by Jodi Picoult
She hesitates; I can hear it in her voice. "What, Ma?"
"Nothing."
"It's something," I press. "What?"
"Nothing. It's just that Colin came, too."
"Oh," I answer, in a very small voice. "Did Faith wake up?"
"No. She didn't even know he was here."
I'm sure my mother says this to make me feel better, but it doesn't. I hang up the phone, realizing moments later that I never said good-bye.
Ian has walked the streets of New Canaan for the past three hours. The town is tiny and dark, and every store is closed, with the exception of the Donut King, and he can't go back inside there yet again without looking like a jerk. The problem is, there's nowhere else to go.
He sits on the curb. He doesn't want to head back to the Winnebago and face the people who work for him, people sure to be confounded by his testimony today. He doesn't want to go anywhere near the hospital, where he's certain to be accosted by the press.
He does want to be with Mariah, but she won't let him.
Ian doesn't know when, exactly, he went from thinking that Mariah was some kind of "Mommie Dearest" putting her kid up to this kind of attention, to thinking that Mariah was the victim in this whole mess. Most likely it was in Kansas City. He'd done such a thorough job of pretending to want to help Mariah that at some point it became an honest emotion.
But, just maybe, Mariah wasn't the one who needed help. Maybe that distinction belongs to Ian himself.
He's never really asked himself why he's an atheist, but the answer's there for the taking. Knocked down as a child by fate, he couldn't buy into the concept of a loving God. After all the people close to him were taken away, he couldn't buy into the concept of love, period, so he re-created himself into someone who wouldn't have to. And, like the Wizard of Oz, he's learned if you hide long enough behind a curtain of bluff and principle, people stop trying to find out who you are in the first place.
Maybe there is more to a person than a body and a mind. Maybe something else figures into the mix--not a soul, exactly, but a spirit that hints you might one day be greater, stronger than you are now. A promise; a potential.
Mariah has fallen apart and pulled herself back together. She may weave in the wind, but she stands there, scars and all. And, unlike Ian, she's stood up to the same bolt of lightning that knocked her down before, willing to risk it again. For all intents and purposes, she, too, should shy away from love. But she doesn't--and no one knows that better than Ian himself.
Mariah might have tried to kill herself once; she may be the one whose credibility and mental stability are being debated in a court of law; but in Ian's eyes, she is one of the strongest people he's ever met.
Ian stands, dusts off his bottom, and starts walking down the street.
The last person I expect to find when I open the door is Colin. "Can I...?" He gestures inside. I nod, step back, so that he can enter the house he used to own.
I close the door behind him and hold my hand to my throat, needing to physically keep all the horrible things I want to say from springing to my lips. "You shouldn't be here. Neither of our attorneys would allow it."
"I don't really give a flying fuck what Metz thinks right now." Colin crosses to the stairs and sits down, burying his face in his hands. "I just saw Faith."
"I know. My mother said you were there."
Colin glances up. "She's--God, Rye. She's so, so sick."
After the initial shock of fear that runs through my system, I force myself to relax. After all, Colin was not around the first time her hands bled. He wouldn't know what to expect.
"They say that her heart's going to be all right..."
"Her heart?" I say, my voice dry as ash. "What about her heart?"
Colin seems honestly surprised that I do not know. "It stopped. This afternoon."
"It stopped? She went into cardiac arrest and nobody told me? I'm going there."
Colin is on his feet in one smooth motion, grabbing my arm. "You can't. You can't, and I'm so sorry about that."
I stare down at his hand on my arm, his skin on my skin, and then suddenly he is holding me and I am crying against his chest. "Colin, tell me."
"She's been intubated, to help her breathe. And they used defibrillator paddles--you know, those things--to get her heartbeat steady again. Her hands started bleeding again after she had a seizure." I hear the tears in his throat, and stroke his back. "Did we do this to her?"
I look at him, wondering if he is accusing me. But he seems too upset for that; I think he is truly just shaken. "I don't know."
Suddenly I remember the night that Faith was born. It was only a month after I'd left Greenhaven, and still buffeted by the drugs I'd been given, I found that there was very little that seemed real. Not Colin, not my home, not my life. It wasn't until the pain of a contraction sliced down my middle that I realized I'd come back.
I remember the lights that were set up at the foot of the birthing bed, like some Hollywood production. I remember the plastic mask the doctor wore, and the smell of latex when she snapped on her gloves. I remember the sound of Colin's head striking the edge of the nightstand when he fainted, and the fuss that was made over him while I splayed my hands over my belly and waited my turn. I remember thinking of my heart, balanced just above the baby's feet, like the ball on a trained seal's nose. And then there was the remarkable drive that came when I realized the only way to stop the pain was to get it out of me, to push and push until I was certain I'd turn myself inside out, even as I felt her head widening and changing me and the small knob of her nose and chin and shoulders as they slipped in succession, streaming between my legs in a shuddering rush of breath and blood and beauty.
But what I remember the most was the nurse who held Faith up before her umbilical cord had been cut. "What a beautiful daughter!" She brought her closer, so that I could see the swollen face, the pumping legs. And the baby, purely by chance, kicked the umbilical cord. I felt it all the way up inside me, an odd tug and a trembling that continued straight along to the belly of my daughter, so that Faith's eyes startled open, too. And I thought for the first time, We are connected.
Colin buries a sob against my hair. "It's all right," I say, although it isn't, not by a long shot. I turn in his arms and realize I am glad he is here; I am glad we can do this for each other. "Sssh," I soothe, as I might have soothed Faith if I'd been by her side.
December 4, 1999
First thing Saturday morning Joan gets a cup of very strong, very black coffee at the Donut King and enough jelly rolls to last through an extended day, and then continues fifty yards down the street to her law office. She starts to set the key in the door and finds it already unlocked. Thinking of vandals, robbers, and, actually, Malcolm Metz, she pushes the door so that it swings open.
Ian Fletcher is hunched over her secretary's computer. He looks over his shoulder. "It's about time. I've printed out everything I could find on the Web about Munchausen by Proxy. I think your best bet's going to be pointing out the specificity of the disorder. There were only two hundred cases nationwide last year. What's the chance of Mariah being one of them? Plus, she doesn't have the background for it. She wasn't abused as a child, and if Millie's on the stand--"
"Wait. What are you doing here?"
Ian shrugs. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm your legal assistant."
"The hell you are! Mariah doesn't want you within state limits anymore, much less helping out on the case. For all I know, you might be playing double agent again, trying to bring us down before we even get to present our side."
"Please," Ian says seriously. "This is what I do for a living. I dig things up. I unearth. I disprove. If Mariah won't let me help her, at least let me help you."
Realistically, Joan has a marginal shot at finding out enough to bring down Dr. Birch--that is, if she's working alone. She doesn't have the time or the resources Metz does at his high-end law office; plus, she doesn't even know where to start.
Joan hands him the box of jelly rolls. "You're hired," she says.
When my mother calls first thing that morning, I let her have it. I yell at her so long and so loud for lying to me about Faith's condition that I bring her to tears. She hangs up the phone, and immediately I feel awful; I can't even call her back to apologize.
Colin stayed until 4:00 A.M. It crossed my mind that his new wife was probably trying to find him. Then again, maybe she wasn't. Maybe that's why she was his new wife.
Before he left, he kissed me good-bye. Not with passion, but with an apology that slipped between my lips like licorice, and tasted just as bitter.
The house is quiet. I sit in Faith's bedroom, staring at her doll-house and her art set and her Barbies, trying to get up the nerve to touch them. I sit so rigidly that my jaw hurts, just from keeping it clenched.
I ought to be with her now, the way my mother used to stay with me when I was sick, holding the cup of juice to my lips, circling the Vicks VapoRub over my chest, sitting there when I woke up, as if she hadn't moved a muscle all night.
It's what mothers do. They keep vigils; they put their children first.
It is exactly what I have not done.
My first act of motherhood was to blame my unborn child for her father's infidelity. My second act of motherhood was to swallow a rainbow of pills, although the doctors did not know what the consequences would be to a fetus. They told me that it was more important to cure my depression than to worry about the risks to the baby. And I--fool--believed them.
I spent months hoping Faith would be born healthy, so I'd be off the hook. Then, when she was, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. But now I see it was a waste of time. Motherhood isn't a test, but a religion: a covenant entered into, a promise to be kept. It comes one-size-fits-all, and it camouflages flaws like nothing else. How could it have taken this to make me see that Faith is the one thing in my life I got right on the very first try?
I look down at my hands. Without realizing it, I have wandered into the bathroom, picked up the razor I use to shave my legs, and snapped open its harmless plastic holder, so that I'm now holding the lethal edge of a blade.
With care, I throw it into the trash.
"What do you mean we can't speak to her?" Malcolm Metz yells. "Do you have any idea what we had to do to get upstairs? It's a fucking zoo in the lobby."
A nurse turns toward Dr. Blumberg. "What's up?"
"A bunch of AIDS patients. Their T-cell counts are suddenly in normal range."
"No kidding?" the nurse says.
"I don't care if the bodies in the goddamned morgue are now eating lunch in the cafeteria," Metz growls. "I want Dr. Birch to be granted permission to speak to Faith White."
"Oh, he has my permission," Blumberg says. "Just don't expect him to get too far."
At the sound of raised voices, Kenzie comes out of Faith's room. She's been reading to her for the past three hours, even though Faith is unconscious. "What's going on?"
"This is the fifth time Dr. Birch has tried to interview Faith," Metz says. "My case will be seriously hampered if we don't walk into court on Monday with this information."
"I'm sorry Faith can't accommodate you," Kenzie says tightly. "She's comatose."
At that, Metz looks surprised. "She is? I thought Standish was exaggerating to win sympathy. Christ, I'm sorry." He turns to Birch. "Maybe you could speak to her doctors."
"I'd be happy to talk to you," Dr. Blumberg says.
But before he and Dr. Birch can leave, Millie suddenly sways on her feet. Malcolm Metz catches her in his arms before she hits the floor.
"Millie?" Kenzie asks. "When was the last time you got some rest?"
"I don't know. I guess it's been a while."
"Go lie down. There are enough free beds around here. I'm not going to let anything happen to Faith."
"I know. I just don't want to miss it when she comes around. Maybe if I close my eyes for ten minutes..."
"Take your time," Kenzie answers, but she does not say what she's thinking: that Faith may never wake up.
That night I dream I am talking to Faith's God.
She is, quite definitely, a She. She comes to sit at the foot of my bed, and I stare at the bright edges of Her hair, at the glow at the seams of Her fingers, like a child cupping a flashlight. Her mouth is turned down at the corners, as if She, too, is missing Faith.
A peace settles over the bed like an extra blanket, but I feel myself stirring and sweating. "You," I say, anger clawing its way up my chest.
"She isn't in pain."
"Do you think that makes it all right?" I shout.
"Believe in what I'm doing."
I cannot trust myself to answer right away. I think of Ian, of what he has said about God. "How can I believe in You," I whisper, "when You would do this to a little girl?"
"I'm not doing it to her; I'm doing it for her."
"Semantics don't make much difference when you're about to die."
For a while God just sits on the edge of my bed smoothing Her hand over the covers and leaving behind a silver patina, like the gilding of great ages gone by. "Did you ever consider," She says softly, finally, "that I know what it's like to lose a child?"
December 5, 1999--2:00 A.M.
Faith goes into cardiac arrest again an hour later. This time Kenzie stands outside the glass windows with Millie, watching the doctors fight to stabilize the little girl. After several minutes of confusion and brutal intervention on Faith's body, Dr. Blumberg approaches them. He knows of the court order, and disapproves. He invites Millie to step aside so they can speak privately, but she waves away the suggestion and tells him to speak in front of Kenzie.
"She's hanging on, but her heart stopped beating for a while, and she lost oxygen. We won't know if there's brain damage until she wakes up."
"What..." Kenzie tries to ask a question, but it lodges in the pit of her stomach.
"I can't say for sure. Kids can tolerate a lot more than adults. But in Faith's case, things are happening that don't follow logic." The doctor hesitates. "There's no apparent medical cause for Faith's cardiac distress, but her body is failing. She's comatose. We're keeping her alive on machines. And I don't know how long that's going to last."
Millie tries to steady her voice. "Are you telling me--"
Blumberg inclines his head. "I'm telling you that friends and family should think about saying their good-byes," he says gently. Then he turns to Kenzie. "And I'm telling you to think about whether a piece of paper signed by a judge is as important as that."
As he walks away, Kenzie finds herself frozen in place. It is early Sunday morning. Only twenty-four hours till they all return to the courtroom. If that's even necessary.
At the sound of a muffled sob, she turns. Millie's face is stoic; even now, she is trying to be the strong one.
Kenzie embraces her. They both know what has to be done. "Don't call Colin," Millie blurts out. "He's the one who's keeping Mariah away. He doesn't deserve to be here."
She watches the older woman clutch on to her anger like a lifeline. "Millie," she says softly, "I'll be right back." Then Kenzie walks down the hall to the nearest pay phone. Digging into her pocket, she pulls out a piece of paper, and dials the phone number on it.
The telephone rings in the middle of the night. "Mariah," Kenzie van der Hoven says, "I want you to listen carefully."
Now, nearly twenty minutes later, I feel foolish walking through the entrance of the hospital wearing my mother's spare pair of reading glasses and an old wig Faith used to use for dress-up. I act as if I know where I am going, and, true to her word, Kenzie is waiting at the elevator banks.
Once the doors of the elevator close behind us, I put my arms around Kenzie in gratitude. She told me, on the phone, that Faith was not getting better. That her heart had stopped again. That she might even die. "At this point I don't care about the judge," Kenzie said. "You ought to be here."
She did not point out the obvious--that keeping me from Faith had done no apparent good, that, in fact, since I've been away from her, she's been failing faster.
I move through the halls of the hospital quietly behind Kenzie, terrified that at any moment someone is going to jump out and point a finger, tag me, cart me off to jail. I concentrate instead on keeping a center of calm, like a hard little nut in my chest, so that when I see Faith--no matter how bad it is--I do not fall apart.
At the elevator it strikes me that something is odd. There is virtually nobody in this hospital. Even at two in the morning, there should be red-eyed doctors, tired relatives, women having babies. As if Kenzie can read my thoughts, she turns to me. "The rumor mill says Faith's healed a bunch of patients," she explains simply. "Just by being here."
For only a moment, I wonder if it's true. Then I think: at what cost? After bringing my mother back to life, Faith's strength had been sapped. How many patients have come in contact with her in the past two days? And suddenly I understand why Faith is so much sicker this time.
Healing others has been killing her.
Just before the elevator doors open, I say what has been on my mind since Kenzie telephoned. "You have to call Colin."
"I already did. He told me to call you."
"But--"
"He didn't care about the court order either. He said you ought to be here, too."
Then we are on the pediatric ICU floor. I follow Kenzie to Faith's room--she's been moved since I last saw her. At the glass window, I stop. My mother is sitting on a chair beside Faith's bed, and I'm struck by how old she suddenly looks. Faith...well, I would not have recognized her at all. Full of tubes and pads and wires, she looks so small on the narrow bed.
A nurse moves like a shadow as I enter. My mother stands, embraces me. Without speaking, I sit down in the spot she's vacated.
Right now I understand those mothers who can lift automobiles off children who are pinned, women who step heroically in front of bullets. I would give anything to be the body that is lying so still. I would give anything to take her place.
