Keeping Faith

by Picoult, Jodi

  Kenzie has stopped taking notes. “Have you never in your life made a mistake, Ms. van der Hoven?” he asks softly.

  She glances away and notices a large box hidden behind the dining room table. From its label,

  she sees it is a plastic easel. Clearly not a toy for the baby on its way–and yet, clearly new. Colin follows her gaze and reddens. “I’m an optimistic man,” he says, and smiles shyly.

  Kenzie realizes that–out of sympathy for Mariah White–she has been expecting a monster. But this man has his reasons for setting a battle in motion. And they are not vengeful, or vindictive–he’s simply seen something that scares him, and he wants to fix it.

  Then again, Colin White may be a consummate actor.

  November 9, 1999 Father Rampini stands in a nicely appointed office at the Diocesan Chancery with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at a bookshelf and idly wondering why His Excellency the Bishop of Manchester would have sixteen copies of the biography of Saint Theresa, the Little Flower.

  As the door opens, he whirls around,

  surreptitiously wiping the sweat from his palms before nodding at Bishop Andrews. “Father,” the bishop grunts, settling down in a burgundy leather wing chair.

  “Your Excellency.”

  “Please.” Andrews gestures, and Rampini edges into a smaller chair and fixes his eyes on the swaying chain of the pectoral cross tucked into the bishop’s pocket.

  Rampini has examined alleged visions before to make sure there was nothing in them contrary to faith.

  In every case to date, even the promising ones,

  he’s recommended a wait-and-see policy.

  He has been careful not to make a hasty judgment, lest he come off looking foolish.

  And that, in a nutshell, is why his hands keep shaking. He’s going out on a limb here. Because he really believes that Faith White may just be envisioning God.

  Bishop Andrews takes off his glasses and polishes them before slipping them back on. “According to the rector at St. John’s, you’re the most esteemed theologian in the Northeast.”

  “If you say so, Your Excellency.”

  “On behalf of the diocese, I’d like to thank you for coming.”

  “Perfectly all right,” Rampini says.

  The bishop nods graciously. “I only have a couple of questions, Father.”

  “With all due respect, Your Excellency,

  I’ve already submitted my report.”

  “Yes, in fact … two of them. The original recommendation and–what did you call it?–ah, the revised update. You know, I can’t quite figure out why a theologian–the most esteemed theologian in the Northeast, that is–would file two completely contradictory reports within a few hours’ time, regarding the substantive miracles of Faith White.” At Rampini’s affronted silence, Andrews gets impatient.

  He reaches into his pocket and fingers his rosary –it makes a handy set of worry beads.

  “I’m certain a man of your credentials has been called in for consultation on a wide number of religious sightings.”

  “Often.”

  “Yet you’ve never before given your personal endorsement.”

  Father Rampini tightens his mouth. “That’s true. And yes, the revised report indicates that this time I am.”

  The bishop decides to play dumb. He scratches his head. “I’m a little confused, Father.

  Now, I don’t presume to be half the theologian you are, naturally, but it seems to me that a Jewish child seeing a female God goes against traditional Catholic dogma.”

  Father Rampini crosses his arms. “Are you asking me to justify my findings?”

  “No, no. But for my own … edification …

  I’d love to know your thought process.”

  Rampini clears his throat. “There are a variety of supporting criteria. The fact that Faith White isn’t Catholic is unorthodox, Your Excellency, but not inauthentic. One would be more leery of the elderly ladies who pray for sixteen hours a day and then confess Jesus appeared to them at the kitchen table. Faith wasn’t asking for this vision, but it came. She’s also very closemouthed about her conversations with God, and she tries to hide episodes of stigmata.”

  “Stigmata,” the bishop says. “Did you see them?”

  “I did. I’m not personally familiar with Holy Marks, of course, but the general consensus of the medical community is that they aren’t self-inflicted.”

  “She could be a hysteric.”

  “Entirely possible,” Rampini agrees.

  “Except that in addition to the wounds,

  there’s proof apart from the person of the seer. In this case, healing.”

  “You’re the expert, of course, but I have to admit–it would bother me a bit to know she’s running around saying God’s a woman.”

  “Actually, she’s not. The MotherGod Society is spreading the propaganda. Faith isn’t saying much of anything at all. In addition to the fact that–as I said in my second report –she isn’t seeing God as a woman. She’s seeing Our Lord Jesus Christ, in His traditional form and clothing, yet interpreting Him as a female figure.”

  Bishop Andrews raises a brow. “That’s a stretch, son.”

  “Surely you’re not telling me, Your Excellency, how to do my job.” Father Rampini speaks softly. “You meet her. And then come talk to me.”

  They stare at each other silently. “You feel this strongly,” the bishop finally says.

  “I do.”

  “You think I should take this to the U.s.

  Bishops’ Conference.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to do.”

  Bishop Andrews taps his forefingers together. “You know, this isn’t The X-Files, Father. No matter what the public wants, some fantastic display isn’t the way to get the flock back to the Church. Even if I were to go along with your recommendation, I’d be wary of the haste with which you made it. The last thing I want is to be exposed as some loony on a supernatural scavenger hunt–can you imagine what that would do to the diocese? To Catholicism in general? There’s a reason these evaluations take years, Father.

  It’s so that in the event Faith White is a charlatan, you and I will be dead and buried and blissfully unaware of the backlash.” Bishop Andrews tilts his head. “Has this child ever even been in a Catholic church?”

  “Not that I know of, Excellency.”

  “Has she been raised according to the Jewish faith?”

  “No. Since her mother isn’t a practicing Jew, she felt taking the child to temple would be hypocritical. I confirmed with a rabbi, however,

  that if the mother is Jewish, so is the child.

  Regardless.”

  “And that,” the bishop says, “is the stumbling block. We have no jurisdiction over a child who isn’t Catholic.”

  A muscle tics in Rampini’s jaw. “Then why did you ask me to come?”

  He watches the bishop walk to his desk, and suddenly realizes that Andrews is going to hedge his bets. He won’t use Rampini’s endorsement of Faith White–unless the tide turns and he needs it. He’ll keep both contradictory reports, so that he’s ready for either contingency; and Father Rampini won’t be able to say a thing about it without making himself look indecisive. Heat floods the priest’s face, moving up from his white collar. “You will disregard the first report,”

  Rampini orders. “I’m officially submitting the second one, and only the second one, for your consideration.”

  Without taking his eyes off the younger man’s face, Bishop Andrews slides the paper he’s holding into a desk drawer. “Which one was that?” he says.

  November 10, 1999 When Ian enters Malcolm Metz’s office, the attorney doesn’t get up from his seat. “Well,” he says instead, leaning back in his chair. “This certainly is a pleasure.

  I’m a big fan.”

  Ian stares at him squarely. “My fee’s ninety thousand. It’s what advertisers pay for a commercial during my shows. I’m envisioning your trial in much the s
ame way–an interruption bracketing the things I’m planning to say anyway.”

  To his credit, Metz doesn’t even blink.

  “I don’t foresee that being a problem,” he says. In truth, he has no idea whether or not his client can come up with the money, but he’s not about to squash negotiations before they even really begin.

  “As long as you remember that this isn’t a television show. A little girl’s life is at stake.”

  “Save your bullshit for the court,” Ian says. “I know what you want.”

  “Which is?”

  “Proof that Faith White is a charlatan.

  And hints that her mother is the puppeteer.”

  Metz smiles. “And you, of course,

  have all this information.”

  “Would you have asked for me if I didn’t?”

  Metz considers this for a moment. “I don’t know. Just on your Q-rating alone, you could probably convince a judge that the sun isn’t going to rise tomorrow.”

  At that, Ian laughs. “Maybe you are a fan after all.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got?”

  “Some decent hidden-camera footage of Mariah White coaching the kid before she bows and scrapes for the crowd. A testimonial from a woman who went on national TV saying that her baby had been cured of AIDS by Faith,

  admitting that Mariah White paid her three thousand dollars to make up the story. Couple of experts who’ve signed off on a written scientific explanation for Millie Epstein’s corpse coming back to life–has to do with electrical currents and bodily tissue, or some such like that.”

  “What about the hands?”

  “The alleged stigmata? It’s an optical illusion.”

  “An optical illusion?”

  “Come on now, certainly you’ve seen fire-eaters at the circus, or magicians passing objects through their fists.”

  “How could they fool a bunch of doctors?”

  “Well, I’m still working on that. My theory is that they didn’t. That when it came to medical personnel taking a look-see, Faith truly poked herself with something or other.”

  Metz looks skeptical. “Why? What’s the point?”

  Ian leans back in the chair. “I’m surprised you’d even have to ask, Mr. Metz.

  For the attention, of course.”

  Metz narrows his eyes. “If you don’t mind my asking, how come none of this has made it to your show as of late?”

  “Because there’s something even bigger I’ll be using to blow this case open, and before you even ask, it’s not negotiable.” Ian steeples his fingers. “Way I see it, your courtroom can do just as good a job as any of my teaser broadcasts, leading up to the grand finale. For the fee I mentioned, you are welcome to the information and signed testimonies I just described, as well as my considerable reputation in the field and my stage presence. But that’s all you’re damn well gonna get.”

  Slowly, Metz nods. “I see.”

  “The other thing you have to understand is that I’m a busy man. I’ll be happy to go over testimony regarding any of that information I just gave you … but we’re gonna do it here, and we’re gonna do it now.”

  “Absolutely not. I’m not ready. I have to–“

  “You have to do half as much as you would with any other witness. I already know how to act. All you’ve gotta do is set down the facts you want in the order you want them.”

  For a moment there is silence, two men who are larger than life considerably cramped in such close quarters. “Another rehearsal the day before your testimony,” Metz bargains.

  Ian grins. “Sir,” he says, “you have yourself a deal.”

  Mariah opens the door a crack to find Kenzie van der Hoven on the threshold. “Can Faith come out and play?”

  Against her better judgment, Mariah laughs.

  “It’s a little cold out. Maybe you two could stay in.” This prearranged visit with the GAL comes as a relief. Mariah has been snapping at Faith all day for getting underfoot, something completely understandable while they are cooped up in the house.

  Faith races into the room on rollerblades.

  Mariah watches the wheels leave black tracks on the tile and bites her tongue to keep from yelling at her daughter for the twentieth time that day, especially in front of the guardian ad litem. Catching Faith’s eye instead,

  Mariah raises a brow and then glances down at the skates, clearly annoyed.

  “Oops,” Faith says, plopping onto her bottom and ripping open the Velcro fastenings of the skates. “Kenzie, did you come to see me?”

  “Yup. Is that okay?”

  “It’s awesome.”

  Mariah smiles. “I’ll be making dinner if you need me.”

  Kenzie watches her walk into the kitchen, and then feels five tiny fingers reach around her hand.

  “Come see my room,” Faith says. “It’s really cool.”

  “Oh?” Kenzie allows herself to be led upstairs. “What color is it?”

  “Yellow.” Faith pushes open a door to reveal sunny walls and a white canopy bed.

  She leaps onto it and starts jumping, her hair flying in an arc behind her. Then she bounces onto her bottom and off the bed, playing hostess.

  “These are my Legos. And my art set that Santa brought last year, and this picture was taken of me when I was only two hours old.”

  Kenzie dutifully peers at a photo of a tiny, tomato-faced infant. “Do you spend a lot of time in your room?”

  “It depends. Mom won’t let me have a TV up here, so I can’t watch videos or anything. Sometimes I feel like drawing at the kitchen table, so I take my art set down there.

  And sometimes I just color on the floor.” She raises her arms over her head. “I used to take ballet.”

  Kenzie watches her twirl in a slow circle, her arms lifted in a pirouette. “Not anymore? How come?”

  “Things happened.” Faith picks at a loop of the throw rug and shrugs. “Mom got sick.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then God came.”

  Kenzie feels herself freeze. “I see. Was that a good thing?”

  Faith flops backward and stretches out her arms, curling the edges of the rug around her.

  “Look, I’m a cocoon.”

  “Tell me about God,” Kenzie prompts.

  Faith rolls toward her. Wrapped in the blanket like the chrysalis she’s mentioned, her face is the only visible part of her body.

  “She makes me feel good, all warm, like when I get to sit in the pile of clothes that just came out of the dryer. But I don’t like it when she hurts me.”

  Kenzie leans forward. “She hurts you?”

  “She says she has to, and I know she doesn’t want to, because she tells me after that she’s sorry.”

  Kenzie stares at the little girl, at her hands with their definitive marks. As a guardian ad litem she has seen many things, most of them not very pleasant. “Does God come to talk to you when it’s dark in your room?” she asks, and Faith nods. “Can you touch her? Or see her face?”

  “Sometimes. And sometimes I just know it’s her.”

  “Because she’s hurting you?”

  “No … because she smells like oranges.”

  At that, Kenzie gives a startled laugh.

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.” Faith picks up a figurine in her dollhouse. “Want to play?”

  Kenzie looks at the replica of the farmhouse. “This is beautiful,” she says,

  running her forefinger over the delicate curve of the oak banister. “Did Santa bring this, too?”

  “No, my mom made it. It’s what she does for work.”

  Kenzie knows from years of experience that the most likely explanation for Faith’s wounds is either self-infliction or infliction by someone close to her. Someone who’s convinced her that she’s making Faith suffer out of love for her. Kenzie stares at the dollhouse, precise and perfect, thinking hard. Even after all the times she’s seen it happen, is it difficult to believe that pa
rents who seem otherwise normal might be monstrous to a child. “Honey,” Kenzie says, “is your mommy doing this to you?”

  “Doing what?”

  Kenzie sighs. It is almost always impossible to get an abused child to admit who’s abusing her.

  In the first place, she lives with the fear of retribution promised for breaking her silence. In the second place, there’s a twisted gratification system in place–the child finds, on some sad level, that the episodes are measures of attention.

  Then again, sometimes kids don’t point a finger because there’s nothing to point to. A select few really do walk into doors and get black eyes,

  or tumble off a table and get concussions … or maybe even spontaneously bleed. Mariah certainly doesn’t harm her daughter in full view; Faith doesn’t exhibit aversive behavior around her mother. Maybe press exposure isn’t the best thing in the world for a little girl, maybe Faith could stand to socialize more–

  but these things alone do not constitute abuse.

  The door opens suddenly. Mariah stands there holding a pile of sheets, surprised to see Faith and Kenzie. “I’m sorry,” she says awkwardly. “I thought you were in the playroom.”

  “No problem. I was just admiring your dollhouse. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Mariah nods, blushes. Setting the sheets on the dresser, she heads for the door. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

  “Really, it’s fine if–“

  “No,” Mariah interrupts. “It’s all right.” And she leaves, trailing the faint scent of citrus perfume.

  Kenzie’s last case involved a nine-year-old girl who lived with her grandparents because her mother had abandoned her. They were a couple that went to church every Sunday and made sure she had nice clothes for school and a hot breakfast each morning. And roughly once a week the little girl would wake up in the middle of the night to find her grandfather raping her. He told her if she said a word to anyone, she’d be out on the street.

  This is running through her mind as she pulls onto the highway, heading away from the Whites’

  house. Although there is no proof that this new case of hers is anything like the last one, there are resonances that Kenzie cannot put from her mind.

  There is something being hidden here. It’s written all over Mariah White; it’s why she makes it a point not to be in the same room as Kenzie for longer than five minutes. Sighing, Kenzie pulls down the visor to block the sinking sun.