What came through in most cases was how brave they were, how hard they were trying a year later to overcome their injuries, to move on, to be philosophical about it. Very few of them were angry or bitter. They talked about how they didn’t want to let what had happened ruin their lives, how they refused to add hate to the mix, and were determined to go on and lead good lives.
Véronique and the entire crew cried every day. It was an emotional six weeks while they worked on the documentary. Véronique refused payment for it and contributed her fees to a victims’ fund. The film had to be edited and would air on the anniversary of the attack. They had promised to send her a digital copy since she would be in the hospital in the States having her second surgery then.
She felt good about it, as though she had done something meaningful instead of moving furniture around in her apartment, shopping, or seeing friends, which she still wasn’t doing except with Gabriella when she came from Brussels for the day, or with Doug in New York.
Chip had sent her some papers, which she hadn’t had time to look at carefully, while she was working on the documentary. She finally sat down and read them one night. Her father had left her two million dollars, which was a drop in the bucket compared to what he had left his other children, but she was stunned by his generosity, and still wanted to do something meaningful with it, something that would honor him and her mother. She had no idea what. Her mother had left her enough to live on. She also had the apartment, and what she’d earned herself, which was invested. She didn’t need an extravagant life. She wanted to put some good back in the world to counter all the hate.
* * *
—
She was busy with post-production of the show right up until she left for New York. She had to do all the blood work again, in case something had changed. Both doctors found her in good spirits and thought that all her scars looked better, even her face. She told them about the documentary she’d been working on and they were impressed.
It was hard for her to believe that it had been a year since it happened. So much had changed in her life. She had lost her mother, found her father and lost him, and met her brother. Her father had left her an enormous bequest. She had survived. She was going out in public without a mask. Her modeling career had ended abruptly, and she had worked on the documentary and met many of her fellow victims. There was a silent solidarity between them, like survivors of a war, or a ship sinking, or an act of hatred so enormous that no one could understand it. She’d had victories and defeats and losses. Just being alive was a victory, and learning to live with her scars was an act of courage.
She talked to Dr. Dennis after he examined her scars, and she had told him more about the documentary.
“Have you thought any more about coming to Africa to see the hospital there where I volunteer?” he asked her.
“Not really. I’ve been so busy with the TV show, I haven’t had time to think, but I’d like to come.” He had spent the month of February there, and had come back to New York to work in March, and was leaving again from mid-April to mid-June. “You could come in April when I go back,” he suggested. “I’d like to be there to show you around. Or you could come in May, whatever works for you.” She had nothing to do now that she’d finished working on the TV show. “You’re welcome to come whenever you like. Where we are is pretty remote, and we don’t get many visitors. Injured children are hard to look at, and some people can’t handle it,” he said simply. He had already shown her which of her scars he would be working on next. Dr. Talbot had explained to her his part of the procedure, on her face. She was pleased with the results so far, and the makeup for the show had worked well, making her face easier to look at for viewers.
She thought about it that night, and told Dick Dennis the next day that she would go in April, a few days after he arrived there himself. He said the timing worked well for him.
Her surgery was the next day, the anniversary of the attack on Zaventem, and of her mother’s death as well, and Cyril’s. She hadn’t heard from his mother again, and didn’t expect to. They had lost their only child, and she didn’t sound as though she was doing well when she responded to Véronique’s sympathy letter, nor was she warm toward Véronique, as though she had led him to his death. His mother needed someone to blame. Many of the survivors did, or some anyway. For the most part they were compassionate, but some of the parents were very bitter, which Véronique could understand.