“I think I’m in love with you,” she whispers. She knows it’s impulsive, but after the things he’s just said to her, it feels right. “I’m so happy right now.”
“You’re so real,” he says hoarsely. “So down-to-earth and authentic. It’s beautiful. Really.” He leans up on one elbow and kisses her nose. “You sweet little virgin,” he repeats. “What a nice surprise.”
“I told you I didn’t know what to do.”
“I meant when I invited you out for a drive,” he clarifies.
“So your plan all along was to have sex with me?”
“Of course,” he admits, sitting up and pulling on his pants. “There’s just something about you.”
She looks down at herself and even in the dark, she can see blood all over her thighs and the fur lining of his jacket. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she mumbles, embarrassed.
“That’s what dry cleaners are for,” he says, tousling her hair. “Don’t worry.”
She pulls up her pants and they each light a cigarette. The moment is utterly perfect. The moon, the rustling trees, Magnus.
She’s no longer a virgin. Magnus Foley is her first, will always be her first. Nothing and no one can ever change that fact and the realization fills her with indescribable joy. She can’t wait to tell Cressida. Cressida lost her virginity at thirteen to an actor in one of her father’s plays; Kersti is relieved to have caught up to her and have it over with now.
When she gets back to Huber House, still dazed and euphoric, Mme. Hamidou is about to lock the doors. She looks at her watch and frowns.
“Sorry,” Kersti says, rushing upstairs. She’s surprised to find her room dark and Cressida already asleep. It’s barely after ten. “Cress?” she whispers.
Cressida rolls over. “Kerst?”
“Are you asleep? Didn’t you go out tonight?”
“Too tired,” Cressida says. “I was at MUN till after dinner. We got Malawi. How was your date?”
Kersti turns on the bedside lamp and snuggles in next to Cressida. “We did it,” she blurts.
“You slept with him?” Cressida says, sitting up, fully awake now.
“I’m not a virgin anymore,” Kersti confides, beaming. “Can you believe it? But oh my God it killed. Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Where were you? Where did you do it?”
“He took me for lunch at this place called the Auberge de—”
“Chalet des Enfants.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s his favorite place.”
Kersti doesn’t like the sound of that. It implies Cressida knows things about him.
“Then what?” Cressida says, not sounding nearly as happy for Kersti as Kersti thought she’d be.
“We had a lot of wine,” Kersti tells her. “He couldn’t drive, so we went for a walk in the woods—”
Cressida interrupts with a snicker.
“And then it just, like, happened.”
“On the ground?”
“On a rock,” Kersti says, beginning to get annoyed. “What’s your problem? You’ve never liked him—”
Cressida shrugs.
“Do you like him?” Kersti asks, panic flooding her chest.
“Of course not,” Cressida says, her expression inscrutable. She leans over and turns off the light. “I’m happy for you,” she mutters, lying back down.
But she doesn’t sound happy at all.
Chapter 11
BOSTON—October 2015
Deirdre opens the locked drawer of her desk, an elegant Louis something with cabriole legs and gilt edges, and retrieves a note. It’s handwritten on a piece of lined paper that’s been torn from a school notebook.
“Cressida left a suicide note?” Kersti’s question is a breath, a gasp.
“Yes.”
“You’ve had this all along?”
“Yes.”
“I thought they never found a note,” Kersti says, glaring at Deirdre in frustration. “You told me there was no note.”
“They sent it to me with her things after she was safely back in the States and far enough away not to damage their reputation,” Deirdre says. “It was Armand who found the note when he went there to pack up her things. Bueche said they missed it when they searched her room the first time. Covered it up is more like it. That school wouldn’t have wanted to be linked to an attempted suicide. All they ever cared about was their reputation.”
The creases from where the note is folded are worn from having been opened and closed so many times. It looks hastily scribbled, practically illegible.
I will miB you. Im sorry
“I will ‘mib’ you,” Kersti reads.
“She was very drunk,” Deirdre says. “That’s what they told me.”
“It’s uncharacteristically brief,” Kersti remarks, not knowing what to make of it.
“The truth is,” Deirdre admits, “I’ve never been one hundred percent convinced she wrote it.” She covers her mouth with a pale hand. “I suppose it’s hard for any mother to accept that her own child wants to die so badly she’s capable of taking her own life, but I never thought of Cressida as being suicidal—”
“I didn’t think she was, either, but then I guess some people hide it well.”
“Cressida never did hide anything, though, did she?” Deirdre reflects. “Whatever she was feeling or going through, the world had to know about it.”
“So you don’t think she jumped?”
“I’ve never known what to think, Kersti. But in my heart of hearts? No, I don’t think she did. But let’s face it,” Deirdre sniffles. “I wasn’t around. What did I really know about her? I like to think there’s no way she would have tried to kill herself and the note was just teen melodrama—a coincidence, a bid for attention. Then I think maybe I’m just deluding myself. It certainly hurts less if it was an accident. She had so much promise—”
“Does she remember anything?” Kersti asks. “She seemed to remember Lille just now. Is that possible?”
“It’s possible,” Deirdre says.
“Have you ever asked her what happened, Deirdre?”
“Of course,” Deirdre says. “Many times. She just stares back at me, empty. Maybe it’s for the best that she doesn’t remember—”
She shakes her head then, her face a mask of anguish and confusion, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes and spilling slowly down her cheeks. Amazing her ducts still function, Kersti observes.
“Why did you make me leave the first time I came to visit her?” Kersti asks.
“I told you then. It was too painful. I knew she wouldn’t want you to see her like that.”
“She wouldn’t, or you didn’t?”
“Both, I suppose,” Deirdre admits.
“What if she just missed me?”
“Maybe she did. She’s had such a disappointing life, Kersti—”
“I’m sorry.” Kersti reaches out and places her hand on the sharp bone of Deirdre’s shoulder. “Do you remember when I visited last time, I asked you about a ledger?”
“Vaguely.”
“Lille also mentioned the ledger in her letter to me. She thought there might be something incriminating in it.”
“Incriminating for who?”
“She didn’t say.”
“I never came across a ledger. The school never sent it to me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“You said there wasn’t a suicide note, either,” Kersti reminds her.
“I swear, Kersti. There was no ledger with her things. There’s no reason for me to lie about that, but I’m sure you can imagine why I never wanted anyone to know about the suicide note. Cressida was above suicide.”
Kersti hands back the note, not sure she trusts Deirdre.
“Whom did the ledger belong to?” Deirdre asks, refolding the note, something she’s probably done hundreds of times before.
“I don’t know,” Kersti lies, deciding not to say any
thing. Cressida fell the very same night she got her hands on that ledger. Whether she jumped, fell by accident, or was pushed, Kersti—like Lille—has probably always known the ledger contains the answers. Why they both chose to ignore their instincts for so long can only be attributed to post-traumatic stress and adolescent self-preservation. It was just simpler to accept a drunken fall.
“Do you think someone could have pushed her?” Deirdre asks.
Kersti recalls the web of people Cressida had hurt by the end of her final year at the Lycée—the relationships destroyed, the friends betrayed, the hearts broken—and yes, Kersti considers it’s very possible. She can think of two people in particular.
“What about Magnus Foley?” Deirdre says, reading her mind. “He’s the one she snuck out to meet that night—”
What Deirdre doesn’t know is that Cressida snuck out to tell Magnus she was in love with someone else, and that later on, according to Lille, Magnus came looking for Cressida at Huber House. Who knows how he took being dumped? He was crazy in love with her, spoiled, entitled. What if he pushed her and wrote a suicide note? Which would mean Kersti lost her virginity to a murderer, the possibility of which she doesn’t want to think about right now.
And if Magnus didn’t push her, does he know something? “I have to find that ledger,” Kersti says, more to herself. Knowing where she has to go next.
“Please keep me abreast,” Deirdre says, touching Kersti’s wrist with her translucent blue hands. “If you find anything out, I’d like you to let me know.”
There’s an ambivalence in her request that Kersti recognizes, which comes from wanting to know the truth and being afraid of it at the same time.
They return to Cressida’s bedside and Kersti sits down beside her. Cressida turns to face her, her aqua eyes focused and lucid. “Statch—” she says, startling them.
Kersti looks at Deirdre and Laylay for a translation.
“What are you trying to say?” Laylay asks her.
“Statch,” Cressida repeats. “You.”
“Say again—”
“Statch. You.”
“She’s saying statue,” Kersti cries. “Do you remember the statue, Cress?”
Cressida blinks.
“What statue?” Deirdre says.
“There was a statue of Helvetia at the Lycée,” Kersti explains.
“My God,” Deirdre says hopefully. “Cress? Darling? Is that what you meant to say? Statue?”
Cressida’s beautiful face reveals nothing. It’s a porcelain mask, blank and impenetrable, magnificently concealing a damaged mind full of God only knows what.
Chapter 12
LAUSANNE—November 1995
Kersti knows something is different in French class on Monday. Magnus barely acknowledges her when she sits down next to him, other than to grunt, “Hey.” He doesn’t even call her Kuusk, the way he normally does, doesn’t scribble any notes to her or stretch his legs out so they touch hers. When she tries to catch his attention or make eye contact, he deliberately looks away, pretending to concentrate on whatever M. Feuilly is saying.
It goes on like that for the entire two-hour class and when it’s finally over, Magnus gets up quickly and runs off, muttering, “See you later.” Not even looking back at her.
She wants to scream after him, “You devirginized me, asshole!” Instead she rushes to the bathroom, ashamed and bewildered. She figured they were a couple. She spent the entire weekend imagining them holding hands after class, kissing each other good-bye as they parted ways. Everyone in the school knowing they were together.
She locks herself in the stall and sobs very quietly because she can hear Abby Ho-Tai in the stall beside her. Maybe Magnus is embarrassed about what happened on Saturday, she rationalizes. Maybe he regrets taking her virginity on a rock when they were both so drunk. She spins it all kinds of ways before concluding it’s probably a good idea to talk to him.
She splashes water on her face and goes off in search of him. It’s lunch and he usually hangs around the school grounds socializing and smoking before walking home. She looks for him in the garden, but he isn’t there. She asks around. Someone saw him heading around back, so that’s where she goes.
She follows the dirt path behind Huber House and stops immediately when she spots them standing together by the tennis courts. Her first reaction is paralyzing jealousy. Cressida’s back is to Kersti, but when Kersti recognizes her wild hair, she’s hit with such intense despair it knocks the wind out of her. She watches them for a long time, feeling betrayed, and more inadequate than ever. She contemplates fleeing, hiding in her room and never speaking to either of them again, but then it occurs to her, what if Magnus is asking Cressida for advice? Who else would he turn to if not Kersti’s best friend?
Feeling slightly buoyed, Kersti continues along the path that winds around the statue of Helvetia and decides to play it cool. Hey guys. What’s up? But as she approaches, she notices they’re standing very close together and that Magnus’s fingers are hooked inside the front pocket of Cressida’s jeans. There’s a perceptible intimacy between them that makes Kersti feel instantly sick. Where did this relationship come from? “Hey, guys,” she says, and it comes out sounding like an accusation.
They both spin around and Magnus guiltily steps away from Cressida, pulling his fingers out of her pockets. Before Kersti can think of anything clever to say, she starts to cry.
“Kerst—”
She instantly regrets confronting them. Now she feels like an idiot, a loser. He used her. They’re probably laughing at her behind her back. Before she can humiliate herself further, she runs off toward Huber House.
Cressida runs after her. “Kerst!” she cries out. “Wait!”
Kersti swings open the front door and goes inside, with Cressida right behind her. “Stop being a baby,” Cressida says. “Just talk to me.”
“Fuck you! You know how much I like him! You know he was my first!”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Excuse me?”
They’re alone in the narrow corridor outside the TV lounge. Everyone else is in the dining hall for lunch.
“Magnus and I have been here a lot longer than you,” Cressida says, as though that explains something.
“And?”
“We have a history.”
“You’re only telling me this now?” Kersti fires. “I’ve been confiding to you how much I like him for over a year and all you’ve ever said is he’s not your type. Now all of a sudden he shows some interest in me and you want him?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?” Kersti says. “You have to win. You have to get everything you want. You can’t let anyone else have anything—”
“It’s complicated.”
“You’re a bitch,” Kersti tells her. “You are a real bitch.”
“He was my first, too!” Cressida blurts.
Kersti steps back. It takes her a few seconds to recover before she’s able to speak again. “You said it was that actor—”
“It was Magnus,” Cressida states. “We were thirteen. It was the year before you came to the Lycée.”
“Thirteen?”
“I got pregnant,” she explains. “Hamidou took me to Zurich for the abortion.”
“Hamidou took you?” Kersti cries, incredulous.
“I couldn’t have anything to do with Magnus after that,” Cressida says. “But I never stopped . . . I’ve always had feelings for him. We’ve liked each other since fifth grade.”
“Does Magnus know you were pregnant?” Kersti asks, forgetting her own stake in their triangle.
“Yes, but we were kids. Literally. Like, little kids.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry—”
“So because he liked me and he slept with me, now you’ve decided you want him back?”
Cressida looks down at her feet. “Maybe,” she murmurs. “Do you know how hard it’s been for me to listen
to you go on and on about him? And when he asked you out and then you guys . . .” As she wipes away tears, Kersti has to wonder if she’s acting. It’s in her blood, after all.
“Does he still like you?” Kersti asks her.
Cressida gives her a look, as though to say, “What do you think?” but doesn’t respond.
“Because he sure seemed to like me on Saturday,” Kersti says.
“I’m sorry you’re hurt, but don’t you get it? He used you to get to me.”
“I find it hard to believe that he made everything up,” Kersti says, remembering his tenderness when he thought he was hurting her, the things he said to her. You’re so real. So down-to-earth and authentic. You sweet little virgin.
How could he not have meant those words? He sounded so sincere. “He can decide for himself,” Kersti says. “You don’t have any more right to him than I do. Let’s see who he wants to be with.”
Chapter 13
TORONTO—October 2015
The Estonian House is on Broadview, near Chester Hill Road. It used to be a school, an ugly, brown brick building that the Estonian community took over in 1960. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s serviceable and satisfies just about every need of the community, including its own credit union, the Estonian Family Services office, the Estonian consulate, the Estonian language school, Girl Scouts, and the Estonian travel agency owned by Kersti’s father. Kersti practically grew up here and knows it as well as her own home: the front and back stairwells, the musty basement, the dingy offices and pale green classrooms, the cafeteria and banquet halls. Between the Estonian classes every weekend, Girl Scouts, the art center, and all the holiday parties over the course of her life, she’s probably spent more time in this building than anywhere else.
Kersti climbs the stairs to the third floor and pokes her head inside her family’s travel agency—really just a small office—which moved into the Estonian House in 1998, two years after Expedia came on the scene and turned the travel-booking industry on its ass. The rent is much cheaper here than its former location on Broadview, and her father has a loyal clientele of elderly Estonians who don’t book online and keep him in business.
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