Keeping Faith

by Picoult, Jodi

  willing her to come toward the window. “Don’t cry,

  sugar, when I can’t be there.”

  “I’m sorry. I– Oh, God, what you must think of me! It’s just this whole thing, Ian.

  One nightmare after another.”

  He takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to do a story on Faith, Mariah. I may even pull out of here entirely, make it look like I’m onto something else. At least until after the hearing.”

  “It won’t make a difference. There are plenty of other people left around to turn Faith into some kind of martyour. Did you see Hollywood Tonight!?”

  “No–why?”

  “Colin was on, breaking down and saying that Faith can’t live like this.”

  “He’s putting the media to work for him,

  Mariah. His lawyer’s just savvy enough to get his client’s face out in front of the public for sympathy.” He hesitates for a moment. “It’s not such a bad idea, actually. You ought to turn right around to Hollywood Tonight! and invite them to hear the other side of the story. Give ol’

  Petra an exclusive.”

  Mariah goes absolutely silent. “I can’t do that, Ian.”

  “Why, of course you can. I’ll coach you through it, just like the lawyer did for your ex.”

  “It’s not that.” Her voice is small and suddenly distant. “I can’t have a reporter asking me all kinds of questions, because there are things that have happened to me that I don’t want spread around.

  Things I haven’t even told you.”

  He learned long ago that sometimes the wisest course is to keep quiet. Ian sits on the edge of the Winnebago’s couch and waits for Mariah to tell him what he learned weeks before.

  “I was suicidal seven years ago, and Colin had me sent to an institution.”

  “I know.” Ian thinks of The Boston Globe, and feels his gut twist.

  “You … you do?”

  “Well, of course,” he says, aiming for a light tone. “Before I was smitten by your considerable charms, I was doing a story on you and your daughter.”

  “But–but you didn’t say anything.”

  “Not in public, no. And not in private, because it didn’t make any difference to me. Mariah,

  you’re the sanest person I know. And as for not having anything to live for anymore, well, I’m doing my damnedest to keep you from thinking that these days.”

  He hears it then, the joy breaking over her.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much for that.”

  “I aim to please.”

  “If memory serves, you hit the mark,”

  Mariah says, and they both laugh.

  Then there is a comfortable quiet between them,

  punctuated by the distant calls of owls and barking dogs. “You should do it, though,” Ian adds after a moment. “Have Petra Saganoff over. It’s the best way to show a great number of people that your little girl is just a little girl. Tell Petra she can shoot B-roll and do a voice-over as she sees fit, but no interviews.” He smiles into the phone. “Fight back, Mariah.”

  “Maybe I will,” she says.

  “That’s my girl.” He sees a shape appear at the window of the bedroom. “Is that you?”

  “Yes. Where are you?”

  He watches her turn, scan the darkness for a face she cannot see. Ian flickers the lights in the Winnebago. “Here. See?” Her hands come up to press against the glass, and Ian remembers them against the flat of his chest, cool and curious.

  “I wish I was with you now.”

  “I know.”

  “You know what I’d do if I were with you now?”

  “What?” Mariah asks breathlessly.

  Ian grins. “Go to sleep.”

  “Oh. That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  “Maybe that, too, then. But I haven’t had a night’s rest like I did with you in … God,

  well, years.”

  “I think … I think I’d like to wake up with you,” Mariah says shyly.

  “That would be a fine thing, too,” Ian agrees. “Now, get away from that window. I don’t want the whole crowd out here laying eyes on you.” He waits until he hears the covers rustle, Mariah pulling up the sheets to cover herself. “Good night.”

  “Ian?”

  “Hmm?”

  “About what you said before–you won’t leave now, will you?”

  “I’ll stay as long as you like,” he says, and then watches the small square of light in her bedroom go black.

  Mariah has no sooner put the phone on the cradle than she realizes her mother is standing in the slightly open doorway. She does not know how much Millie has heard, how long Millie was standing there.

  “Who was calling so late?” her mother asks.

  “No one. Wrong number.” With the weight of Millie’s gaze thrown over her like another quilt, Mariah turns onto her side, toward the window, toward Ian.

  For reasons Father MacReady does not understand,

  Father Rampini has not hightailed it back to Boston after sending along his recommendation that afternoon to Bishop Andrews. He has spent several hours in the guest room at the rectory, not packing but instead tying up the telephone line with faxes he sends from his laptop computer. So it is a surprise when Father MacReady comes downstairs for a glass of milk before bedtime and finds the visiting priest sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of wine.

  “Chianti?” Father Rampini says, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Why, Joseph,” he jokes in an Irish brogue, “where are you hidin’ the good malt whiskey?”

  Father MacReady grins. “I find it useful to break across cultural barriers every now and then.”

  “Want some?” Rampini hands the other priest a glass filled to the rim with wine, then lifts his own and downs it in one swift motion.

  Well, it’s not milk, but it’ll put him to sleep all the same. Father MacReady tips his own glass and finishes every drop.

  Rampini laughs. “Wanna have a spitting contest now?”

  “No thanks. I already feel sick. But I was taught it’s not good manners to let someone drink you under your own table.”

  The other priest smiles. “I’ll be a good guest. I promise to pass out neatly in my chair.”

  MacReady drums his fingers on the tabletop.

  “How long do you think you’ll .be a guest?”

  “If you need–“

  “No, no,” he says placatingly. “Stay as long as you want.”

  Rampini snorts. “You’re trying to think of a nice way to ask why I’m still here.”

  “The thought did cross my mind.”

  “Mmm.” The visiting priest scrubs his hands over his face. “I’ve been asking myself that,

  too. Do you know what I was doing all afternoon?”

  “Ringing up a tremendous telephone bill?”

  “Yes, but the diocese will pay for it.

  Actually, I was reading the work of a psychiatrist who talks about a young child’s image of God.

  There’s a theory that the earliest roots for God are tied to an infant looking up at his mother and knowing that it’s okay to close his eyes and imagine her, because when he opens his eyes she’ll still be there.”

  Father MacReady nods slowly, unsure of where this is going.

  “Then a kid gets to be six, seven. He hears about God on TV, sees pictures of angels. He doesn’t know what God is,

  really, but he knows from context that God is big and powerful and sees everything. There are two people the kid knows who fit that bill–his mom and dad. So he uses them as raw material. If he was cuddled a lot, he may come up with a representation of an affectionate God. If he was raised strictly, God might be more stringent.”

  Father Rampini tips the Chianti bottle over his glass again. “Conversely, the kid might attribute to God the things she wishes she had in a parent–unconditional love, protection,

  whatever.”

  He rubs a small circle of condensation into the tabletop. “So now we look at Faith Wh
ite,

  whose mother–by her own admission–hasn’t always been the most devoted of parents. What happens to a child who’s always wanted her mother’s attention? And then winds up, miracle of miracles, with only a mother in her life? What is she most likely to imagine God to be?”

  “A loving mother,” Father MacReady murmurs,

  and then picks up the Chianti and drinks straight from the bottle. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I thought you already wrote your recommendation to the bishop.”

  “I did.” Rampini winces. “There’s just … something.” He leans back in his chair, his gaze roaming the worn walls of the rectory kitchen. “If I could just make sense of why she’s seeing a woman. Why. That would tip the scales, you know? I mean, that crap I just told you–it’s psychology. Not theology. I can read it, but I can’t believe it in my heart.”

  “Maybe it’s not what she’s seeing,” Father MacReady says slowly. “Maybe it’s the way she’s interpreting it.”

  “How is that any different from what I just said?”

  “It is. Did you ever see that drawing, the one that if you look at it one way, turns into a bottle, and if you see it a different way,

  looks like two people kissing?”

  Father Rampini takes the wine away. “I think it’s time for you to stop.”

  “I’m perfectly sober. You know …

  whatchamacallits … optical illusions!

  Well, it could just be Faith’s frame of reference that’s wrong, not her vision.” At Father Rampini’s blank look, MacReady continues. “Say you’re a little girl who knows nothing about religion. Any religion. And you live in the nineties, in a fairly conservative town, where most people look the same. Then one day someone appears out of thin air. The person is about so tall, and has long brown hair, and is wearing a dress and sandals like your mother. What do you assume you’re seeing?”

  “A woman,” Father Rampini murmurs. “But it’s Christ–maybe young, without the beard–in traditional clothing.”

  “There’s no reason to assume that a little girl from New Canaan would know what men wore in Galilee two thousand years ago.” Father MacReady is smiling so hard, he thinks his face might split. He feels himself being yanked to his feet as Father Rampini grabs him in a bear hug.

  “Do you know what this means? Do you?”

  “That you’re going to make another long distance call on my phone,” Father MacReady says,

  laughing. “Go ahead. Call Bishop Andrews on my dime.”

  He follows Rampini to the guest room, where the other priest scrabbles around his cluttered desk for the Manchester phone number. “Of course,”

  Rampini mutters, “the Bishop’s Conference will say that Christ would make Himself known as the Lord fairly quickly, dress notwithstanding … but at least it’ll go to conference. Ah, here we are. Hand me the phone?”

  Father MacReady is not listening. He holds the portable phone in one hand and Father Rampini’s Saint-A-Day desk calendar in the other.

  He’s ripped off the page, so that the display is for tomorrow. Wordlessly, he hands it to the visiting priest.

  Saint Elizabeth of Schonau. Died 1146. Saint Elizabeth beheld a vision of a young woman sitting in the sun and asked an angel to tell her what it meant. The angel said, “The young woman is the sacred human nature of our Lord Jesus.”

  Father Rampini dials the phone. “I know,”

  he says after a moment into the receiver. “Wake him up.”

  Keeping Faith

  ELEVEN

  To whom then will ye liken God?

  or what likeness will ye compare unto him?

  –Isaiah 4018 When I was Faith’s age, I learned that I was going to hell.

  Ursula Padrewski sat behind me that year in school. She was tall for seven, with long braids that her mother coiled on top of her head like a sleeping rattlesnake. Her father was an assistant rector at the Episcopal church.

  One day on the playground she took each girl’s Barbie and plunged it headfirst into a puddle of rainwater. She came up to me with her hands on her hips and said Malibu Barbie had to get baptized.

  “What’s baptized?” I asked.

  She gasped, as if this were a word I should have known. “You know. Where you get dunked underwater for God.”

  “God didn’t dunk me underwater,” I told her.

  “They do it in church when you’re a baby,” she said, but not before she took a step back.

  “If you don’t get baptized,” Ursula confided, “you get thrown into a pit of fire and go to hell.”

  I was old enough to understand that my family didn’t go to church, which meant I probably had not been baptized, after all. That left in my mind the image of the ground opening up and flames reaching as high as my throat.

  I started screaming so loud that even after the playground monitor had wrestled me to the nurse’s office, no one could calm me enough to figure out what was wrong. My mother, summoned with a phone call, arrived ten minutes later.

  She skidded to a stop on the worn linoleum,

  laying her hands on my body to check for broken bones. “Mariah, what’s the matter?”

  She motioned the nurse away. “Mommy,” I asked, breath hitching, “did I get baptized?”

  “Jews don’t get baptized.”

  I burst into tears again. “I’m going to hell!”

  My mother wrapped her arms around me, and muttered something about prayer in public schools and Reverend Louis Padrewski. Then she tried to tell me about the Jews being the Chosen People, that I had absolutely nothing to worry about, and that there was no pit of fire.

  But I knew that my family was nothing like Joshua Simkis’s, who were also Jewish but worked very hard at it. Joshua, in third grade,

  couldn’t have milk whenever the cafeteria served hamburgers. And he wore a little crocheted yarmulke to school, tucked into his hair with a bobby pin. My family, well, we didn’t go to church–but we didn’t go to temple either. I hadn’t been baptized, but I didn’t think we were going to be Chosen.

  Eventually I was ready to go home. But as we walked to the car, I was careful to leap over the cracks of the sidewalk, thinking that at any moment they would split to reveal Ursula’s pit of fire. And that night, when my parents had long been asleep, I filled the bathtub with water and dunked Malibu Barbie. Then I stuck my head in and repeated a bedtime prayer I’d heard Laura Ingalls say on the TV show Little House on the Prairie. Just in case.

  October 30, 1999 In the morning, Joan calls me. “Just wanted to make sure you’re still alive,” she says, and although she is joking, neither of us laughs.

  “I thought I might stop by this afternoon, talk about a defense strategy.”

  The very concept makes me think of what Ian said the night before, about fighting back.

  Self-defense, by definition, involves putting oneself on the line. “Joan, did you happen to see Hollywood Tonight!?”

  “I’d rather do a bikini wax than sit through that show.”

  Not for the first time, I wonder who is responsible for their huge number of viewers.

  “Colin was on. With Malcolm Metz. They spoke outside the courthouse yesterday, and Colin talked about how Faith’s in danger and then started to cry.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about the media distorting your case. Thank God, the only person who will be hearing it is the judge, and–“

  “I think I ought to let Hollywood Tonight!

  come into my house and film Faith.”

  “You what?” It takes Joan a minute to get over her surprise, and I can fairly hear her stiffen. “As your legal counsel, I highly recommend against that particular course of action.”

  “I know it has nothing to do with the hearing, Joan.

  But the judge needs to see Faith as a normal little girl, playing with dolls and Legos and what have you. And for that matter, so do the other people who think she’s some saint. I don’t want to look like I’m hiding an
ything.”

  “You should never mix the media with the courtroom,

  Mariah.”

  “I shouldn’t sit here and let Colin walk away with my daughter either. I don’t want him planting ideas in people’s heads about me and Faith,

  when we’re perfectly capable of speaking for ourselves.” Hesitating, I add, “I’ve been at this point before, with Colin. And I’m not going to let him do it to me again.”

  I can hear her tapping something–a finger? a pencil?–against the edge of the phone. “No interviews, with either you or Faith,” she says at last, starting to hammer out a list of conditions.

  “Fifteen minutes of film footage, tops,

  and only in rooms that have been contractually agreed upon beforehand. And you don’t sign a goddamned thing until I see it.”

  “All right.”

  “You know this means I’m going to have to watch that damn show.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Joan sighs wearily. “Yeah,” she says.

  “So am I.”

  Lacey Rodriguez believes in starting at the beginning. And as far as she can see, the furor surrounding Faith White blossomed after the incident with her grandmother’s resurrection. She takes a small notebook from her tote bag and smiles at Dr. Peter Weaver, the cardiologist in charge of Millie Epstein’s case.

  For an attractive man, he’s a pill.

  He flattens his hands on the surface of his desk and glares at Lacey. “I understand that you’re only doing your job, Ms. Rodriguez.

  Which is why you must see that I can’t divulge any information about my patient.”

  She turns up the wattage on her smile.

  “And I wouldn’t ask you to. In fact, the attorney with whom I’m working is more interested in your knowledge of Faith and Mariah White.”

  Dr. Weaver blinks. “I don’t know them at all. Except, of course, for the rumors that we’ve all heard about the child. But medically, I can’t substantiate any claims of healing. For me the issue was not how Mrs. Epstein was resuscitated, but simply that she was.”

  “I see,” Lacey says, pretending to record every single word on a page of her notebook, when in fact the man’s said nothing at all of value.