Keeping Faith

by Picoult, Jodi

  Did you see my hospital records?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you believe I was resurrected?”

  Kenzie flushes. “I don’t know if “resurrected” was the term for it, exactly–“

  “Then what is the term for it? A miracle?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of an extremely irregular nervous-system response.”

  “Aha,” Millie murmurs. “Do you believe in God, Ms. van der Hoven?”

  “That’s not the issue here. And I think I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions, Mrs.

  Epstein.”

  The older woman continues blithely. “It makes me a little antsy, too. I’m not a praise-be-to-Jesus type–probably wouldn’t be even if I was a Christian.”

  “The issue in this custody hearing is where the best home is for Faith, ma’am. With all due respect, that doesn’t leave a lot of room for God.”

  “See, I don’t agree with you.” Millie picks at her teeth with her thumbnail and shakes her head. “A more religious woman would say that there’s always room for God, but that’s neither here nor there. To me, you can’t do your job without asking yourself whether or not you believe. Because if you don’t, then Faith must be lying–and that’s going to affect your decision about where she belongs.”

  “Mrs. Epstein, you aren’t a guardian ad litem.”

  Millie looks at Kenzie squarely.

  “No. But you’re not her grandma.”

  Before Kenzie can respond, the waitress arrives. “How you doing, Millie?” she says,

  with the familiarity of a town where one can walk down the street and actually recognize people.

  “Irene, do they do up the fish and chips in canola oil?”

  The waitress laughs. “You think this is The Four Seasons? Far as I know, it comes out of a Mrs. Paul’s freezer box.”

  Millie reaches across the table and pats Kenzie’s hand. “Go with the soup. It won’t make you sick later.”

  But Kenzie orders only a Coke. “What we need here is a deli,” Millie muses.

  “You have any idea how long it’s been since I had good pastrami?”

  Kenzie’s lips twitch. “A lifetime?”

  Millie laughs. “Touch`e,” she says, then runs her forefinger along the edge of a packet of Equal. “I used to have tea parties with Faith when she was about three. She’d come over my house,

  and we’d take out all my grandmother’s linens, and we’d dress up in old bathrobes I had from the forties–the ones with those pink feathers on the cuffs and collar, what is that called?”

  “Marabou.”

  “That’s right. Marabou. Isn’t that some kind of reindeer?”

  “That’s caribou.” Kenzie smiles. “Mrs.

  Epstein, I appreciate your concern for your granddaughter. You can rest assured that I’m only trying to make a decision in her best interests.”

  “Well, if you think Faith’s lying, then it must be pathological and contagious. Because her mother believes her, and so do about five hundred people camped outside, not to mention a host of doctors who saw my heart stop beating.”

  Kenzie is silent for a moment. “Remember the broadcast of War of the Worlds?”

  “Of course. My husband and I were just as scared as anyone.”

  “That’s all I’m saying, Mrs. Epstein.

  People hear what they want to hear. They believe what they want to believe.”

  Millie slowly sets down her glass of water and unconsciously rubs her hand over her heart. “What do you want to believe, Ms. van der Hoven?”

  Kenzie does not hesitate. “That whatever I recommend will be right for Faith. And you, Mrs.

  Epstein? What do you want to believe?”

  That time can be turned back. That nightmares stop. That Colin never entered my daughter’s life. “I want to believe there’s a God,”

  Millie says clearly. “Because I sure as hell know there’s a devil.”

  “Hunstead,” Metz calls from his throne at the end of the conference table, “you and Lee get confirmation. I want a copy of the ticket that got her to Kansas City–“

  “Sir?” an associate asks. “Are we talking about Kansas City, Missouri, or Kansas City, Kansas?”

  “Where the fuck have you been for the past hour,

  Lee?” Metz asks. “Hunstead, fill in your anamnesis-challenged colleague as to what we’ve been discussing while he’s been dreaming of Baywatch.”

  “How about rental-car agencies?” Hunstead suggests. “If Fletcher was the one who provided the transportation, it should be in his name, or his production company’s. Otherwise Mariah White would have just used a credit card.”

  “Very nice,” Metz says. “Go with it. I also want copies of local hotel registers.”

  Two associates sitting to Metz’s right at the chrome-and-glass conference table scrawl the directive onto their pads. “Lee, I want to know all the cases in the past ten years where custody’s been overturned and given to the father. And I want to know why. Elkland, start scouring our list of experts for psychiatrists. We need one who’s willing to say that once someone’s a nutcase, they’re always a nutcase.” He glances up, palming an apple that’s been sitting in front of him. “What do you call a lawyer encased in concrete at the bottom of the ocean?”

  The young lawyers glance at each other. Finally Lee raises his hand. “A good start?”

  “Excellent! You win the deposition this afternoon,

  with the court psychiatrist who’s evaluated Colin White.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Metz laughs. “I’m going to fucking get down on my knees and pray to fucking Allah.”

  He jots several notes while the younger lawyers scatter to do his bidding, then pushes the intercom button. “Janie, I don’t want to be bothered.”

  It used to be a joke between them; he used to say, “I don’t want to be bothered unless God calls.” What made it funny, of course, was that most people in the firm didn’t discount that as an impossibility. But since taking on the White case, Metz has stopped using that tag line.

  He does not like Colin White, but then again he does not particularly like any of the clients he defends. He admires White, though, for the challenge the man presents. Metz has a golden opportunity here to show law at its best –something that has little to do with justice, and more to do with seduction.

  In a couple of weeks he will walk into a courtroom, take the life of a fuck-up like Colin White, and totally turn it around. He will do such a good job of re-creating his client that a judge and the press and maybe even the prosecutor will believe what he says.

  Metz laughs to himself. And they say surgeons have a God complex.

  He is not a religious man. In fact, the last brush with organized worship he can recall was at his own bar mitzvah. Metz remembers the red dress his mother wore, the boxy suit that hung on his frame, the surprising sound of his voice as it sang out the words of the Torah. He’d been so scared he nearly pissed his pants, and then later at the reception, when his aunts leaned over him in clouds of perfume to offer kisses and receive nachas, he’d come close to passing out. But it had been worth it when his father had come with him to the bathroom, stood beside him at the urinal, and said without meeting his eye, “Now you’re a man.”

  It was the first time Metz had used his words to remake a person. In that case, himself.

  He shrugs his attention back to the file before him. Colin White, Mariah White, Faith White. Those are the names on the legal documents; “God” comes up nowhere. And according to Malcolm Metz’s interpretation of the law,

  that’s as it should be.

  November 18, 1999 In her entire lifetime, Kenzie has never been inside a temple. She knows that she is gawking at the richly decorated Ark, at the unfamiliar Hebrew prayer books, at the bema. “It looks just like a church,” she says,

  and then covers her mouth in embarrassment.

  Rabbi Weissman grins. “We ga
ve up dancing naked around a fire about a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” Kenzie meets his eye.

  “I don’t have much familiarity with Judaism.”

  “Apparently you can still be an expert.” He gestures toward a pew. “So you want to know if Faith White’s really having conversations with God. Ms. van der Hoven, I have conversations with God. But you don’t see Hollywood Tonight! outside my office.”

  “So you’re saying–“

  “I’m saying that God, in His infinite wisdom, hasn’t shown up in drag to play checkers with me.” He takes off his glasses and polishes them on his shirt. “Wouldn’t you be a bit suspicious if a little girl with absolutely no legal training suddenly announced she could and would sit as a judge?”

  “Is that the same thing?”

  “You tell me. So she’s talking to God. So what. I don’t see God telling her that the Israelites are going to cream the PLO. I don’t see God telling her to keep kosher. I don’t see God even inspiring her to come to Friday-night services. And I have a very hard time believing that if God did choose to manifest Himself in human form to a Jew, He would choose one who hadn’t followed a code of Jewish living.”

  “As I understand it, religious apparitions don’t appear only to the pious.”

  “Ah, you’ve been talking to priests! Look at the Bible. The people who’ve been lucky enough to speak to God are either extremely religious or positioned to do the most good for the religion.

  Take an example: Moses wasn’t raised Jewish, but he embraced his religion after speaking with God. I don’t see that happening here.” He grins. “As comforting as it is for us to nurse the fantasy that God might buddy up to the average Joe who doesn’t go to church or temple and prays only to secure Super Bowl bets, it’s not realistic. God’s forgiving, but He’s also got a long memory, and there’s a reason Jews have been following a pattern of life for five thousand years.”

  Kenzie looks up from her notebook. “But I’ve met with Faith, and I don’t think she’s intentionally trying to take people for a ride.”

  “Neither do I. Don’t look so surprised.

  I’ve met with her, too, you know; she’s a sweet kid. Which leads me to believe someone’s putting her up to this.”

  Kenzie thinks back to the moment in Faith’s bedroom, when Mariah silenced her daughter with a single glance. “Her mother.”

  “That was my conclusion, yes.” He settles back against the pew. “I know Mrs. White isn’t much of a practicing Jew, but some things stay with you. If repressed childhood traumas can come back to haunt you, why not religious practice? Maybe it was ingrained at an early age in Mrs. White–preverbally, even–and she’s somehow communicated this to her daughter.”

  Kenzie scratches her chin with the top of her pencil. “Why?”

  Rabbi Weissman shrugs. “Ask that fellow Ian Fletcher. God can be a very lucrative silent partner. The question isn’t why, Ms. van der Hoven. It’s why not?”

  November 19, 1999 “You certainly raise a good point,” Father MacReady says. He walks beside Kenzie on the grounds of the church, setting up small tornadoes of leaves with the toe of his cowboy boot. “But I can raise a good one, too. Why would a child–or her mother, as you suggest–choose to be a stigmatic?”

  “Attention?”

  “Well, there is that. But seeing God isn’t nearly as big a draw as, say, seeing Elvis. And if you want to stick to Catholicism, I’d have to say that visions of Mary have always attracted a bigger, more emotional crowd than sightings of Jesus.” He turns to Kenzie, the wind ruffling his hair.

  “Stigmatics are subject to intense scrutiny by the Catholic Church. Far as I know, if you commune with Elvis, you only have to answer to someone like Petra Saganoff.”

  “It doesn’t seem odd to you that a little Jewish girl is having a vision of Jesus?”

  “Religion’s not a competition, Ms. van der Hoven.” He looks at Kenzie carefully. “What’s really upsetting you about this case?”

  Kenzie crosses her arms, suddenly cold.

  “I’m convinced Faith isn’t lying. Which means that I can’t help but believe that maybe someone else is putting her up to this …”

  “Mariah.”

  “Yes,” Kenzie sighs. “Or else …

  she’s really seeing God.”

  “And you have a problem with that.”

  She nods. “I’m a cynic.”

  “So am I,” Father MacReady says. “Every now and then, even up here, we get a crying statue or a blind man who can suddenly see, but these things don’t usually happen unless you’re David Copperfield. I’m the first person who’ll tell you that devout faith can change a person. But work miracles? No way. Heal?

  Uh-uh. And the truth is, the only piety Faith’s got going for her is in her name. She didn’t grow up believing in God. She doesn’t care even now, really, who God is.

  Except for the fact that God is a friend.”

  Father MacReady stares toward the edge of the church’s property. The sun has broken through the clouds, reflecting in blue and gold rays like a stock photo on religious paraphernalia.

  He can remember his mother pulling the car over to sigh at the beauty of a moment like this. “Look at that,

  Joseph,” she’d say. “It’s a Jesus sky.”

  “Ms. van der Hoven,” he muses, still staring off into the distance, “have you ever seen the sun set in Nepal?”

  Kenzie follows his gaze to the dazzling palette of the sky. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Neither have I,” Father MacReady admits.

  “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”

  Vatican City, Rome The forerunner of the Office of the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith was instituted in 1231 by Pope Gregory IX,

  and occasionally carried out its mission by stretching suspects on the rack, searing them with live coals, flogging, and burning them at the stake. It has been a long, long time since the Inquisition, and the office is now devoted to furthering correct Catholic doctrine rather than censuring heresy. Yet Cardinal Sciorro sometimes walks through the halls and smells ashes;

  sometimes he wakes in the night because he’s heard people scream.

  The cardinal prefect likes to think of himself as a simple man, a holy man–but a fair man. Since the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith acts like a court of appeal, he knows he is well suited to his position. He wears responsibility as surely as he wears his mozzetta, and it weighs just as heavily on his shoulders.

  He is in his office, sipping his morning chocolate and reading over paperwork that’s been piling up, when he first comes across it. “The MotherGod Society,” he says slowly, testing the words on his tongue; they leave a bitter aftertaste. He skims the brief: A group of Catholic women of significant numbers wish to appeal the censure of His Excellency the Bishop of Manchester, claiming that the words of one Faith White, who is not Catholic, are not heretical.

  The cardinal prefect calls to his secretary, an attentive monsignor named Reggie with the look of a beagle about him. “Your Eminence?”

  “What do you know about this MotherGod Society?”

  “Well,” Reggie says, “they were demonstrating in St. Mark’s Square yesterday.”

  These militant Catholic women are becoming more and more of a force. For a moment, the cardinal feels a pang of nostalgia, for the way the world was before Vatican II. “What did Bishop Andrews consider heresy.”

  “From what I’ve gathered, the Jewish visionary says God is female.”

  “I see.” The cardinal prefect exhales slowly, thinking of Galileo, Joan of Arc, of other victims of alleged heresy. He wonders what good it will do if, after this appeal, the MotherGod Society remains censured. He can stop these women from putting heresy into print, from spreading false dogma, because they’re followers of Catholicism.

  But Faith White–she’ll still be out there, saying whatever she wants.

  Lacey Rodriguez kicks off her shoes and s
lips the tape into the VCR. Not for the first time since she’s been an investigator, she mulls over how thoughtless employers can be. A few more perks, a better benefits package–hell,

  maybe even a personal greeting every now and then … any of these things might have gone a long way to keep Ian Fletcher’s cameraman from selling out a videotaped copy of Millie Epstein’s stress test for a measly ten thousand dollars.

  She pushes the fast-forward button on the remote control, not having the slightest interest in the old woman’s cardiac rhythms or huffing and puffing on the treadmill. Then she sits forward, transfixed, her fingertips covering her slowly spreading smile.

  Keeping Faith

  THIRTEEN

  Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary,

  the devil, as a roaring lion,

  walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.

  –1 Peter 58 November 23, 1999 “The man,” Joan announces, slinging her briefcase onto our kitchen table, “is an asshole.”

  Neither my mother nor I blink an eye.

  We’ve heard Joan rant this way about Malcolm Metz before. I sit down across from her as she shuffles through papers. “The good news,” I say, full of false cheer, “is that in a few weeks you’ll never have to see Metz again.”

  Joan looks up, surprised. “Who’s talking about Metz?” She leans back in her chair, massaging her temples. “No, today I had the singular pleasure of deposing Ian Fletcher. The guy’s twenty minutes late and wouldn’t answer to anything beyond his name and address.

  Back in third grade he must have learned to say “I take the fifth,” and he’s been waiting for a chance to use it ever since.” Shaking her head,

  she hands Mariah a list. “All I got out of him is that he’s going to be a pain in the ass on cross.”

  Mariah takes the paper, trying to get her head around Joan’s comment. Ian, a witness for Malcolm Metz? For Colin?