Keeping Faith

by Picoult, Jodi

  Millie Epstein opens the front door,

  expecting to see Mariah and Faith back from their flight, and instead lays eyes on yet another man in a black shirt and backward collar.

  “What are they doing in Rome? Cloning you fellows?”

  Father Rampini draws himself up to his full five feet ten inches. “Ma’am, I’m here to speak to Faith White at the request of His Excellency, Bishop Andrews of Manchester.”

  “Who asked him?” Millie says.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I find it highly unlikely that my daughter or granddaughter called His Highness–“

  “His Excellency–“

  “Whoever,” Millie interrupts. “Look.

  We’ve had more priests around here than the St.

  Patrick’s Day parade in New York.

  I’m sure that one of them has the information you want. Have a nice day.”

  She begins to wedge the door closed but is stopped by the priest’s foot. “Mrs …?”

  “Epstein.”

  “Mrs. Epstein, you’re interfering with the process of the Roman Catholic Church.”

  Millie stares at him for a moment. “And your point is?”

  By now Father Rampini is sweating. He wonders if he should have taken the insufferable Father MacReady up on his offer to accompany him to Faith White’s home. At the time, the thought of twenty minutes on back roads with the ridiculously liberal priest had seemed like more penance than any man of God should have to face. Of course, he hadn’t known about this particular dragon at the gate.

  “All right,” he says, “why don’t you just get it over with?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You don’t like me, Mrs. Epstein. You don’t like priests. Go ahead and tell me why.”

  “You see? You hear my name, know I’m Jewish, and assume I’m prejudiced.”

  Father Rampini grits his teeth. “My apologies. Is Faith available?”

  “No.”

  “What a surprise,” he says dryly.

  Millie crosses her arms. “Now I’m a liar? Next you’re going to assume I’m some kind of shyster moneylender, I suppose?”

  “No more than I’m a Bing Crosby look-alike who drinks too much and seduces altar boys,” Rampini says tightly. “Now,

  I could always go ask for the cooperation of that police captain at the end of the driveway.”

  “Fortunately, we already fought the war to separate church and state,” Millie says.

  “My granddaughter isn’t home, thanks to all of you.”

  Rampini feels a muscle tic at the base of his jaw. This is the resurrected grandmother? And what did she mean by “all of you”?

  Who had driven the girl away?

  He looks into her feisty, lined face and sees, in a flicker of her eye, a monumental sadness that it has come to this. For a moment he even feels guilty. “Mrs. Epstein, maybe if you set forth some guidelines, I can take them back to the bishop and we can compromise on the best way to examine Faith without upsetting her …

  or you.”

  The woman snorts. “You think I was born yesterday?”

  “Actually, from what I’ve heard, that’s not so far off the mark.”

  “Where’s the other one? The nice priest?”

  Millie looks around the front yard for a sign of Father MacReady. “Mariah likes him.”

  Then she narrows her eyes. “Are you two doing a good-copstbad-cop thing?”

  By now Father Rampini has a headache. He thinks this woman might have done very well on their side, during the Inquisition. “We aren’t partners. I swear to God.”

  “Oh?” Millie says. “Yours or mine?”

  It has been a two-hour ride from Boston,

  but the heating system in the silver rental car has not warmed me at all. In the rearview mirror I can see Ian’s rental, a black Taurus, driving behind me. We decided that it would be best to arrive separately. Otherwise,

  how do we explain why we’re coming home together?

  “Lies,” I mutter. “More and more lies.”

  “Ma?” Faith’s voice comes, drowsy and rich.

  “You have a good nap?” I capture her attention in the mirror and smile. “There’s something we have to talk about. When I get home, I’m going to have to leave you with grandma and go visit the lawyer.”

  Faith sits up. “Does it have to do with Daddy again?”

  “In a way. He wants you to live with him.

  And I want you to live with me. So a nice judge is going to decide where you ought to be.”

  “How come nobody wants to know what I think?”

  “I want to know,” I say.

  But now that she’s on the spot, Faith hedges.

  “Do I have to pick just one of you forever?”

  “I hope not, Faith.” Hesitating, I consider how best to phrase this next sentence.

  “Since a lot of people are going to be watching us while the judge decides, it might be best if you … told God … that you need to keep Her a secret for a little while.”

  “Like when we were at the cabin.”

  Not quite, I think. Faith failed pretty miserably at keeping her light under a bushel.

  “God says it’s no one’s business.”

  But that’s wrong. It is a business, a booming one of donations and salvation and even atheism. “Just do this for me, Faith,” I say wearily.

  “Please.”

  She is quiet for a moment. Then I feel her hand slip through the narrow slat of the headrest, into my hair, to rub the muscles of my neck.

  Ian arrives at the house a half hour before Mariah, having driven straight through during the time she stopped at McDonald’s to get Faith a snack. He turns his car into the street, stunned at how the crowd has grown. All the network affiliates have vans there, there’s some group with a banner, and the cult hasn’t given up its stronghold around the mailbox. And that doesn’t even take into consideration the sea of eager faces that have come to be healed or touched or blessed.

  He slips into his own small knot of production personnel unobtrusively,

  simply because it is so crowded. James is nowhere to be seen. His assistants fall into file behind him, but he shoos them away when he reaches the Winnebago. “Not now, y’all. Let me catch my breath.”

  But inside, he only paces. He waits until the commotion outside reaches him like a current on the air, and then he exits the Winnebago and watches, from a distance, as Faith and Mariah get out of their car.

  She’s dazed, he can see from here. She hustles Faith to the house, shielding her from view, although there is no way to block out the roar of a crowd that has waited on the child for a week. But she only trades her daughter off to Millie,

  and then an unfamiliar woman–the lawyer?–

  marches Mariah right back to the driveway and into a Jeep.

  Ian pushes his way to the front of the crowd, a swarm of people who touch the fenders and doors of the Jeep as it slows to a stop at the end of the driveway. The police push them out of the way,

  and the SUV inches forward. Ian stares at the passenger window, willing Mariah to look up.

  As the Jeep pulls out of the driveway, she does. He smiles at her for encouragement, and she cranes her neck as the car continues to move,

  turns in her seat, taps her fingers to the glass as if she would touch him.

  KEEPING FAITH BOOK II THE NEW TESTAMENT

  Keeping Faith

  TEN

  When love begins to sicken and decay,

  It useth an enforc`ed ceremony.

  There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.

  –William Shakespeare,

  Julius Caesar October 27, 1999 Mariah stands beside Joan in the middle of the judge’s chambers, terrified of making a wrong move. She is uncomfortably aware that she’s wearing leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, while Joan is wearing an olive suit, and both Colin and his attorney are dressed in Armani.

  She stands ramrod straight, as if
posture might count when it comes to deciding who will retain custody of Faith.

  “Mariah,” Colin whispers behind his lawyer’s back, but the man hushes him.

  The judge has been diligently scribbling away at his desk, and although it is past three o’clock, neither Joan nor the other lawyer has made any move to remind him that the hearing was supposed to start. Mariah realizes that the judge is wearing earphones. Very tiny ones, like news anchors wear–the kind that snake over the shell of the ear like a hearing aid. He reaches beneath his desk, pushes at something, and then tugs the tiny plugs from his ears. “All right,” he says,

  turning to Colin’s lawyer, whom Mariah thinks she may have seen on the regional news. “Mr.

  Metz, what do you have to say?”

  The man smooths his tie with a feline preening that makes Mariah think of a ferret. “This is a matter of life and death, Your Honor. Mariah White is endangering my client’s child.”

  Mariah feels everyone’s eyes settle on her. A flush works its way up her neck.

  “Your Honor, my client only recently became aware of the dog-and-pony show that has become his child’s life, and the constant threat of physical endangerment. He’s in a position now to provide her with the safety and security she needs, and he feels that it is of the utmost importance that she get out of her mother’s household. It’s why we felt strongly about an ex parte hearing, and it’s why we’re confident that you’ll decide my client should have full custody.

  But in the interests of safety, we want her removed from the home right now, before any more irreparable damage is done.”

  Judge Rothbottam purses his lips.

  “Six weeks ago your client legally ceded custody to his ex-wife, which leads me to believe he didn’t consider her a threat to the child’s welfare then. As far as I can see, the only thing that’s changed is a little press activity on the front lawn. What’s life-threatening about that?”

  “In addition to the psychological stress of being paraded in front of the media daily, my client’s daughter has been hospitalized for intense trauma to the hands.”

  “Trauma?” Joan sputters. “Your Honor, there’s absolutely no medical proof that Faith’s injuries were caused by trauma. In fact, several doctors have gone on record saying as much, and, as I’m sure you know, there’s an issue here that Mr. Metz is conveniently ignoring, which is that the child is apparently performing miracles and speaking to God. And as for the media–

  well, their descent on the household has absolutely nothing to do with my client. She has done everything humanly possible to provide her daughter with a normal life in spite of them.

  Mr. Metz’s charge of endangerment is nothing but a thinly veiled attempt to turn a weak case into the sort of wildly dramatic spectacle in which he prefers to be involved.”

  Mariah cannot take her eyes off Joan Standish. She’s never heard the woman string together that many words, and so compellingly.

  Judge Rothbottam snorts. “Well,

  Ms. Standish, that was some pretty histrionic grandstanding yourself.”

  Metz sits forward at the edge of his seat, a pit bull ready to spring. “Your Honor, the issue that Ms. Standish is trying to obscure is that a child is in jeopardy. Three months ago,

  when my client left, his daughter was a well-adjusted little girl. Now she’s a victim of psychotic hallucinations and serious bodily injury. I urge you to err on the side of safety here, and give my client temporary custody of the child until the hearing.”

  Joan completely ignores Metz.

  “Judge, the divorce has been hard enough on Faith. The last time she saw her father, he was half naked and carousing with some other woman.”

  “I beg your pardon!” Metz says,

  livid.

  “Don’t beg mine. The last place Faith White should go is to her father’s house, Your Honor. Please let her stay with my client.”

  Judge Rothbottam picks up his earphone and begins to laboriously wind the wires into a tight sailor’s noose. “I think I’ve had enough for one afternoon. It doesn’t appear to me that the child is in any immediate crisis, Mr. Metz.

  We’ll have a custody hearing in five weeks.

  I trust that’s enough time?”

  “The sooner the better, Your Honor,”

  Metz says. “For Faith’s sake.”

  The judge does not bother to look up from his calendar. “I’m appointing a psychiatrist,

  Dr. Orlitz, whom I want to evaluate your client, Metz; and your client, Standish; and their daughter as well. It’s a court order, which means that you all will cooperate. You’re free to get your own psychiatrists, of course, but you’ll also speak to Dr. Orlitz. I’m also appointing Kenzie van der Hoven as guardian ad litem, and I’ll expect you to give her any information she needs. If you have an objection to Ms. van der Hoven, I want to hear it now.”

  Joan whispers to Mariah, “She’s good.”

  Metz feels his client’s eyes on him, and shrugs. He doesn’t know jackshit about GAL’S in New Canaan, New Hampshire. Manchester is one thing, but for all he knows Kenzie van der Whatever is Joan Standish’s sister. “We think that’s fine, Your Honor,” Metz announces in a strong, clear voice.

  “We do, too,” Joan adds.

  “Marvelous. The custody hearing will begin Friday, December third.”

  “I have a conflict,” Metz says, poring over his calendar. “I’m scheduled to be taking a deposition in the case of a boy who’s divorcing his parents.”

  “Is that supposed to impress me, Mr.

  Metz?” Judge Rothbottam asks. “Because it really doesn’t. Find someone else to do it.

  You’re the one who wants this case tried expediently.”

  Metz folds the leather binding of his Filofax. “I’ll be here.”

  “Joan?”

  “I don’t have any conflicts.”

  “Excellent.” The judge pushes the earphones into place. “I can’t wait.”

  Joan pulls into the driveway and touches Mariah’s arm. “Remember what I told you.

  This isn’t the end of the world.”

  Mariah’s smile does not quite reach her eyes.

  “Thank you. For everything.” She folds her hands in her lap. “I was impressed.”

  “Girl, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” Joan laughs. “I might have taken on this case for free, just to stand up to Malcolm Metz. Now, you go on inside and play with your daughter.”

  Mariah nods and gets out of the Jeep, flinching at the questions hurled from distant reporters, and at the sight of a tremendous poster of Faith’s face held by a large group of women. She feels fragile, an ornament made of spun sugar, but she steels her composure while she climbs the porch steps. As soon as she opens the door,

  her mother and Faith come running into the parlor. After a searching look at Mariah’s face, Millie turns to her granddaughter. “Honey, I left my reading glasses on the arm of the couch. Could you get them?”

  As soon as Faith is out of hearing range,

  Millie closes in. “So?”

  “In five weeks we have to go to court.”

  “That son of a bitch. I knew you–“

  “Ma,” Mariah interrupts. “Don’t do this now.” She sinks down on the stairs and scrubs her hands over her face. “This isn’t about Colin.”

  “It’s not about you, either, Mariah, but I’ll bet five weeks from now it will be.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That your Achilles’ heel, unfortunately,

  is a target as big as a barn. And that Colin and his fancy lawyer are sure to strike there.”

  “By then Joan will have come up with something,”

  Mariah says, but she knows she is trying to convince herself as well as Millie. What court would pick her as the better parent?

  Maybe Colin’s right–maybe it is her fault. She has made poor choices before regarding Faith; this could be yet more proof of her inadequate parenting: one rash decision, on
e selfish move, one conversation that took root in Faith’s imagination and brought her to this point. There have been times, after all, when Colin questioned Mariah’s judgment with good reason.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Millie mutters,

  pulling Mariah upright. “You go right upstairs and steam that look off your face.”

  “What–“

  “Take a hot shower. Clear your head.

  I’ve seen you get like this before, all full of doubts about whether you’ve got the good sense God gave a beetle, much less a competent mother. I swear, I don’t know how Colin does it, but the man’s a Svengali when it comes to your mind.”

  She pushes Mariah up the stairs as Faith comes into the parlor with her grandmother’s eyeglasses.

  “Oh, good,” she says to the girl. “Let’s go see if we can find Sunday’s comics.”

  Aware of Faith’s eyes following her,

  Mariah smiles with every step. She deliberately shoves aside the thoughts that batter away at her:

  what Joan will say in court, what the judge will make of Mariah’s hasty escape to Kansas City, what Ian will say and do now that they have returned. She undresses and turns the shower on so that a white mist fills the bathroom.

  Inside the stall, the water pounds heavy and hot,

  but Mariah cannot stop shivering. Like the survivor of an accident, the close call hits all at once, and she is by turns frightened and stunned.

  What if, five weeks from now, her daughter is legally removed? What if, once again, Colin gets his way? Mariah slides down to the tiled floor, arms crossed tight, and lets herself fall apart.

  After Faith is bathed and put to bed, Mariah walks into the living room to find Millie peering out from the edge of the curtains. “Like Yasgur’s Farm,” she murmurs, hearing Mariah come up behind her. “Look out in the field. You can see all those little flickering lights … What were they holding up back then–candles?”

  “Cigarette lighters. And how would you know about Woodstock?”

  Millie turns and smiles. “Don’t underestimate your mother.” She reaches for Mariah’s hand and squeezes. “You feeling better yet?”

  At the simple, sweet concern, Mariah almost breaks down again. She lets her mother lead her to the couch and lays her head in her lap. As Millie begins to smooth Mariah’s hair back from her brow, she can feel some of the tension ebb, some of the problems fall by the wayside. “I wouldn’t say I’m feeling better. Numb is more like it.”