by Jodi Picoult
The men and women who work at Pagan Productions in L.A. keep a healthy distance from Ian Fletcher, frightened by his bursts of temper, his ability to turn their own words back on themselves, and their instinct for self-preservation--in the event Mr. Fletcher is wrong about God, they don't want to be cast into the lake of fire along with him on Judgment Day. They are paid well to respect their employer's privacy and to firmly deny requests for interviews. It is for this reason that no one outside Pagan Productions knows that Ian leaves every Tuesday morning, and that no one has any idea of where he goes.
Of course, people who work for Ian hypothesize like mad: He has a standing appointment with a mistress. He attends a witches' coven. He calls the pope, who is, unbeknownst to his followers, a silent partner in Pagan Productions. Several times, on dares, the bravest employees have tried to follow Ian when he disappears in his black Jeep. He manages to lose all of them by winding around the Los Angeles Freeway. One swears that he tracked Ian all the way to LAX, but nobody believes him. After all, where can you fly round-trip in time to be back for a tape-editing session that same night?
On the Tuesday morning of the week that Ian kicks off his grasssroots antirevival at the Jesus Tree, a black stretch limousine pulls up alongside the Winnebago. Ian is discussing with James and several associate producers the reactions his recent comments have received in the press. "I've got to go," Ian says, relieved to see the car approach. He's had to juggle time and make concessions, since this week he is leaving from Maine rather than L.A.
"You've got to go?" James asks. "Where?"
Ian shrugs. "Places. Sorry, I thought I mentioned I'd be cutting out early today."
"You didn't."
"Well, I'll be back tonight. We can finish up then." He grabs his briefcase and his leather jacket and slams out the door.
Exactly two and one half hours later he crosses the threshold of a small brick building. He navigates the hallways with the confidence of someone who has been there before. Some of the people he passes nod as he makes his way to the recreation center, equipped with oak tables and televisions and chintz couches. Ian heads for a table in the far corner occupied by a man. Although it is warm in the room, Michael wears a crewneck sweater with a button-down oxford shirt.
His hands flutter over a pack of cards, which he turns over one at a time. "Queen of diamonds," he murmurs. "Six of spades."
Ian slips into the chair beside him. "Hey there," he says softly.
"King of hearts. Two of spades. Seven of hearts."
"How have you been, Michael?" Ian scoots closer.
The man's shoulders rock from side to side. "Six of clubs!" he says firmly.
Ian sighs, nods. "Six of clubs, buddy." He moves back a distance. He watches the cards flip in succession: red, black, red, black. Michael turns over an ace. "Oh, no," he says. "Ace--"
"In the hole," Ian finishes.
For the first time, Michael makes fleeting eye contact with Ian.
"Ace in the hole," he echoes, then goes back to counting cards.
Ian sits quietly until exactly one hour has passed since his arrival--not because Michael has acknowledged his presence but because he knows that Michael would notice an absence even a few minutes shy of the routine. "See you in a week, buddy," Ian murmurs.
"Queen of clubs. Eight of hearts."
"All right, then," Ian says, swallowing hard. He walks out of the building and begins the journey back to Maine.
Something Faith has recently discovered is that if you squinch up your eyes really tight and rub them hard with the balls of your thumbs, you see things: little stars and greeny-blue circles that she imagines are her irises, as if there's some kind of mirror on the insides of her eyelids that makes this vision possible. She pulls at the edges of her lids and sees a flurry of red, the color she thinks that anger must be. She has been doing it a lot, although yesterday, when school started, it didn't work that well. Willie Mercer said that only babies would carry a Little Mermaid lunchbox, and when she whispered to her guard, trying to ignore him, Willie laughed and said she was Looney Tunes. So she closed her eyes to shut him out, and one thing led to another, and before she knew it the school nurse was calling home to say that Faith wouldn't stop rubbing her eyes; it must be conjunctivitis.
"Do your eyes hurt, Faith?" Dr. Keller asks now.
"No, everyone just thinks they do."
"Yes. Your mom told me about school yesterday."
Faith blinks, squinting into the fluorescent lamps. "I wasn't sick."
"No."
"I just like doing it. I see things." She tips up her chin. "Try it," she challenges.
To her surprise, Dr. Keller actually takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes the way Faith has been doing. "I can see something white. It looks like the moon."
"It's the inside of your eye."
"Is it?" Dr. Keller puts her glasses back on. "Do you know this for sure?"
"Well, no," Faith admits. "But don't you think maybe your eyes are still looking around even when the lids are down?"
"I don't see why not. Do you see your friend when your eyes are closed like that?"
Faith doesn't like talking about her guard. But then again, Dr. Keller took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, something Faith never imagined she would do. "Sometimes," Faith says in the tiniest voice she can manage.
Dr. Keller looks at her carefully, which hardly anyone else ever bothers to do. Usually when Faith talks, her mother just says "Uhhuh" and "Really?" but she's actually thinking of a gazillion other things while Faith is trying to tell her something. And Mrs. Grenaldi, her teacher, doesn't look anyone in the eye. She stares just over the top of the kids' heads, as if they all have bugs crawling through the parts of their hair.
"Have you had your friend a long time?"
"Which friend?" Faith asks, although she knows she can't fool Dr. Keller.
The psychiatrist leans forward. "Do you have other friends, Faith?"
"Sure. I play with Elsa and Sarah and with Gary, when my mother makes me, but Gary wipes his snot on my clothes when he thinks I'm not looking."
"I mean other friends like your guard."
"No." Faith considers. "I don't know anyone else like her."
"Is she here with us now?"
Faith glances around, uncomfortable. "No."
"Does your guard talk to you?"
"Yes."
"Does she ever say scary things to you?"
Faith shakes her head. "She makes me feel better."
"Does she touch you?"
"Sometimes." Faith closes her eyes and jams her thumbs into them. "She shakes me at night to wake me up. And she hugs me a lot."
"That sounds nice," Dr. Keller says. "I bet you like that."
Embarrassed, Faith nods. "She says she loves me best."
"Then she's only your friend? Not anyone else's?"
"Oh, no," Faith says. "She has other friends. She just doesn't see them so much right now. It's like how I used to go over to Brianna's house all the time, but now she goes to a different school so I don't get to play with her a lot."
"Does your guard tell you about her other friends?"
Faith repeats several names. "She played with them a long time ago, not anymore."
Dr. Keller has become very quiet. This is strange; usually she asks Faith questions, questions, questions until Faith is ready to cover her ears. Faith watches the doctor's hands, which are shaking just a little bit, like the way her mother's did when she was taking pills.
"Faith," Dr. Keller says finally, "does it...do you like--" She takes a deep breath and continues. "Did you ever pray to have a friend like this?"
Faith wrinkles her nose. "What's praying?"
From the light in her eyes Mariah knows that Dr. Keller is on the verge of a breakthrough. Or maybe it has already happened; it is difficult to tell, since Faith is playing so nicely on the other side of the observation window. Dr. Keller sits down at her desk and gestures for Mariah to do the same. "Faith
mentioned some names to me today: Herman Joseph, from Steinfeld. Elizabeth, from Schonau. Juliana Falconieri." Dr. Keller glances up.
Mariah shrugs. "I don't think we know any Hermans. And is Schonau close to here?"
"No, Mrs. White," Dr. Keller says softly. "It's not."
Mariah laughs nervously. "Well, maybe she's making those names up. I mean, if she managed to create an imaginary friend...?" She lets her voice trail off, and she feels her palms begin to sweat, although she does not know why she's nervous.
Dr. Keller rubs her temples. "Those are very complicated names for a seven-year-old to spontaneously invent. And they aren't fabricated. They are, or were, people who existed."
More confused, Mariah nods. "Maybe it's something they're learning in class. Last year Faith was an expert on the rain forest."
"Does she attend parochial school?"
"Oh, no. We're not Catholic." Mariah smiles hesitantly. "Why?"
Dr. Keller sits on the edge of the desk, across from Mariah. "Before I married and became a psychiatrist, I was Mary Margaret O'Sullivan from Evanston, Illinois. I received communion every Sunday and had a big party for my confirmation and went to parochial school until I was accepted at Yale. In my school, I did learn about Herman Joseph. And Elizabeth, and Juliana. They're Catholic saints, Mrs. White."
Mariah is speechless. "Well," she says, because she does not know what is expected.
Dr. Keller begins pacing. "I don't think we've been hearing Faith just right. Her guard...the words...they sound alike."
"What do you mean?"
"Your daughter," Dr. Keller says flatly. "I think she's seeing God."
THREE
The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
--John Milton,
Paradise Lost
September 20, 1999
At Greenhaven there was a woman who believed that the Virgin Mary lived in the shell of her ear. "All the better," she told us, "to whisper prophecies." From time to time she invited the nurses and the doctors and the other patients to look. When it was my turn, I got so close that for the slightest moment I noticed a pulsing in some inner pink membrane. "Did you see her?" she demanded, and I nodded, not certain which of us this made seem more insane.
Faith has been out of school as much as she's in, and I haven't worked on one of my dollhouses in two weeks. We spend more time at the hospital than in our home. We know now, thanks to an MRI and a CT scan and a battery of blood work, that Faith does not have a brain tumor or a thyroid problem. Dr. Keller has asked her colleagues about Faith's behavior, too. "On the one hand," she said to me, almost all adult psychotic hallucinations have to do with religion, the government, or the devil. On the other hand, Faith is functioning in a totally normal way, with no other psychotic behavior." She wanted to put Faith on Risperdal, an antipsychotic drug. If the imaginary friend went away, that would be that. And if she didn't, well, I would cross that bridge if and when we came to it.
Faith can't be talking to God; I know this. But in the next breath I wonder, Why not? Things have happened before without precedent. And a good mother would stick up for her child, no matter how bizarre the story. But then again, if I start saying that Faith is seeing God, that she isn't crazy--well, everyone will think that I am. Again.
To give Faith the Risperdal I have to mash the pill in a mortar and pestle and mix it with chocolate pudding to mask the taste. Dr. Keller says that antipsychotics work fast; that unlike with Prozac and Zoloft, we don't have to wait eight weeks to see if it's taken hold. In the meantime, we just have to wait and see.
Faith is sleeping now, curled on her side beneath her Little Mermaid comforter. She looks like any other child. She must know I'm here, because she stretches and rolls over and opens her eyes. They are glazed and distant with the Risperdal. She has always favored Colin in features, but with a start I realize that right now she looks like me.
For a moment I think back to the months I spent at Greenhaven--watching the door close behind me and lock, feeling the prick of the sedative in my arm, and wondering why Colin and an ER psychiatrist and even a judge were speaking for me, when I had so much I wanted to say.
I honestly don't know what would be worse to find out in this case: that Faith is mentally ill or that she isn't.
"Sleep," Faith parrots. "S-L-E-E-P."
"Excellent." Second grade has brought spelling words our way. "Keep."
"K-E-E-P."
I place the list on top of the kitchen table. "You got them all right. Maybe you ought to be the teacher."
"I could be," she says confidently. "My guard says everyone has things to teach people."
Just like that, I freeze. It has been two days since Faith's mentioned her imaginary playmate, and I was beginning to believe the antipsychotic medicine deserved the credit. "Oh?" I wonder if I can reach Dr. Keller by pager. If she'll discontinue the drug just on the strength of my own observations. "Your friend is still hanging around?"
Faith's eyes narrow, and I realize that she hasn't been talking about her guard for a very important reason: She knows that it's gotten her into trouble. "How come you want to know?"
I think about the answer Dr. Keller would offer: Because I want to help you. And then I think about the answer my mother would give: Because if she's important to you, I want to get to know her. But to my surprise, the words that come from my mouth are entirely my own. "Because I love you."
It seems to shock Faith as much as it's shocked me. "Oh...okay."
I reach for her hands. "Faith, there's something I want to tell you." Her eyes grow round, expectant. "A long time ago, before you were born, I was very upset about something. Instead of telling people how I felt, I started acting different. Crazy. I did something that scared a lot of people, and because of it I was sent somewhere I really didn't want to be."
"You mean, like...jail?"
"Kind of. It doesn't matter now. But I wanted you to know that it's okay to be sad. I understand. You don't need to act different to get me to see that you're upset."
Faith's chin trembles. "I'm not upset. I'm not acting different."
"Well, you didn't always have this guard of yours."
The tears that have been building in her eyes spill over. "You think I made her up, don't you? Just like Dr. Keller and the kids at school and Mrs. Grenaldi. You think I'm just doing this to get noticed." Suddenly she draws in a sharp breath. "And now I'm going to have to go to that jail place for it?"
"No," I insist, hugging her close. "You're not going anywhere. And I'm not saying you made her up, Faith, I'm not. It's just that I was so sad once that my mind made me believe something that wasn't true--that's all I'm saying."
Faith's face digs into my shoulder as she shakes her head. "She's real. She is."
I close my eyes, rub my thumb against the bridge of my nose to ward off the headache. Well, Rome wasn't built in a day. I stand up and gather an empty platter, left over from the afternoon's treat of cookies. I am halfway to the kitchen when Faith tugs on the bottom of my shirt. "She wants to tell you something."
"Oh?"
"She knows about Priscilla. And she forgives you."
The plate I am holding drops to the floor.
When I was eight years old, I wanted a pet so badly that I began to collect small creatures--frogs and box turtles and, once, a red squirrel--and secretly bring them into the house. It was the turtle crawling over the kitchen counter that finally turned the tide. Rather than risk salmonella poisoning, my mother came home one day with a kitten, mine for the promise that I'd leave other creatures outdoors.
I named the kitten Priscilla, because she had been a princess in my favorite library book that week. I slept with her on my pillow, her tail curled over my brow like a beaver hat. I fed her the milk from my cereal bowls. I dressed her in doll clothes and bonnets and cotton socks.
One day I decided I wanted to give her a bath. My mother explained to me that cats hate to get wet and that the
y'd lick themselves clean rather than go anywhere near water to wash. But then again, she'd said Priscilla wouldn't like being swaddled and walked in a toy baby carriage, and she'd been wrong about that. So on a sunny afternoon when I was playing in the backyard, I filled up a bucket with water and called for the cat. I waited until my mother was out of sight and then dunked Priscilla into the water.
She fought me. She scratched and twisted and still I managed to hold her in the water, convinced I knew best. I scrubbed her fur using a bar of Ivory that I'd stolen from my parents' bathroom. I was very careful to wash all the trouble spots my mother always reminded me about. I was so careful, in fact, that I forgot to let her up to breathe.
I told my mother that Priscilla must have fallen into the bucket, and because I was crying so hard, she believed me. But for years I could feel the bones shifting beneath the slack fur. Sometimes, there is a tiny weight in my palm that I curl my hand around as I sleep.
I never got another cat. And I never told a soul.
"Mariah," my mother stares at me blankly. "Why are you telling me now?"
I glance toward my mother's guest bedroom, where Faith has gone to play with a tin of buttons. "Did you know?"
"Did I know what?"
"About Priscilla? That I drowned her?"
My mother rolls her eyes. "Well, of course not. Not until five minutes ago."
"Did Daddy?" My mind is doing calculations--Faith was only two when my father died; how much could she remember from back then?
My mother lays a hand on my arm. "Mariah, are you feeling okay?"
"No, Ma, I'm not. I'm trying to figure out how my daughter knows a secret about me that I never in my life shared with anybody. I'm trying to figure out if I'm having a setback or if Faith's going crazy, or if--" I break off, ashamed at what I am about to admit.
"What?"
I look at my mother and then down the hallway, where the sound of Faith's voice lingers. It is not something I can just say, the way other mothers brag about their child's ability to solve math problems or do the backstroke. It offers up an agenda. It draws a line, and forces the person I am speaking with to toe up. "Or if Faith's telling the truth," I whisper.
