by Jodi Picoult
Colin liked me, he said, because I was sweet and could talk about nearly anything with knowledge and conviction--unlike most of the Magnolia Queen debutantes who had always been trotted out in front of him. But Colin was accustomed to that type of girl all the same. And whether it was unconscious or by intent, he turned me into one of them little by little--bringing me headbands to pull the hair off my face, introducing me to Bloody Marys on Sunday mornings, even buying me a cheap strand of fake pearls, to wear with everything from the Izod knit shirts I borrowed from his dresser to my own corduroy jumpers. I did whatever he asked, and more, intent on being as good a student at turning into a WASP as I had been at any academic subject. It never occurred to me that Colin was interested in what he could make me into, instead of what I already was. What struck me, then, was simply that he was interested.
The night of Winter Formals I put on a simple black dress and hooked on my pearls and even wore a special bra that made it look as if I had something to support. We were going to Colin's fraternity, and I was bound and determined to pass muster. But fifteen minutes before Colin was supposed to pick me up, he called. "I'm sick. I've been throwing up for an hour."
"I'll be right over," I said.
"Don't. I just want to sleep for a while." He hesitated, then said, "Mariah, I'm sorry."
I wasn't. I could not be sure of myself at a fraternity dance, but I knew how to take care of someone ill. I got into my faded jeans again and walked into town, where I bought chicken soup at the grocery store, fresh flowers, and a crossword-puzzle book. Then I went to Colin's dormitory room.
Which was empty.
I left the chicken soup still steaming on the threshold of the door and wandered aimlessly around the campus. Hadn't I expected this, deep down? Hadn't I told myself this was coming? Snow began to settle on the shoulders of my coat as I turned onto Fraternity Row. The parties were loud, with steam and laughter and fumes of grain alcohol spilling through the open windows. I edged to the back of Colin's frat house, stood on a milk crate, and looked inside.
A group of football players and their dates formed a Gordian knot--black tuxedos threaded with splashes of colored satin on a lap or draped over a neck. Colin was facing me, laughing at a joke I had not heard. His arm was looped around the waist of a beautiful redhead. I stared for so long that it took me a moment to realize that Colin was looking at me, too.
He chased me across campus to my room. "Mariah! You've got to let me explain!"
I yanked open the door. "You were sick," I said.
"I was! I swear!" His voice turned low and smooth. "When I woke up, I tried to call you, but you weren't here. The guys came by and convinced me to go over to the House for a while. Annette...well, she's nothing. She was someone who was hanging around."
Was I nothing? Was I someone who was hanging around?
Colin's fingers framed my face. "But I left her to be here with you," he said, reading my thoughts. His breath fell onto my mouth, a curious mix of mint and scotch, and I remembered how Colin had described gentling the horses he'd worked with in Virginia--by blowing into their nostrils, so that they would not fear his scent.
"Colin," I whispered, "why me?"
"Because you're different from them. You're smarter, and better, and--I don't know--I just keep thinking that maybe if I'm with you, it's going to rub off, so I'll be different, too."
It was an amazing concept--that somehow Colin had a new explanation for why I'd always remained on the fringe: not because I wasn't good enough for others, but because I was just waiting for others to flock around me. I leaned forward and kissed him.
Later, when we were undressed and Colin was rising over me like a great bird blocking out the sun, he asked, "Are you sure you want to do this?"
I was not only certain, I'd been waiting my whole life for this first time with a man who knew me better than I knew myself. I nodded and reached toward him, expecting magic.
When Ian comes into the cabin, we both freeze. With great precision I lay my spoon down beside my cereal bowl; he methodically closes the door behind him.
This time, I tell myself, I am not going to let it happen. I clasp my hands in my lap so that Ian cannot see them trembling. He's not Colin, but I am just as powerless now as I was then.
Suddenly I realize why I could not have turned Colin away years ago. I realize why I am getting involved, once again, with a man bound to hurt me. In my experience, falling in love has little to do with wanting someone. It is much more enticing to me to be wanted.
Without saying a word, Ian meets me halfway across the kitchen and pulls me into his arms. Inside, I am tumbling. He doesn't kiss, or stroke, or do anything but hold me, until I give in to the urge to close my eyes and let him lead.
Ian hands Mariah his cell phone and watches her disappear into the bedroom for privacy while she calls her mother. He can't blame her. As wonderful as it is to touch her, they are still strangers of a sort. He has not told her about his morning visit to Michael; she prefers to be alone when she speaks to Millie.
"So," he says amiably to Faith, "how about a game of gin?"
She looks up from her coloring book, wary. Well, he can respect that, too. The last time he was with her--at Lockwood--he'd practically snarled. He widens his grin a little, determined to be charming, if only for Mariah's sake.
Suddenly Mariah is standing at the doorway of the living room, her face white. "We have to go home," she says.
Boston, Massachusetts
In the Vatican there is an official whose sole responsibility is to find the holes in each proposed case of sainthood. He examines every action and writing and word spoken by the allegedly virtuous person in an effort to find one slip, one swear, one lapse from the faith that might prevent canonization. For example, he might unearth the fact that Mother Teresa missed vespers on July 9, 1947. Or that she took the Lord's name in vain when seized with fever. The Catholic Church even has a certain name for this position: Promoter of the Faith, or more irreverently, the Devil's Advocate.
It is a job Father Paul Rampini thinks he'd fill splendidly.
He doesn't live in Rome, though. And he is hardly important enough to be chosen for such a critical job, since he's only taught at seminary in Boston for sixteen years. But still, Father Rampini has met his fair share of the falsely venerated. As one of the foremost theologians in the Northeast, he's been called in to consult on many occasions when visionaries began spouting claims. Of the forty-six cases he's examined, not one received a favorable report to the bishop from Father Rampini. And most of them only chattered on about the usual: glowing images of Mary, a crucifix appearing in the mist over a valley, Jesus telling people the hour of reckoning was at hand.
The idea of a female God does not sit well with Father Rampini.
He turns off the ignition in his Honda and opens his briefcase. The pink pamphlet from the MotherGod society lies on top. Father Rampini can barely stand to look at it. It is one thing for someone like him--a priest who teaches at seminary, a man who has devoted his life to theology--to reconsider the procession of persons in the godhead. It is another thing entirely for a seven-year-old girl--Jewish, at that!--to start proclaiming God as a mother.
It is said that she's a healer. Well, that he might even accept, with the proper sorts of proof. And that she has stigmata--again, he'd like to see it with his own eyes. But to say that God is visiting her in a clearly female form...certainly it is heresy.
Father Rampini checks his reflection in the rearview mirror before opening the door of his car. He tucks the leather portfolio beneath his arm and steps out, smoothing the placket of his black shirt and adjusting the white collar.
The door to the rectory sweeps open, and Father MacReady stands on the threshold. For the briefest of moments they size each other up: parish priest to seminary priest, confessor to researcher, Irish to Italian. Father MacReady steps forward, filling the doorway, making it impossible for the visiting priest to enter.
Just as qui
ckly, he steps back. "Father." He nods. "I hope your trip was all right?"
"A little bit of rain near Brattleboro," Paul says, the mutual antagonism vanishing into professional politesse like smoke.
"Come in," Father MacReady says, glancing around. "Can I get your bag for you?"
"That's all right. I don't imagine I'll be staying."
This is news to Father MacReady. Although he isn't thrilled to share his home with some pompous, published yahoo from St. Joseph's, he knows that it will reflect poorly on himself if he fails to offer enough hospitality. "It's no trouble."
"No, of course not. I just believe I'll be able to wrap this case up in a matter of hours."
At that, Joseph MacReady laughs. "Do you? Maybe you'd better come inside."
On the plane home from Kansas City Ian sits apart from Faith and me, since we don't want to attract attention by being seen together. An hour into the flight, while Faith is busy listening to the movie, I hesitantly creep into the darkened first-class cabin and take the seat beside him. He reaches over the seat divider and squeezes my hand. "Hi."
"Hi."
"How's everything back there?"
"Fine. We had cereal for breakfast. You?"
"Waffles."
"Oh," I answer politely, thinking that this is not the conversation two people who made love so magically the night before ought to be having.
"Have you thought about the hearing?"
I've told Ian everything my mother told me: Joan Standish has received word that Colin's suing me for custody of Faith. "What can I do? He'll say that Faith shouldn't have to live with a hundred people shoving to take her picture and ask her questions every time she leaves the house. Who's going to disagree with that?"
"You know I'll do what I can to help," Ian says, but I do not know that, not at all. Now that we are headed home, the differences between us have sprung up, a minefield that makes it impossible to recall the seamless landscape of the night before. When we step off this plane, by necessity, Ian and I will be on very different sides of a controversial issue.
We both sit silently, brooding. Then Ian reaches for my hand, turning it over in his own before he starts to speak. "I have to tell you something, Mariah. I wanted Faith to fail. I thought you were putting her up to this...prophet show for the attention. I deliberately set out to win your sympathy, so that you'd take her to Michael."
"You already said this to me the other--"
"Hear me out, all right? I did and said whatever I could to get you there--including when I told you I was starting to believe in Faith. That was a lie, just one more thing to make sure you'd go to Lockwood. I was hot-miked that night. I taped you saying that Faith would give her healing powers a try. And when we got to Lockwood, I taped that whole damned fiasco. I was going to show the way you two ran your sting."
Stricken, I have to force my lips to move. "There's your proof, then."
"No. After Michael pitched his fit and I realized Faith hadn't been able to work a miracle, I was furious. I had my story, and it didn't make a heap of difference so long as Michael was still rocking back and forth. I lied to you, Mariah, but I lied to myself, too. I didn't want Faith to be a fraud, not when it came to my brother." He looks at me. "I tossed the tape into the pond in Lockwood's garden."
I glance into my lap, one question tumbling through my mind. I have to know, I have to. "Last night...Were you lying to me, then, too?"
Ian lifts my chin. "No. If you believe nothing else I've told you, believe that one thing."
I let out the breath I've been holding and pull away from him. "I would just ask you one favor--if you could hold off on your show until after the preliminary hearing..."
"I'm not going to get on the air and say Faith couldn't work a miracle."
His voice is so soft that I realize what I've overlooked: Any reference to Faith is going to circle right back to Ian's own brother. "You don't want anyone to know about Michael."
"That's not why. It's because Faith did work one."
I sit back, stunned. "She did not. I was there. I watched you leave the room."
"When I went back this morning, Michael and I had a real conversation. He made fun of me. And he reached right up and hugged me."
"Oh, Ian."
"It didn't last for long, and at first I thought I'd just dreamed it. But I didn't. I really had that minute with him, Mariah. One minute in twenty-five years." He smiles sadly. "One hell of a minute." His expression clears as he turns to me. "Autism...it isn't like that. It doesn't switch on and off like a faucet. Even on Michael's good days, he's always been...apart. But this morning he was the brother I'd always wanted to have--and that's beyond the power of science. I can't tell you that I believe in God. But, Mariah...I do believe Faith can heal."
The wheels of my mind turn. I imagine Ian stepping onto the front lawn and convoking the press. I imagine them hanging on his every word. I imagine the furor that will ensue when Ian, the most influential doubting Thomas of them all, announces that he's found the real thing.
They will never let go of Faith.
"Lie," I say quickly. "Tell everyone Faith couldn't do it."
"I don't lie. That's the whole point of the show."
By now I am on the verge of tears. "You have to lie. You have to."
Ian takes my hand and brings it to his mouth, kisses each finger. "Hush, now. We'll figure it all out."
"We?" I shake my head. "Ian, there is no 'we.' There's you and your show, and there's me and custody. If one of us wins, the other one loses."
He tucks my head onto his shoulder, his voice soothing. "Ssh. Let's pretend it's six months from now. And I already know the name of the high school you went to, and your favorite Disney dwarf, and how you take your coffee."
I smile hesitantly. "And we sit around on Saturday nights watching videos."
"And I wear my boxers to breakfast. And you let me see you without makeup."
"You already have."
"You see?" Ian brushes his lips across my forehead, erasing the worry. "We're halfway there."
No. Haverhill, New Hampshire
A. Warren Rothbottam likes his show tunes. He likes them so much, in fact, that he's personally paid to have his judge's chambers at the Grafton County Superior Court rewired with a state-of-the-art stereo system and cleverly hidden Bose speakers, which make it seem as if Carol Channing is robustly singing from behind the neat row of New Hampshire Procedural Law books. The music, however, is too big for the room, and often spills into the hall or through the walls. Most people do not mind. If anything, it gives a certain character to the courthouse that the squat, unremarkable building in the middle of nowhere does not manage by itself.
Today, before settling down behind his desk, Judge Rothbottam selected Evita. He closes his eyes and slices his hands through the air, humming loudly enough to be heard in the hall.
"Your Honor."
The timid voice cuts through his orchestration, and Rothbottam scowls. Punching a button on his intercom, the music dulls. "What, McCarthy? This better be good."
The clerk of the court is shaking. Everyone knows that when Judge Rothbottam puts on an original-cast recording, he isn't to be disturbed. Something about the sanctity of the music. But then again, an emergency motion is an emergency motion. And Malcolm Metz is too famous a lawyer to be put off by a county clerk.
"I'm sorry, Your Honor, really. It's just that Mr. Metz called for the third time in response to his emergency motion."
"You know what you can tell him to do with his emergency motion?"
McCarthy swallows. "I can guess, Your Honor. Would that be a denial, then?"
Scowling, Rothbottam reaches beneath his desk, and the glorious voice of Patti LuPone cuts off in the middle of a high C. The judge has never met Malcolm Metz, but one would have to be blind, deaf, and dumb to move in the circles of the New Hampshire legal system and not know about him. A highly paid rainmaker in a prestigious Manchester law firm, Metz has managed to reel in case a
fter case receiving plenty of TV coverage: the custody battle for Baby J that resulted in a nasty courtroom war between a surrogate mother and an adoptive family, the sexual harrassment suit won by a secretary against her senator boss, the current fiasco involving the split between a Mafia don and his bimbo wife. Rothbottam does not care for grandstanding; he leaves that to the legitimate theater. If his courtroom has to be violated by some asshole like Metz, the counselor will damn well play by the judge's rules.
"Just a second," Rothbottam says to the clerk. He thumbs through the motion to modify custody that Metz has filed that morning and the accompanying brief requesting an ex parte hearing. According to Metz, the child is in grave danger and needs to be removed from the mother's influence immediately; the ex parte motion is necessary before the defendant even gets wind of the motion to modify custody.
Just the kind of dramatic bullshit he'd expect from Malcolm Metz.
Rothbottam scans the brief. White v. White. He just heard the divorce a month ago, and there hadn't been any custody issues then. What the hell is going on?
He does not realize that he's spoken aloud until he hears McCarthy on the intercom. "Well, Your Honor, she's that girl. The one who's been on the news."
"Who is?"
"The one the father wants custody of Faith White."
The seven-year-old who is raising the dead and speaking to God and showing stigmata. Rothbottam groans. No wonder Metz is deigning to come to New Canaan, New Hampshire. "You know, I don't know Metz at all. I don't even want to know him, although I guess I'm not going to be so lucky. But I do know Joan Standish, who represented the mother in the divorce. Call Metz and tell him to be here at three o'clock. Let him know that Joan and her client will be joining him. I'll listen to his argument about the child being in danger, and we'll set a date for the custody hearing."
"All right, Your Honor." The clerk beeps off the intercom after agreeing to find the judge the latest newspaper stories about Faith White. Rothbottam sits at his desk for a moment, then walks to the bookshelves and extracts a new original-cast recording from the many stacks.
