Keeping Faith

by Jodi Picoult

  "Ian Fletcher had sworn that he wouldn't exploit Faith. It was the only way I agreed to allow him in to film my mother's stress test. When I turned away for a minute, he had his cameraman pan over to Faith, and I jumped between her and the lens."

  "What was going through your mind at that moment?"

  "That he not film Faith. The last thing I wanted was more media interest in her. She's just a little girl; she ought to be allowed to live like one."

  "Do you think that you were emotionally unstable at that moment?"

  "No. I was steady as a rock. I was completely focused on keeping Faith safe."

  "Thank you," Joan says. "Now I want you to consider Mr. Metz's final question. Under this scenario of his, Faith would be moved to a new environment. She'd be living with the woman she caught in a compromising position with her father. She's got a new sibling coming. She's not in familiar surroundings. Not to mention the fact that her groupies from the front lawn will probably drive across town to take up residence at her new home. Does this sound like an accurate representation?"

  "Yes," Mariah says.

  "Good. Now, during this trial, did Colin convince you that he was the better parent for Faith?"

  "No," Mariah answers, confused.

  "Did Dr. Orlitz, the state-appointed psychiatrist, convince you that Colin was the better parent for Faith?"

  "No," she says, her voice a little stronger.

  "Did Dr. DeSantis, the private psychiatrist for the plaintiff, convince you that Colin was the better parent for Faith?"

  "No."

  "How about Allen McManus?"

  "No."

  "Mr. Fletcher?"

  "No.

  "What about Dr. Birch? Did he convince you that Colin is the better parent for Faith?"

  Mariah smiles at Joan and pulls the microphone a little closer. Her voice is strong and steady. "No. He did not."

  After the defense rests, the judge calls a recess. I go to wait in the tiny conference room Joan and I have been using, and after a few minutes the door opens and Ian enters. "Joan told me I'd find you here," he says quietly.

  "I asked her to."

  He doesn't seem to know how to respond.

  "Thank you for finding Dr. Fitzgerald."

  Ian shrugs. "I sort of owed it to you."

  "You didn't owe me anything."

  Pushing away from the table, I stand and walk toward him. His hands are deeply set in his pockets, as if he is afraid to touch me. "Maybe I should thank you, too," he murmurs. "For what you didn't say."

  I shake my head. Sometimes there aren't words. The silence between us is flung wide as an ocean, but I manage to reach across it, to wrap my arms around him.

  His hands close over my back; his breath stirs the hair at the nape of my neck. He will be with me. Right now, that's enough. "Mariah," he whispers, "you may be my religion."

  The judge calls the guardian ad litem to the stand. "The attorneys and I have all read your report. Do you have anything you'd like to add at this point?"

  Kenzie nods briskly. "I do. I think the court needs to know that I am the one who let Mariah White into the Medical Center at two A.M. on Sunday."

  At the plaintiff's table, Metz's jaw drops. Joan looks into her lap. The judge asks Kenzie to explain herself.

  "Your Honor, I know that you can hold me in contempt of court and send me to jail. But before you do, I'd like you to hear me out, because I've become very attached to the child in this particular case, and I don't want a mistake to be made."

  The judge eyes her warily. "Continue."

  "As you know, I've filed a report. I met with many people, and I originally concluded that if the child's life was at all endangered, moving her out of that situation would be best. So in the paper you're holding in your hand, I recommend that custody be granted to the father."

  Metz claps his client on the shoulder and grins.

  "However," Kenzie says, "I made a decision late Saturday night, after a doctor told Mrs. Epstein that Faith might be dying. I didn't think that the U.S. justice system had the right to keep a mother from saying good-bye. So I called Mrs. White and told her to come to the hospital. I thought, Your Honor, that I was simply being kind...and I would have expected my report to stand on its own.

  "But then something happened." Kenzie shakes her head. "I wish I could explain it, really. All I know is that I saw, with my own eyes, a child who was comatose and failing come back from the edge once her mother was at her side." She hesitates. "The courtroom is no place for personal observation, Your Honor, but I want to share a story with you because it has relevance to my decision. My great-grandmother and great-grandfather were married for sixty-two years. When my great-grandfather died of a stroke, my great-grandma--who was in perfect health--passed away two days later. In my family we've always said that Nana died of a broken heart. It may not be medically accurate...but then again, doctors concentrate on people's bodies, not their emotions. And if it is possible to die of grief, Judge Rothbottam, then why on earth can't someone be healed by happiness?"

  Kenzie leans forward. "Your Honor, I switched from being a lawyer to being a guardian ad litem ten years ago, and I have a fairly legal mind. I've tried to come at this from a rational viewpoint, and it just doesn't work. I had people telling me about visions and crying statues and the passion agony of Christ. I had other people telling me about religious hoaxes. I heard about people who were very sick, then completely healthy after brushing Faith in the hospital elevator.

  "I've witnessed a lot of inexplicable things lately, but none of them point to the fact that Mariah White is hurting Faith. In fact, I think she saved her life. And it's not going to help this little girl one whit to be moved away from her mother's influence." She clears her throat. "So I'm sorry, Judge. But I'd like you to completely disregard my report."

  The courtroom erupts in confusion. Malcolm Metz furiously whispers to Colin. The judge rubs his hand over his face.

  "Your Honor," Metz says, getting to his feet, "I'd like to give a closing argument."

  "You know, Mr. Metz, I bet you would." Rothbottam sighs. "But you're not the one I want to hear from. I've listened to you and Ms. Standish, and to Ms. van der Hoven, and I don't know what the heck to believe. I need a little lunch break--and I'd like to spend it with Faith."

  Mariah turns toward her daughter. Faith's eyes are wide, confused.

  "What do you say?" Judge Rothbottam asks. He comes out from behind the bench and walks toward the gallery. "Would you like to have lunch with me, Faith?"

  Faith glances at her mother, who nods imperceptibly. The judge holds out his hand. Faith slides hers into it, and walks out of the courtroom beside him.

  She likes his chair. It goes around and around, faster than the one at her father's office. And she likes the music he plays. Faith glances at the collection of compact discs on one shelf. "Do you have Disney stuff?"

  Judge Rothbottam plucks out a CD, slides it into the player, and the strains of the Broadway-cast recording of The Lion King fill the room. As he shrugs out of his robes, Faith gasps.

  "What is it?" he asks.

  She looks down, feeling her cheeks heat the way they do when she's caught stealing a brownie before dinner. "I didn't know you had clothes on under there."

  At that, the judge laughs. "Last time I checked." He sits down across from her. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

  She nods over the turkey sandwich he's placed on the massive desk for her. "Me, too."

  He draws a chair closer. "Faith, who do you want to live with?"

  "I want them together," she says. "But I can't have that, right?"

  "No." Judge Rothbottam looks at her. "Does God talk to you, Faith?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Do you know that a lot of people are interested in you because of that?"

  "Yes."

  The judge hesitates. "How do I know if you're telling the truth?"

  Faith lifts her face to his. "When you're in court, how do you tell?"
>
  "Well, people swear it. On a Bible."

  "If I'm not telling the truth...then wouldn't they just be saying words over some book?"

  He grins. So much for God not belonging in a courtroom; He's already there.

  But Faith's God, according to the media, is a She. "People have pictured God as a man for many years," he points out.

  "My teacher in first grade said that long ago people used to believe all kinds of things, because they didn't know any better. Like you shouldn't take a bath, because it could make you sick. And then someone saw germs under a microscope and started to think different. You can believe something really hard," Faith says, "and still be wrong."

  Rothbottam stares at Faith, and wonders if maybe this girl isn't a prophet after all.

  Judge Rothbottam slides his half-glasses down his nose and glances out at the plaintiff, the defendant, and the tightly packed gallery of reporters. "I stood up several days ago and told you that in a trial, there's only one God, and that's the judge. A very wise young woman reminded me that's not necessarily the case." He holds up the Bible. "As Mr. Fletcher pointed out so eloquently during his swearing-in, we do still rely on convention in a court, regardless of one's religious tendencies.

  "Now, I'm not here to talk about religious tendencies. I'm here to talk about Faith White. The two subjects are related, but not mutually exclusive. As I see it, we've raised two questions here: Is God talking to Faith White? And is Mariah White harming her child?"

  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 Anti-christ. 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."

  EIGHTEEN

  For where your treasure is,

  There will your heart be also.

  --Matthew 6:21

  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 hea
d, 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 to 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."