by Jodi Picoult
His ratings are climbing again, which will last about as long as an ice cube in July, unless he manages to add fuel to the fire. Fuel that doesn't seem to be forthcoming from the Millie Epstein angle. He buries his head in his hands and considers his next move. One of the things he's learned is that there are skeletons in everyone's closet, things no one ever wants the world to discover. He, of all people, should know.
Allen McManus has just unwrapped his Twinkie when the personal line on his phone begins to ring. "Yeah?" he growls, picking up the receiver. He's told his wife not to call him at work. Christ, it's the only place he gets a little peace.
"Do you know about Lazarus?"
The voice is low, disguised. Certainly not his wife's. "Who the hell is this?"
"Do you know about Lazarus?" the voice repeats. "Who else had something to gain?"
"Look, buddy, I don't know what--" He hears a sharp click and a dial tone. "Lazarus. What the fuck."
It must be a Halloween prank, Halloween being just around the corner and everyone knowing, by virtue of Allen's byline, that he writes the obits. Certainly if some joker is going to bring up the idea of raising the dead, the call will be forwarded to Allen. He has just dismissed it from his mind when a fax begins to come in on the Obituary Department line. With a sigh, he walks over to the machine--probably some celeb whose passing was picked up on the AP wire--and squints at the grainy picture of a woman beneath the banner of The New Canaan Chronicle, wherever the hell that is.
WOMAN DIES; COMES BACK TO LIFE.
Lazarus.
Allen sits back down. He wishes he could remember what the Bible says, exactly, about Lazarus. Then again, he doesn't know if he's ever really read that story in the Bible. He leans across the aisle toward a colleague. "Barb, you got a Bible?"
She laughs. "Yeah, sure, right next to my Wite-Out. Why? You seen God?"
"Forget it," Allen scowls. New Canaan Chronicle. A nothing paper if he's ever seen one. Yet here is this story about a woman who came back to life right in that little piss-ant town.
New Canaan was where that lady psychiatrist was from, too.
Allen skims the article a second time. Buried in the fourth paragraph--there it is--Epstein's granddaughter...has been communicating with God.
Well, for Christ's sake. How many other kids in that town would fit Dr. Keller's description? Allen considers what this means--a little girl who sees and speaks to God, who suddenly can perform miracles. That's a front page on the New Hampshire section for sure.
Who else had something to gain?
That's what the caller said. Resurrection is certainly in Millie Epstein's best interests...unless it wasn't a resurrection at all. Allen glances at the article again. That Ian Fletcher guy is hanging around, which has to mean that he, too, senses something isn't quite right. Who, then, would benefit from a mock miracle? The kid, for one. But kids that age always have managers to promote their business.
In this case, it would probably be her mother.
October 7, 1999
Just after five in the morning Mariah hears the front door open. She bolts out of bed and tears down the stairs. Grabbing up an umbrella from the stand in the front parlor, she brandishes it like a bat and searches the shadows for an intruder. "Come on!" she yells, heart pounding. "You want pictures? You want an exclusive? Show yourself, you bastard!"
But nothing moves, nobody stirs. Cursing, she tosses the umbrella down and through the sidelight catches a glimpse of Faith, barefoot and in her nightgown, pushing a doll stroller across the grass.
Mariah glances at the small entourage at the edge of the road. The cult from Arizona remains blessedly asleep on the far side of the stone wall; the reporters who've waited for an appearance by Faith during the day are conspicuously absent. In fact, the only person watching Faith is Ian Fletcher, haggard and grim, standing in the doorway of the Winnebago.
"Hi, Mommy." Faith waves. "Want to play with me?"
Mariah swallows the protest she is about to make. "Your feet...aren't you cold?"
"No, it's nice out." Faith bends toward the stroller. "Isn't it?" she coos, and tucks a blanket around her doll.
Except the doll is moving. Its tiny brown fists beat at the morning fog, and below the curly cap of its hair is a wide, circular sore. Faith lifts the baby out of the stroller and cuddles him to her cheek. "What a good boy."
It is then that Mariah notices a slight woman hidden behind an ash tree at the edge of the driveway. She has a scarf wrapped around her head, and her eyes never leave the infant, although she makes no move to get him back from Faith.
Faith puts the baby back in her toy stroller and moves him to the doll high chair that she's dragged out to the front lawn, where she pretends to feed him pieces of toy fruit. The baby smiles and kicks his feet against the legs of the high chair. He laughs so loud that a photographer awakens and points a camera at Faith, taking pictures with alarming speed.
Mariah, jolted out of her stupor, steps off the porch and strides toward her daughter. "Sweetie, I think we have to go in now."
Faith squints at the sun pushing against the horizon. "Oh. It was just getting fun."
Mariah touches her hair. "I know. Maybe we'll come out later." As she says this, her gaze roams across the sparse crowd and locks on Ian Fletcher's impassive face. In all this time he has not moved, has done nothing more insidious than observe. Mariah forces her attention back to Faith. "I think you ought to bring him back to his mother now."
Faith carefully lifts the baby and presses her lips against the sore on his forehead. She walks to the ash tree and gives the infant to his sobbing mother. The woman clearly wants to say something to Faith, but she cannot catch her breath to do so. Faith touches her lightly on the hand, where her fingers cradle the baby's head. "Bring him back to play, okay?"
The woman nods and wipes her eyes. Faith slips her hand into her mother's, and Mariah is overwhelmed by the sensation of holding on to someone she does not know at all. How can it be that she grew Faith inside her, and felt her push her way into the world, and gave her a home for seven years, without knowing that this was coming?
She is about to step onto the porch with her daughter when she sees Ian Fletcher brazenly walking up the driveway. He's brought back the plastic doll stroller and the little feeding chair, as well as the small basket of toy fruits and vegetables. Mariah takes the toys from him. "Excuse us," she says stiffly.
He falls back, regarding Faith. "I wish I could."
After the unexpected appearance of Faith White, Ian returns to the Winnebago. He is even more sure of his suppositions now that he's watched her play like any other seven-year-old kid. Clearly, the ringleader is the mother. The moment she showed up, the kid stopped--the healer came to heel. For whatever reason, Mariah White is the mastermind behind this show.
He's seen charlatans before, men and women gifted at perpetuating a hoax. Usually they're in it for the money, or the fame. And that's the one thing that doesn't quite add up for Ian. There's something about Mariah's eyes that makes him think of a victim, instead of a swindler. As if she'd really rather this whole thing not be happening.
Hell, she's a good actress, is all. Beauty can be a terrific disguise, because of its power of distraction. The purity of her features, even stamped with sleep--those georgeous legs eating up the yard as she crossed to her daughter--why, that's just a decoy. More smoke and mirrors, like her little girl's miracles. Faith White is no more seeing God and raising the dead than Ian is himself.
October 8, 1999
"This," Rabbi Weissman says to Mariah, "is Rabbi Daniel Solomon."
The man in the tie-dyed shirt holds out his hand and grins. "I like to think I have the name of the wise king for a reason." Mariah does not crack a smile. She reaches behind her, where Faith is burrowing against her hip and peeking at the strangers.
"I'm the spiritual leader of Boulder's Beit Am Hadash Congregation," Solomon says.
Mariah glances at his shirt, at his long, ponytailed hair. Righ
t, she thinks. If you're a rabbi, I'm the queen of England.
"Beit Am Hadash," the rabbi explains, "means 'house of a new people.' My congregation is part of the Jewish renewal movement. We draw upon Kabbalah, as well as Buddhist, Sufi, and Native American traditions." He glances at Rabbi Weissman. "We'd like to know more about Faith."
"Look," Mariah says, "I don't really think I have anything to say to you." She would not have even let the rabbis inside, except for the fact that to leave them on the porch seemed inhumane. Mariah sends Faith into the playroom so that she can't overhear the conversation. "The last time I saw you, Rabbi Weissman, I got the distinct impression that you weren't very impressed with Faith. You thought this was an act I was making her perform."
"Yes, I know," Rabbi Weissman says. "And I'm still not convinced. But I took it upon myself to call Rabbi Solomon. You see, Mrs. White, after you left the synagogue, the strangest thing happened: A couple that was having marital problems reconciled."
"What's strange about that?" Mariah says, a familiar twinge in her chest as she lets her mind brush over Colin.
"Believe me," Weissman says. "They were irreconcilable, until the day you visited with your daughter." He spreads his palms. "I'm not explaining this very well. It was just that after I read the newspaper article about your mother, I was struck by the possibility that, in some people's minds, there might be a connection between this couple's reconciliation and Faith. It reminded me of something Rabbi Solomon had said at a rabbinic council a couple of years ago. We had posed the question of what God would say to a prophet nowadays. I said that there would have to be a message--you know, that peace is coming to Israel, or that this is the way to defeat the Palestinians--something that your daughter isn't hearing during her conversations with God. However, Rabbi Solomon felt that a divine message wouldn't be about ferreting out evil, but instead about how man is treating man. Divorce, child abuse, alcoholism. Social ills. That's what He'd want fixed."
Mariah stares at him blankly. Rabbi Solomon clears his throat. "Mrs. White, may I talk to Faith?"
She sizes up the man. "For a few minutes," Mariah reluctantly allows. "As long as you don't upset her."
They all walk into the playroom. Rabbi Solomon kneels, so that he is at eye level with Faith. "My name is Daniel. Can I tell you a story?"
Faith creeps around Mariah's hip, nodding shyly. "The people who come to my temple believe that before there was anything else, there was God. And God was so...well...full that creating the world meant shrinking a little bit to make space for it."
"God didn't make the world," Faith says. "It was a big explosion. I learned in school."
Rabbi Solomon smiles. "Ah, I've learned that, too. And I still like to think that maybe God was the one who made that explosion, that God was watching it happen from somewhere far away. Do you think it could have happened like that?"
"I guess."
"Well, like I was saying. There was God, sucking in to make some room for the world, filling vessels with energy and light and setting them into the new space. But during Creation, the vessels couldn't hold all the energy, and they broke. And all the sparks of light from God in these vessels got scattered around the universe. Pieces of the broken vessels fell, too, and became the bad things in the world--we call that clipot. My friends and I believe that our job is to clean up all the clipot and get rid of them, and to gather up all the bits of light that are scattered and get it back to God. So maybe when you say a blessing and eat a kosher chicken at Shabbat, the holy sparks in the chicken are released. If you perform a mitzvah for someone else--help them out a little--more sparks get released."
"We don't keep kosher," Mariah says to Rabbi Solomon. "We're not traditional Jews."
He plucks at his T-shirt and grins wryly. "Neither am I, Mrs. White. But Kabbalah--Jewish mysticism--can even explain why a little girl who has never gone to temple or said a prayer might be closer to God than someone else. No one can lift up all those sparks by himself. In fact, the ability to find sparks at all may be buried so deep in you that you stop believing there's a God. Until someone else comes along, with so much light in her that you can't help but see your own, and when you're together that light grows even brighter." He touches the top of Faith's head. "God may be talking to Faith because of all the people she's going to reach."
"You believe?" Mariah breathes, almost afraid to say it aloud. "You haven't even spoken to her, and you think she's telling the truth?"
"I'm a little more open-minded than Rabbi Weissman. The couple he was counseling...well, that all could be a coincidence with your daughter's visit. But then again, it may not be, and Faith may have the answers. If God was going to show up in 1999, I don't think He'd grandstand or preach. I think He'd be just as low-key as your daughter's suggested."
Faith tugs on the rabbi's sleeve. "He's a She. God is a girl."
"A girl," Solomon repeats carefully.
Mariah crosses her arms. "Yes, according to Faith, God is a woman. Can Jewish mysticism explain that?"
"Actually, Kabbalah is founded on the premise that God is both male and female. The female part, the Shekhinah, is the presence of God. It's what was broken when all those vessels shattered. If Faith is seeing a woman, it makes perfect sense. The presence of God is exactly what would make her able to heal and to have people congregate around her. What she may be seeing is a reflection of herself."
Mariah watches Faith scratch her knee, uninterested, and then asks the question she's been holding tight inside. "Boulder's a long way away, Rabbi Solomon. Why are you here?"
"I'd like to take Faith to Colorado with me, to learn more about her visions."
"Absolutely not. My daughter's not a spectacle."
The rabbi glances toward the windows that look out the front of the house. "No?"
"I didn't invite them here." She fists her hands at her sides and looks at Faith. "I didn't ask for this to happen."
"For what to happen, Mrs. White? God?" He shakes his head. "The Shekhinah doesn't go where she's not wanted. You have to be open to the presence of God before it comes to dwell. Which is maybe why you're having such a hard time with this in the first place." His eyes are like amber, holding the past preserved. "What happened to you, Mariah," he asks softly, "that makes you fight so hard to not be a Jew?"
She remembers the one time she went to church as a little girl, with a friend, how she was surprised by the fact that Jesus supposedly loved everyone, even people who made mistakes. The Jewish God, you had to make yourself worthy of. Mariah wonders, not for the first time, why a religion that prides itself on being open-minded makes you jump through so many hoops.
She is suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of two rabbis in her house. "I'm not Jewish. I'm not anything." She looks at Faith. "We're not anything. I think you should go."
Rabbi Solomon holds out his hand. "Will you think about some of the things I said?"
Mariah shrugs. "I don't know. I don't look at my daughter and see the presence of God, Rabbi Solomon. I don't look at her and think she's full of divine light. I just see someone who's getting more and more upset with what's going on around her."
Rabbi Solomon straightens. "Funny. That's what many Jews said two thousand years ago about Jesus."
October 10, 1999
The last thing Father Joseph MacReady does before donning his vestments is exchange his battered cowboy boots for the soft-soled black shoes of a priest. He's anticipating a full house. Early-morning mass on Sunday in New Canaan tends to be packed, most of the Catholic inhabitants of the town preferring to lose a few hours' sleep on the weekend if it means getting the rest of the day to relax in their gardens or on the golf courses in neighboring towns. Today, he thinks, might be the day. He braces his hands on the scarred table and lifts his gaze to the frieze of the crucifixion. He thinks back to the moment years ago when he was drifting cross-country and suddenly realized that he could have taken his Harley into the Pacific and still gotten nowhere.
Now, even a
fter decades of leading mass, he prays before each one for a sign that he made the right decision, a sign that God is with him. He stares at the crucifix for another second, hoping. But, as for the past twenty-eight years, nothing happens.
Father MacReady closes his eyes for a moment, trying to gather the Holy Spirit before walking into the church to his congregation.
There are eight people there.
Clearly stunned, he steps up and begins to deliver the mass, his mind whirling. There is no single reason he can think of to cause his flock to dwindle from eighty to eight over the course of a single week. He rushes through the Holy Eucharist and the sermon, shocking his altar boy, who is usually fidgeting less than ten minutes into the service. After the final "Amen," he hurries to remove the vestments and stand at the rear doors of the church to say good-bye to the faithful few. But by the time he gets there, half are already in the parking lot.
"Marjorie," he calls to an elderly woman whose husband died the year before. "Where are you off to this morning in such a hurry?"
"Oh, Father," she says, dimpling. "To the Whites' house."
Well, that only confuses him more. "You're going to Washington?"
"No, no. The little girl. Faith White. The one who's seeing God. I didn't think it made up for missing mass, myself."
"What about this little girl?"
"Haven't you read the Chronicle this week? People are saying she's got God talking to her. Even had some miracles come to pass. Brought a woman back from the dead, I hear."
"You know," Father Joseph says, considering, "I just might like to tag along."
Mariah turns the cylinder of cherry on the lathe, watching the ribbons of wood fly like streamers as she touches the rich block with a sculpting tool. It will be the fourth leg of a Queen Anne dining-room table for the current dollhouse. Her eyes wander to her work station, where the intricately carved trio of legs sits beside the oval island of the miniature tabletop.
Today is not the day for making furniture. In fact, she is not supposed to be working at all, at least according to her self-imposed calendar. But these days nothing has gone according to schedule. Yesterday was spent getting her mother discharged from the hospital, after over a week of testing and examination by cardiac experts. Mariah had wanted her mother to stay at the farmhouse, but Millie was having none of it. "You're five minutes away," she told Mariah. "What could go wrong?" Mariah had finally given in, knowing that she could cajole her mother into spending days, at least, at the farmhouse simply by saying that Faith needed company. She'd helped her mother get settled at home again, facing only one awkward moment when they both stopped suddenly at the coffin table. Without any complaint from her mother, she'd dragged it out to the garage, out of sight and out of mind.
