Keeping Faith

by Picoult, Jodi

  He leans back in his chair, folds his hands over his stomach. “I’m going to start with the second question first. I can see why Faith’s father is concerned. I would be, too. I’ve heard astounding things from Mr. Metz and his succession of experts,

  and from Ms. Standish and her experts, and even from the guardian ad litem assigned to this case. But I don’t believe that Mariah White is capable of intentionally or unintentionally harming her daughter.”

  There is a gasp to the right of the gallery, and the judge clears his throat. “Now … for that first question. Everyone came into this courtroom–myself included–wondering if this kid was really some kind of miracle worker. But the job of this court isn’t to ask whether Faith’s visions and hand wounds are of divine origin. We shouldn’t ask if she’s Jewish or Christian or Muslim, if she’s the Messiah or the Antichrist. We shouldn’t ask whether God’s got something important to say to a seven-year-old girl. What this court must ask, and answer, is this: Who listened, when this particular seven-year-old girl had something important to say?”

  Judge Rothbottam closes the legal file spread out in front of him. “Based on all the testimony I’ve heard, I think Mariah White’s ears are wide open.”

  Keeping Faith

  EIGHTEEN

  For where your treasure is,

  There will your heart be also.

  –Matthew 621 December 6, 1999, Early Evening “Who the hell am I,” says Ian,

  “to tell you all what you should and should not think?”

  His voice rings as high as the rafters in the Town Hall, unsettling the old bird’s nest that’s been there for as long as anyone can remember.

  In front of the makeshift podium, two cameramen weave back and forth. A confection of spotlights and reflectors decorates the sides of the stage where the voting booths are usually set up in November. And in a shoving, jostling knot are the representatives of over two hundred networks and newspapers.

  The Town Hall’s auditorium is the only place large enough in New Canaan to accommodate Ian’s no-holds-barred press conference. Announced with two hours’ lead time in the lobby of the courthouse, it is packed. The media want to hear what Ian Fletcher will have to say,

  now that custody has officially been retained by Mariah.

  Ian smiles. “Why are you guys even here?

  Why does it matter what I have to say?”

  A reporter in the rear yells out, “Because of the free coffee?”

  Laughter ripples through the press, as well as Ian. “Maybe.” He sweeps the crowd with his gaze. “For years I’ve made a name for myself condemning God, and the people who believe in God.

  Trying to win people over to my side. I know y’all are waiting to hear what I have to say about Faith White, and you’re going to be disappointed. I told the truth to Mr. Metz on the witness stand –nothing happened in Kansas City. I’m not going to say whether that girl’s got God in her back pocket. I’m going to say that it isn’t my business, and it isn’t your business.”

  He rocks back on his heels. “Quite a kick, isn’t it? That after building a whole bankable empire on atheism, I’d tell you religious beliefs are a private affair? And I can see it right now, you shakin’ your heads,

  saying that reporters can damn well make anything their business–but it’s not so. There’s a difference between a fact and an opinion; any newsman knows that. And religion, for all that it’s provocative, isn’t about only what people believe in–it’s also about the simple act of believing. Just like I have a right to walk out here and say that God is a farce, Faith White has a right to shout out her bedroom window that God’s alive and well. My opinion, versus her opinion. But nowhere in that tangle is there a pure, hard fact.

  “So who’s right? The answer is … I don’t know. And I shouldn’t care. My mama used to tell me you can’t change the way someone thinks about God or their politics, although I’ve certainly given both a run for my money. But,

  you know, I might wind up living next door to the pope one day. Or down the road from Faith.

  Or in the hotel room beside the Dalai Lama’s. And going from door to door trying to convince them I’m the one who’s right is going to be a waste of time. No, correction: It has been a waste of time. We don’t have to accept each other’s beliefs … but we do have to accept each other’s right to believe them.”

  He nods toward the rear of the auditorium.

  “Now, I said this was open season on me, and I don’t go back on my promises. Anyone got a question?”

  “Yeah, Ian,” calls a reporter from Time. “That’s a nice, politically correct speech, but what kind of proof did you get on the kid’s miracles?”

  Ian crosses his arms. “My guess is,

  Stuart, that you really want to ask me if Faith’s a healer.” The reporter nods.

  “Well, I saw things I’ve never seen before, and that I doubt I’ll see again. But you might say the same thing about surviving a world war, or watching the northern lights, or assisting at the birth of Siamese twins. None of which are, by definition,

  miraculous.”

  “So is she seeing God?”

  Ian shakes his head. “I think you’re all going to have to decide that for yourself. For some people,

  Faith’s the genuine article. For others, she doesn’t come close.” He shrugs,

  effectively ending his comment.

  “Sounds like a cop-out to me,” says a reporter in the front row.

  Ian glances down at her. “Too damn bad. I’m up here speaking my mind.

  Maybe you just don’t want to hear what’s on it.”

  “Will Pagan Productions be dissolved?”

  calls out a voice.

  “I certainly hope not,” Ian says.

  “Though we may have to rewrite our corporate goals.”

  “Are you involved with Mariah White?”

  “Now, Ellen,” Ian chides the Washington Post reporter, “if I’m up here going out on a limb to tell you God is nobody’s business but your own, what do you think I’m going to say about a personal relationship?” He glances back over the crowd, finally pointing to a young man wearing a CBS News baseball cap. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Fletcher, if you’re not going to tell people God’s a crock, what will you do?”

  He grins. “I don’t really know. Are y’all hiring?”

  “Let me take you out to dinner,” I say impulsively, but Joan shakes her head.

  “I think you’ve got your own party to attend.”

  By unspoken agreement, she lets me walk her to her car while my mother takes Faith to the bathroom. “You deserve to be there, too.”

  Joan smiles. “My idea of a victory dance is a lot of bubbles in a tub and a very large glass of wine.”

  “I’ll send over some Calgon, then.”

  She laughs. “You do that.”

  We have reached her car. Joan sticks her briefcase in the back and then turns, arms crossed. “You know, it’s not over. Not by a long shot.”

  “You think Colin will appeal?”

  She shakes her head, thinking of the thousands of people who have heard about Faith, who will still want a piece of her. “I’m not talking about Colin,”

  she says.

  In Vatican City, Cardinal Sciorro has spent the morning organizing his desk at the Sacred Congregation for the Preservation of the Faith.

  He sets decrees in formal files, he passes along deposition information, he stacks and he sorts. Several cases, he tosses into the trash can.

  Faith White’s he sets in an “active”

  pile, under a large stack of other issues the office is considering, and has been for years.

  I have just entered the courthouse to find Faith and my mother when I am waylaid by Colin. “Rye!”

  He catches me by the shoulders before I plow into him in my haste. “Hey.”

  Immediately, I feel a rush of triumph, and on its heels, guilt. “Colin,” I say evenly.

  “I, uh, wanted t
o say good-bye to Faith.

  If that’s all right with you.”

  He is staring at his shoes, and I can only imagine how difficult this must be for him. I wonder where Jessica is. I wonder,

  uncharitably, if he’ll go home and stroke his new wife’s belly and think about replacing Faith. “It’s fine. I just have to find her.”

  But before I have a chance, she tears around the corner, her dress hiked up on her bottom.

  I tug it down and smile, tuck her hair behind her ear. “Daddy wants to say good-bye.”

  Her face crumples. “Forever?”

  “No,” Colin says, kneeling down. “You heard the judge. I get to see you on weekends. Every other one.”

  “So, like, not this one but maybe the one after that.”

  He tips his forehead against hers.

  “Exactly.”

  This could have been me. Colin could be taking Faith home and I could be the one begging for a minute of her attention. I could be bent on one knee, trying hard not to cry.

  I have never understood how children know you better than you know yourself, how they can touch you when you need it most or offer a distraction when the last thing you want is to focus on your problems. Faith strokes her father’s cheek. “I’ll still be with you,” she says, and she slides her hand into his shirt pocket.

  “Right here.”

  She leans forward, flutters her eyes closed, and kisses a promise onto his lips.

  Malcolm Metz sits in the parking lot of his law office in Manchester and considers if he should just go home for the day. He knows that by now people will have heard. By now he might even have been subtly demoted, doomed to negotiating real-estate transactions or probate controversies.

  “Well, shit,” he says to his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Gotta go back inside sooner or later.”

  He walks up the curiously quiet steps into the curiously quiet lobby. Usually when he returns–hell, every time–there’s a throng of reporters waiting for him to throw off a witty comment about how easy it was to win. He doesn’t even get a grunt from the security guard standing beside the elevator, and he takes this as a harbinger of what is yet to come.

  “Mr. Metz,” the receptionist says as he comes through the double glass doors. “You’ve had messages from Newsweek, The New York Times, and Barbara Walters.” At this, he almost stops. Do they always talk to the losers,

  too?

  “Thanks.” He nods at the associates he passes, trying to cultivate an aura of absorption. He completely ignores his own secretary and goes into his corner office like a wounded lion seeking refuge in his den. He locks his door, something he never does. Then he closes his eyes and lays his head on his desk.

  Ma nish-tah-naw ha-lie-law ha-zeh me-call ha-lay-los.

  Why is this night different from all other nights of the year?

  Metz blinks. They are words from the Passover Seder. Words he spoke when he was Faith White’s age, the youngest Jewish boy in his family. Words that, until now, he did not remember.

  With slow, shaky movements, he rises,

  unlocks the office door, and props it open.

  My mother is the one who notices first. “Why did I think they’d all have disappeared?”

  I stop the car just in front of the driveway.

  Faith is back, she is healthy, it is a new start. But the groupies and the press and the cult members remain, thicker than ever. The police are absent; there’s no one to help to clear a path so that we can enter safely. As I inch down the gravel, people reach for the car, smoothing palms over Faith’s window with light, tapping noises.

  “Stop,” Faith says quietly from the backseat.

  “What? Are you hurt?”

  As the car comes to a standstill, people jump on the hood. They pound on the windshield.

  They scrape at the paint, trying to get inside.

  Faith says, “I’ll walk.”

  At that, my mother puts her foot down. “I don’t think so, young lady. Those meshuggenahs will probably trample you before they know what they’re doing.” But before my mother and I can stop her, Faith pulls open the back door and vanishes into the swarm of the crowd.

  Immediately, I panic. I rip off my seat belt and get out of the car, pushing aside people in an effort to save Faith. I’m more worried for her now than when she was hospitalized, because these people do not want to make her better. They only want to make her theirs.

  “Faith!” I yell, my voice lost in the roar. “Faith!”

  Then the crowd falls back on either side,

  cleaved in two to form a narrow lane that leads to our front door. Faith stands halfway down it.

  “You see?” she says, waving.

  His body is lined with the light of the moon, and the stars fall into place around him. “Wow,” I say, as Ian steps into the house. “You actually used the front door.”

  “I actually walked up the front steps. And actually shoved about ten people out of my way.” Coming into the parlor, he locks his arms around my waist so that our legs and foreheads are pressed together.

  “You must be happy.”

  “V.”

  “Is she asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  I slide my hand down his arm and pull him to the stairs. “I saw your press conference on the news. You are being evasive.”

  Ian laughs. “God. You just can’t win with some people.”

  I lace my fingers with his. “You … hinted that we had something going on.”

  “We clearly must. After all, you did let me in that front door.”

  “Really, Ian,” I say softly. “What are you going to do?”

  He leans over, and I smell the night, still on his skin. He kisses my cheek. “Be with you.”

  I can feel myself blushing. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  Ian’s mouth traces the line of my neck, the edge of my ear. Then he pulls away, and stares at me until we are both perfectly still. “Why wasn’t it?” he says, and smiles.

  Her mother thinks she is asleep. She knows because she can hear the house settling like a fat lady arranging her skirts, twitching and creaking and sighing all around her. Faith sits up in bed and turns on the tiny lamp on the nightstand. She pulls up her pajama top, examining critically the thin ladder of her ribs, the rainbow bruises on her skin where tubes and needles were connected. Then she holds one palm beneath the lamp and feels for the small flap of skin where the hole was. It’s gone now, nothing but the smooth pink bowl of her hand.

  “God,” she whispers aloud.

  Nothing.

  She glances from the windowsill to the nightlight to the dresser. “God?”

  Faith tosses back the covers and gets onto her hands and knees. She checks under the bed, and then gathers all her courage and throws open the door of the dark, dark closet. She hears only the rhythm of her own breathing, and the fan from the bathroom down the hall. The round sounds of her mother and Ian, talking downstairs.

  “God?” she tries again.

  But with the same casual confidence she has that the sun is going to come up in a matter of hours,

  Faith knows that she is alone inside these white walls.

  Suddenly she is very cold, and a little scared.

  She dives beneath the covers, thudding hard enough as she sprints across the floor for her mother to come investigate. She hears her footsteps on the stairs, the creaky one at the count of seven, the muffle of her shoes once she hits carpet.

  She guesses how long it is before her mother is within spitting distance of the bedroom.

  “They asked a lot of questions,” Faith says just loud enough for her words to carry, her eyes on the slice of light from the nearly closed door. “But then again, they’ve never seen Y.” She holds her breath. From the corner of her eye she sees the knife edge of her mother’s tired smile.

  With her heart pounding and her fists clutching the comforter, Faith continues to talk to no one at all, until she hears her mother’s voice again
downstairs, until she is certain that nobody is listening.

  THE END