“The only times I’ve even come in contact with Mrs. White were at her mother’s bedside and subsequent checkups.”
“Did she seem … fragile to you at the time? Emotional?”
“As much as anyone would have been, given the circumstances. I’d have to say that, overall, my impression of her was one of concern and protectiveness for her mother.” He shakes his head, his thoughts spooling backward. “And her daughter.”
“Could you give me an example?”
“Well,” Dr. Weaver says, “there was a moment during Mrs. Epstein’s stress test, when the cameraman must have gotten the little girl in his range and–“
“Pardon me–you filmed the stress test?”
“No, not me. Ian Fletcher. That television guy. Mrs. Epstein and the hospital had signed waivers to allow it. I’m sure it’s already been aired. But the point was, Mrs.
White clearly didn’t want her daughter filmed, and did everything in her power to stop it.
Went after the cameraman, even, screaming and pushing at him. The very picture of a fierce maternal instinct rearing its head.” He smiles apologetically. “So, you see, I don’t really have much to say that is going to help your case.”
Lacey smiles back at him. Don’t be so sure, she thinks.
November 2, 1999 Kenzie van der Hoven comes from a long line of legal-minded men.
Her great-grandfather had started van der Hoven and Weiss, one of the first law firms in Boston.
Her father, her mother, and her five older brothers were all currently partners there. When she was born,
the last of the lot, her parents were so sure she was another boy that they simply gave her the name they’d already picked out.
She grew up as Kenneth, confusing the hell out of schoolteachers and doing everything she could to shorten her name to a diminutive, although her parents never bowed to her wishes. Following in the deep treads of everyone else in her family, she went to Harvard Law and passed the bar and litigated exactly five trials before deciding that she was tired of being what other people wanted her to be. She legally changed her name to Kenzie, and she turned in her shingle to become a guardian ad litem, a court-appointed child’s advocate during custody cases.
She’s worked for Judge Rothbottam before, and considers him a fair man–if a little partial to Broadway musicals that have starred Shirley Jones. So when he called her yesterday with the White case, she accepted on the spot.
“I should warn you,” the judge said. “This one’s going to be a doozy.”
Now, as Kenzie walks wide-eyed around the White property, she understands what he meant.
At the time she had not connected the name with the religious revival occurring in New Canaan –most of the papers she read referred to Faith simply as “the child,” in some semblance of protecting a minor’s privacy. But this–well,
this is indescribable. There are small knots of people camped out under pup tents, heating lunch over Sternos. Dotting the crowd are the ill in their wheelchairs, some spiraled with MS, some trailing intravenous lines, some with their eyes wide and vacant. Black-habited nuns patter across the fallen leaves like a flock of penguins, praying or offering service to the sick.
And then there are the reporters, a breed apart with squat vans and cameramen, their chic suits as unlikely as blossoms against the frozen November ground.
Where on earth is she supposed to start?
She begins shoving through the crush of bodies,
determined to get to the front door so that she can see Mariah White. After five minutes of tripping over sleeping bags and extension cords,
she finally quits. Somewhere around here there must be a policeman; she saw the marked car at the edge of the property. It would not be the first time she’s had her guardian-ad-litem status enforced by an officer of the law, but crowd control has never before been the reason.
Turning to a woman beside her, Kenzie laughs breathlessly. “This is something, isn’t it? You must have been here a pretty long time to get such a plum spot. Are you waiting for Faith?”
The woman’s thin lips stretch back. “No Eng-lish,” she says. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
Great, Kenzie thinks, hundreds of people and I pick the one who doesn’t understand me. She closes her eyes for a moment, remembering the judge’s schedule. The custody hearing will be in five weeks. In that time, she has to interview everyone who’s had contact with Faith since August and possibly earlier, she has to get to the bottom of the grandmother’s resurrection, and she has to win Faith over and convince her that she is an ally.
Basically, she needs a miracle.
As I am sticking Faith’s shoes in the closet, I realize someone is taking photographs through the sidelight of the front door. “Excuse me,” I say,
yanking it open. “Do you mind?”
The man lifts his Leica and takes a picture of me. “Thanks,” he says, and scurries away.
“God,” I mutter to myself, standing in the open doorway. My mother’s car inches along the driveway, finally parking halfway down when people begin milling too close for her to continue safely. She’s gone home to pack a valise and return, deciding to move in for a while. It’s easier than trying to shake off the reporters who trail her on the short drive to her home. The man with the Leica is right in her face, too, when she leaves the car. Groupies chant Faith’s name. For some reason, today they are all much closer to my house than they ought to be.
My mother stumbles up the porch steps with her suitcase and turns around. “Go,” she says,
waving her hands at the masses. “Shoo!” She stalks past me, shuts and bolts the door.
“What is with these people? Haven’t they got something better to do?”
I peek out the sidelight. “How come they’re all the way up to the porch?”
“Accident in town. I passed it coming in. A lumber truck jackknifed on the highway exit ramp, so there’s no policeman at the end of the driveway.”
“Great,” I murmur. “I guess I ought to be thankful they’re not rushing the door.”
My mother snorts. “It’s early yet.”
Prophetically, the doorbell rings. Standing on the threshold, with more chutzpah than I’ve imagined possible, is Petra Saganoff. She has a cameraman behind her. Before I can shut the door in her face, she manages to wedge a red pump inside. “Mrs. White,” she says, the cameraman recording her words, “do you have any response to your ex-husband’s claims that Faith is in danger living here with you?”
I think about Ian’s idea to invite this bitch into my home, about my own reluctant agreement,
and I almost choke. This is not the time to grant her access–it must be on my terms, Joan’s made that clear. I turn to my mother, whom I can always count on to put someone in their place, but she has disappeared. “You’re on private property.”
“Mrs. White,” Saganoff repeats, but before she can finish, my mother returns, carrying the antique Revolutionary War rifle that hangs over the living-room fireplace.
“Mariah,” she says, carelessly waving the muzzle at Petra Saganoff, “who’s here?”
I have the satisfaction of watching the cameraman blanch and Saganoff step back. “Oh,” my mother says sourly. “It’s her. What were you telling Ms. Saganoff about private property?”
I close the door and lock it again. “God,
Ma,” I moan. “What on earth did you do that for? She’ll probably take her videotape to the judge and tell him Faith’s crazy mother waved a gun in her face.”
“Faith’s crazy mother didn’t do it, her crazy grandmother did. And if she takes it to the judge, I bet he’ll ask why she’s violating a police-enforced restraining order.”
She pats my shoulder. “I just wanted to give the big-city girl a little scare.”
I grimace. “It’s a black-powder rifle that hasn’t worked in a couple hundred years.”
“Yes, but she didn’t know that.”
The doorbell rings again. My m
other looks at me. “Don’t answer it.”
But whoever is there is insistent; the bell rings over and over. “Mom!” Faith yells, running into the foyer. “Someone’s doing that thing to the doorbell that you told me not to do–“
“Christ!” I tell my mother to call the police station and demand an officer at the end of the driveway. I tell Faith to play in her room, where she cannot be seen. Then I throw open the door with so much force it slams into the wall.
The woman is dressed in a conservative suit and is carrying a pad and a microcassette recorder. I have no idea what newspaper or magazine she’s from, but I’ve seen enough like her to recognize the breed. “You people have absolutely no respect. How would you like it if I showed up at your house uninvited when you … when you were in the middle of taking a bath? Or celebrating your child’s birthday? Or– God, why am I even speaking to you?” I slam the door.
The bell rings again.
I count to ten. I take three deep breaths.
Then I open the door just a crack. “In sixty seconds,” I bluff, “a cop is going to be here to haul you off to jail for trespassing.”
“I don’t think so,” she says coolly, shifting her recorder and notepad so that she can extend a hand. “I’m Kenzie van der Hoven. The court-appointed guardian ad litem.”
I close my eyes, hoping that when I open them this will not have happened, that Kenzie van der Hoven will not still be standing just outside my front door bristling with all the insults I’ve just hurled at her. “I’d like to speak to you, Mrs.
White.”
I smile weakly. “Why don’t you call me Mariah?” I suggest and, as graciously as I can, let her into the house.
“Faith’s in here,” I say, directing the guardian ad litem toward the living room, where my daughter is watching TV, a reward for having finished the math worksheets I made up for her. My mother sits beside her on the couch, idly smoothing Faith’s hair. “Faith,” I say brightly, “this is Ms. van der Hoven. She’s going to spend some time with us.” My mother’s eyes meet mine. “Ms. van der Hoven, this is my mother, Millie Epstein.”
“Nice to meet you. Please call me Kenzie.”
“And this,” I add, “is Faith.”
Kenzie van der Hoven rises leagues in my estimation as she squats down beside Faith and stares at the television. “I love Arthur.
D.w.’s my absolute favorite.”
Faith cautiously edges her bandaged hands beneath her thighs. “I like D.w., too.”
“Did you ever see the one where she goes to the beach?”
“Yeah,” Faith says, suddenly animated.
“And she thinks there’s a shark in the water!”
They both laugh, and then Kenzie stands again.
“It’s nice to meet you, Faith. Maybe you and I could talk a little bit later.”
“Maybe,” Faith says.
I lead Kenzie into the kitchen, where she declines a cup of coffee. “Faith doesn’t usually watch TV. Two hours a day, that’s it. Disney Channel or PBS.”
“Mariah, I want to make something perfectly clear. I’m not the enemy. I’m just here to make sure Faith winds up in the best possible place.”
“I know. And I’m not usually … the way I was when I opened the door. It’s just that there’s supposed to be a policeman around to keep everyone away, and–“
“You were being careful. I can certainly understand that.” She looks at me for a moment, holds up her tape recorder. “Do you mind? I have to write up a report, and it helps to replay the conversations I have with people.”
“Go right ahead.” I slip into the seat across from hers at the kitchen table.
“What do you think the judge should know?”
For a moment I’m silent, remembering years ago when there was so much I had to say and no one willing to hear me out. “Will he listen?”
Kenzie seems a little startled by this. “I’d like to think so, Mariah. I’ve known Judge Rothbottam for a while, and he’s been very fair.”
I pick at a cuticle on my hand. “It’s just that I haven’t been very lucky in the court system before,” I say carefully. “It’s hard for me to tell you this, because you’re in the court system,
and it’s probably going to sound like sour grapes.
But it feels the same: Colin’s word against mine.
Colin’s quick; he’s better at thinking on his feet. Seven years ago he managed to convince everyone he knew what was best for me. Now he says he knows what’s best for Faith.”
“But you think that you do?”
“No,” I correct. “Faith does.”
Kenzie makes a note on her pad. “So you let Faith make her own decisions?”
Immediately I can tell that I’ve said the wrong thing. “Well, no. She’s seven. She’s not getting MandMore’s for breakfast, no matter what she says, and she can’t wear a tutu to school when it’s snowing out. She isn’t old enough to know everything,
but she’s old enough to have a gut feeling.” I look down at my lap. “I’m worried that Colin is so sure he knows Faith better than she knows herself, he’ll convince her he’s right before anyone can stop him.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Kenzie says crisply.
“Oh–I didn’t mean to tell you how to do your job …”
“Relax, Mariah. Everything you say isn’t going to be used against you.”
I lower my gaze and nod. But I don’t quite believe her either.
“What do you want to happen?”
After all these years, someone is finally asking.
And after all these years, the answer is still the same. What I want is a second chance. But this time, I want it with Faith.
Out of the blue comes the memory of something Rabbi Weissman said the day I took Faith to see him: You can be an agnostic Jew, a nonpracticing Jew … but you’re still a Jew.
Just as you can be an unsure parent, a self-absorbed parent … but you are still a parent.
I stare at Kenzie van der Hoven. I could make myself out to be the Mother of the Year. I could tell her what I know she wants to hear. Or I could tell her the truth.
“I tried to kill myself seven years ago, after I found my husband in bed with another woman.
All I could think was that I wasn’t a good enough wife, I wasn’t a beautiful enough woman, I just … wasn’t. Colin had me committed to Greenhaven by telling a judge it was the only way to keep me from trying to kill myself again.
“But, see, he didn’t know I was pregnant when he had me sent away. He took away four months of my life, and my home, and my confidence, but I still had Faith.” I take a deep breath. “I’m not suicidal anymore.
I’m not Colin’s wife. And I’m certainly not the woman who was so under his spell that I let him lock me up in an institution. What I am is Faith’s mother. It’s what I’ve been for seven years. But you can’t be a mother, can you, if your child is taken away?”
Kenzie has not written down a single word that I’ve said, and I do not know if this is good or bad. She closes her notebook, her face revealing nothing. “Thank you, Mariah. I wonder if now would be a good time to speak to Faith.”
As the guardian ad litem walks into the living room, my mother comes to join me in the kitchen. I try not to watch them through the doorway, even when Kenzie sits down on the couch beside Faith and says something that makes her laugh. “So?”
“S.” I shrug. “What do I know?”
“Well, what you said to the woman, for example. You must have formed some impression of what she thinks of you.”
I have, of course, but I am not going to tell my mother. Even if I hadn’t told the guardian ad litem about Greenhaven, it would have come out at the hearing. By then, though, maybe the woman would have found something to admire about me,
something to balance the fact that I was sent to an institution. The truth doesn’t always set you free; people prefer to believe prettier, neatly wrapped lies. Kenzie van der Hoven might feel pity
for me, but that’s not going to make her let me keep Faith.
“I’m going to lose her, Ma,” I say,
burying my face in my hands. I feel her touch my back. And then I am in her arms, where I have always fit, listening to that incredible heart of hers beat beneath my cheek. Suddenly I can feel her strength, as if resilience were something one can gift to another. “Says who?” my mother murmurs, and kisses the crown of my head.
Kenzie has only one firm rule as a guardian ad litem: Do not expect anything.
That way, she cannot be disappointed. It is a rare child who warms during the first meeting; she has had numerous cases where days go by before her charge even mutters hello. Until a child has seen and poked at Kenzie’s good intentions, he rarely believes she is a friend.
Then again, a child who can believe God is paying her a visit ought to be able to accept that Kenzie’s on the up-and-up.
Kenzie is practical enough to realize that chances are rather slim Faith is the mystic others think she is. Children Faith’s age love dinosaurs and whales because they’re so big and powerful, when seven-year-olds are not. Playing God has the same psychological roots.
Faith sits beside her like a lamb that’s been led to the slaughter, her head bowed and her hands carefully hidden in the shadow of her lap.
Clearly the child has been dragged out before to be observed, questioned, or studied. “Faith, do you know why I’m here?”
“Uh-huh. Don’t you?”
Kenzie grins. “Actually, yes. Someone explained it to me.”
With resignation, Faith faces her. “I guess you want to ask me some questions.”
“You know … I bet you’ve got some things you’d rather ask me.”
Faith’s eyes widen. “For real?”
Kenzie nods. “Well, am I going to keep living here?”
“Do you want to?”
“You said I could ask the questions.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I don’t know the answer, Faith. It’s going to depend on a lot of things, including what you want to happen.”
“I don’t want to hurt my mother,” Faith whispers, so softly that Kenzie has to lean closer. “And I don’t want to hurt my father.”
Keeping Faith Page 30
