs but she said she buried them somewhere and I would never find them. She went outside on the balcony to smoke. I followed her.”

  Kersti sinks into the couch, reeling.

  “I was trying to protect you,” Angela tells Hamidou, tears springing to her eyes. “I love you, Claude. I’ve always loved you and I thought you loved me. Why else would we still be together?”

  “Why? Because you’ve been holding me hostage for almost twenty years.”

  “I have not—”

  “We both know the implication has always been very clear. That’s why you kept my pictures of Cressida. So I wouldn’t leave you.”

  “But you were planning to leave me anyway, weren’t you?” Angela says, sounding hurt and resigned.

  “So you gave Kersti those photographs to punish me?”

  When Angela doesn’t respond, Hamidou turns to Kersti. “After she pushed Cressida, she came to me and confessed everything. I made her write a suicide note and I helped her cover it up.”

  “Didn’t you think someone would figure out it wasn’t Cressida’s handwriting?” Kersti asks.

  “But no one did,” Hamidou responds. “As I knew they wouldn’t.”

  “How?”

  “Because I knew there would be no investigation,” she explains. “Because I knew Bueche. It was quickly and quietly swept under the rug, as I knew it would be. As it always was.”

  “You helped her get away with trying to kill Cressida?” Kersti whispers, heartbroken. “I thought you loved her—”

  “I did,” Hamidou says, sounding remorseful for the first time all night. “But Angela had my pictures and my letters. She kept them locked someplace all these years so that if I ever decided to turn her in or leave her, she had leverage.”

  “Cressida didn’t die,” Angela p
oints out, sounding disappointed.

  “She may as well have,” Hamidou says, looking very old and defeated. “You think pushing her off a balcony could stop me from loving her? All it did was bind you and me together like hostages. That’s all we are now, Angela.”

  Kersti’s phone starts vibrating in her purse. She ignores it but Angela and Hamidou suddenly look over at her with worried expressions. It occurs to Kersti that something has to be done now. One of them has confessed to attempted murder, the other to covering it up and to sexually abusing God knows how many girls.

  They’re both watching her, probably trying to decide what to do. If only Angela would get the hell away from the door and sit down on the couch. Kersti’s phone starts up again, vibrating with calls and texts. She reaches for it and reads Jay’s last text.

  WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?

  She manages to type 14 Béthusy before Angela comes over and takes the phone right out of her hand. Kersti’s not even sure the message was sent. She looks over at Hamidou, searching for that long-ago ally, but she’s gone.

  I’m in danger, Kersti thinks. The realization is like a punch in the throat. When she decided to stop by here tonight she didn’t consider for a second that Hamidou—now in her late seventies—would pose any kind of threat to her safety. She hadn’t counted on Angela Zumpt.

  “My husband is on his way,” Kersti mumbles, hardly able to breathe.

  “What are you going to do, Kersti?” Hamidou asks her.

  “I don’t really have any options,” Kersti says in a small voice. “Neither do you—”

  “Claudine?” Angela says. “Was nun?”

  “Ich weiß es nicht,” Hamidou says.

  Kersti doesn’t like them speaking German. It makes her extremely anxious. She stands up, scheming how to get past Angela and out of the apartment.

  “Where are the photographs Angela gave you?” Hamidou asks her.

  “At my hotel,” Kersti says, inching toward the door. “Everyone knows. I told Bueche, Deirdre, my husband—”

  “Why did you come here then?” Hamidou wants to know. “If you already have everything you need?”