Keeping Faith

by Picoult, Jodi

  Maybe it’s embarrassment over the institutionalization. Maybe it’s only what Colin White told her–that Mariah intentionally went into hiding to avoid prosecution. But then, why would she have come back? And could there be more to it than that?

  In her two sessions with Faith, Kenzie has the sense that the child would prefer to stay with her mother. But she doesn’t know if that’s because she dislikes Jessica White or because Mariah has blackmailed her into staying.

  On the other hand, maybe Mariah White left New Canaan ignorant of Colin’s plans to change custody. Maybe she was fleeing in the best interests of her child. There has been no hint from any medical personnel she’s interviewed that Mariah White is a possible catalyst for any of Faith’s physical or psychological problems. Maybe Faith is just a little girl with a particularly overactive imagination.

  A car cuts Kenzie off, sending her swerving into the breakdown lane. Pumping her brakes, she rolls to a stop, and passes her hand over her eyes. Focus, focus. So many close calls.

  She gently eases back into traffic,

  wondering if the worst thing Mariah’s done is to simply, blindly, believe that her daughter is telling the truth.

  November 14, 1999 It was James’s idea, initially, to run a Sunday-morning show–just on the principle that airing an atheist’s views on the most common day of Christian worship was sure to create controversy. And although Ian has at least seven scripts ready to go, none seem appropriate anymore. He’s talking impromptu, off the cuff. There is only so much he can say before it will be used against Faith, and Mariah. And then again,

  there is only so much he can say that is neutral,

  before raising the suspicions of his executive producer.

  The lights are hot on his face now, and the wide mouth of camera one pivots in front of him as he tosses–deliberately–a Bible onto the grass behind him. Unlike most of his studio tapings, this one–on location–has an audience. It’s a small one, since the lion’s share of the people congregated around Mariah’s home are zealous believers, rather than atheists. But that’s exactly why he’s chosen a biblical text as the subject of his diatribe.

  “”Take now thy son, thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and … offer him there for a burnt offering.”" Ian glances around at those listening. “Yeah, you heard it right. Abraham is supposed to kill his child, just to prove that when God says “Jump!” he asks “How high?”‘

  And what happens? Abraham does it. He puts a knife to Isaac’s throat, and at the last minute God shows up and basically says he was just foolin’.” Ian snorts. “This is the sort of God you worship? A Supreme Being who looks at his subjects like pawns? You ask any of those fine men of the cloth just over yonder and they’re gonna tell you this here is a story about faith, about putting yourself in the hands of the Lord and letting him make it work out for the best. But this isn’t a story about faith. This isn’t even a story about Abraham. This here’s a story about Isaac.

  “What I want to know, what the Bible doesn’t bother to tell me, is what Isaac thought when his father set him down on that altar in the middle of nowhere. What he felt when his father touched a blade to his neck. Whether he cried,

  whether he wet his pants. The person who got lost in this story is a child. Now, as a good Christian, you’re supposed to respect Abraham for doing what he was told. But I’ll tell you something. As a human being, I do not respect that man at all. I have contempt for a God that uses a child in such a manner. And I’d be a far piece more likely to pledge myself to a parent who stands between a despot–even an allegedly heavenly one–to keep him from reaching a child.” He raises his brow as the camera moves in for his close-up. “I only hope that Miz White–mother of Faith–pays heed to this.”

  Someone calls out “Cut!” and Ian turns away, grabbing a towel from an assistant and wiping the makeup and sweat from his face. He collects his notes from another assistant and stalks back toward the Winnebago, oblivious to the murmuring of the crowd that was listening.

  Either they got it or they didn’t.

  There are two ways to read his broadcast, and Ian damn well knows it. Either people will believe that his final line was meant to accuse Mariah of being like Abraham, prostituting her child just because God and the media want it that way. Or else people will hear Ian praising Mariah for not being like Abraham,

  for taking her daughter away, even fleetingly, from these same greedy powers.

  He doesn’t much care how his fans perceive it,

  actually. The only reactions he cares about are Mariah’s and James’s. He wants Mariah to have heard it one way, and James to have heard it the other.

  The door opens and closes behind his executive producer. James sits down at the table and props up his feet. “Nice broadcast,” he says easily. “But I thought you might talk more about the kid.”

  “Isaac?”

  “Faith White.” James shrugs. “Just on account of us being here for a few weeks now. I think viewers are expecting more.”

  “More what?”

  “More … I don’t know. More heart.

  More guts. More proof than theatrics.”

  Ian feels a muscle tic in his jaw. “Just say what you mean to say, James.”

  The producer holds his hands up. “Jesus H. Christ, don’t jump down my throat here.”

  “You know that rumor about me being a temperamental asshole? I’d like to cash in on it right now.”

  “All I’m telling you, Ian, is that you called me from the road and intimated that you were onto something regarding the White case. And then you come home and do two live shows and barely mention it.

  Faith White is the cash cow here, Ian. The mother lode. Isaac and Abraham? Yeah,

  they’re nice, but you can save them for when you’ve got a contract renewed with a network.” He peers into Ian’s face. “There better be something going on. Something that’s going to go up like a bottle rocket, with you holding right onto its tail.”

  When Ian remains impassive, James scowls. “You hear me?”

  Ian’s head swivels slowly, his eyes connecting with James’s. “Boom,” he says.

  “That’s Betelgeuse,” Faith says,

  pointing. “The red one that’s part of Orion.” From her position on the ratty football blanket,

  Kenzie blinks at the night sky. She wraps her winter coat more tightly around her. “That’s Taurus,” Faith adds. “The reason it’s so close is because Orion is trying to shoot it.”

  “You know a lot about stars.”

  “We studied them in school before I stopped going. And my dad used to show me constellations sometimes, too.”

  It is the first time Faith has ever brought up Colin without being prompted. “Did you like looking at stars with your father?”

  “Yes,” Faith murmurs.

  Kenzie draws up her knees and tries a different tack. “My father used to play hockey with me. Ice hockey, actually.”

  Faith laughs, surprised. “You played ice hockey?”

  “Yeah, I know. I pretty much sucked at it. But I had five older brothers, and I don’t think my father ever actually noticed that I was a girl.” At Faith’s giggle, she’s glad she’s said it, but that doesn’t keep Kenzie from recalling the sting of feeling unwanted by her family.

  “Were you the goalie?”

  Kenzie smiles. “Most of the time I was the puck.”

  Faith rolls to her side, propping up on an elbow. “Does your dad still live around here?”

  “He lives in Boston. I don’t see him very often.” She hesitates only a moment before adding, “I miss him.”

  “I miss my dad, too.” The words are as quiet as the night, absorbed into the sway of the trees around them. “I don’t want to, but that doesn’t keep it from going away.”

  “Why don’t you want to?”

  “Because he did something awful,” she says, low.

  “Something that made my mom cry.”

  “And what was that?” />
  Faith doesn’t speak. After a moment Kenzie realizes that she is weeping silently.

  “Faith?”

  The girl turns away, burying her face in her own shoulder. “I don’t know!” she sobs.

  “I was talking to him, and then there was this other lady in the bathroom, and he left. He left, and I think it was because I said something wrong.”

  “You said nothing wrong, honey. It was a problem between your mom and your dad.”

  “No, he just doesn’t want to live with me.”

  “Your father does want to live with you,” Kenzie explains. “And so does your mother. They both love you very much. That’s why a judge and I have to help decide which house you should go to.”

  Involuntarily, she recalls the Sunday-school legend of King Solomon. When two women claimed they were both the mother of one baby, he suggested cutting the infant in half with a sword, to discover which parent would relinquish her claim on the child rather than see it hurt.

  Textbook wisdom: problem solved, and no drop of blood shed. But that was just a story. In the real world, often both parents were completely worthy, or completely unworthy. In the real world, there were mitigating circumstances. In the real world, children were often the ones who swept up the messes their parents had left behind.

  November 15, 1999 Malcolm Metz comes into the conference room where Lacey Rodriguez has been told to wait and props a hip against the edge of the table.

  “You bring me any?” he asks.

  She pauses, her turkey and coleslaw on rye hovering before her mouth. “Nope. As it is,

  you’re funding this one.”

  Malcolm grunts. “What’s black and tan and looks good on a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know. What?”

  “A doberman.” He grins, takes the sandwich from her hand, and stuffs one end into his mouth.

  “Very nice. I never would have thought of the coleslaw.” He wipes his lips with her napkin and hands back the sandwich. “So what have you got?”

  She taps a sheaf of papers. “What do you know about Kansas City?”

  “Everything’s up to date there. Hell, I don’t know. Isn’t that why I’m paying you?”

  Lacey grins. “Not nearly enough,

  Malcolm. My contact at the airlines came through. Guess where Mariah White went into hiding last week?”

  Metz takes the list she offers, scans the list of names. “Big deal,” he says. “The whole world knows she was gone with the girl.”

  Lacey stands up and flips to the first page of the list, to the first-class passengers. “Does the whole world know that Ian Fletcher was on the same plane?”

  “Fletcher?” Metz considers his earlier meeting with the man, the teleatheist’s assertion that something big, something Metz was not privy to, would be used to expose Faith as a sham. They’d gone over testimony, and Fletcher had never mentioned this little morsel. Clearly, this trip has something to do with his grand plan.

  Metz smiles, silently filing this trump card in his mind. Fletcher might think his secret is safe, but he isn’t thinking along the lines of the law. Once Fletcher’s on the witness stand,

  Metz can ask him anything at all. Once Fletcher’s under oath, he has no choice but to tell the truth.

  Mariah has made a dedicated attempt to stay out of Kenzie’s way when she’s visiting Faith. If Kenzie is in the kitchen, Mariah finds something to do in the living room. If they head upstairs, Mariah goes to the basement. She is too nervous around the guardian ad litem, too certain she will say something she will later regret.

  Today Kenzie has promised to French-braid Faith’s hair. “We’re playing beauty parlor today,” she tells Mariah. “You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.”

  “No–really. I’d like you to. Part of my evaluation involves watching you interact with Faith.”

  Mariah ducks her head. It will only be for a little while. And surely it will look worse if she refuses. “Okay,” she says, and then she grins. “As long as you don’t give me a perm.”

  Kenzie follows her up the staircase to Faith’s room. As soon as she knocks, the door swings open. “I’m ready!” Faith shouts. “I washed my hair and conditioned it and everything.” Kenzie sits on the bed and begins to stroke Faith’s hair. It slides through her hands like silver. “You want an outside braid or an inside braid?”

  Faith glances at her mother, and they both shrug.

  “We’re about at the ponytail stage,” Mariah confesses. “Anything would be a treat.”

  Kenzie separates the hair at Faith’s crown into three segments. “When I was Faith’s age, my hair was about an eighth of an inch long all the way around my head.”

  “Her father wanted her to be a boy,” Faith whispers to Mariah.

  Kenzie nods. “It’s true. Of course, the first thing I did when I got old enough was grow my hair down past my butt.”

  Faith giggles. “Ma,” she says in a stage whisper. “Kenzie said butt.”

  “Oops.” She braids sections of hair,

  feeding in a strand from the side of Faith’s head.

  Mariah watches intently, as if she will be called upon to recite the procedure from memory.

  “I grew up in Boston,” Kenzie says breezily. “You ever been to Boston, Faith?”

  “No.” Faith squirms on her heels.

  “But I went to Kansas City.”

  Kansas City. The words strike her like a blow, so much so that Mariah finds herself short of breath. Mariah hasn’t been dishonest with Kenzie, but she hasn’t volunteered information about her attempt to take Faith away either. She is certain that the things she does not want to tell Kenzie are written all over her face–her involvement with Ian, Ian’s brother,

  Faith’s effect on Michael. “You went to Boston when you were little, sweetie,” she says,

  desperate to change the subject. “You just don’t remember.”

  “I remember Kansas City,” Faith says.

  “Honey … we don’t need to bore Kenzie with that.”

  “Oh, I’m just braiding. Go right ahead. When did you go to Kansas City?”

  “Last week,” Faith says.

  Kenzie lifts her head. “I took her away from here. From this,” Mariah adds softly.

  “What made you decide to leave then, rather than earlier?” Kenzie asks.

  Mariah turns away. “It had been going on too long. It was time.”

  “It would have nothing to do with the fact that your ex-husband said he’d be filing for a change of custody?”

  Mariah scrambles to think of what she can tell the guardian ad litem without making herself look as if she had been dodging the law. Which, of course,

  would be the truth. She glances at Faith, intent to steer off the topic before her daughter blurts out that they stayed with Ian. “It wasn’t intentional,”

  Mariah answers. “I just wanted to make things easier.”

  “Why Kansas City?”

  “It was the first plane that left the airport.”

  Faith bounces on the bed. “Yeah, and guess who was in first class–“

  “Faith.” The word, sharply spoken, brings the little girl up short. Mariah tightens her mouth,

  fully aware of Kenzie’s stare set square on her, of Faith’s confusion. “We came back;

  that’s what matters. When I heard about papers being served, we came back.”

  Kenzie does not blink. Mariah feels sweat bead under the collar of her shirt; she reads the GAL’S eyes as clearly as if her impression were written across them: This woman is lying. But to tell Kenzie more is to admit to running from Colin’s threat of a lawsuit.

  To make public her relationship with Ian.

  To violate his privacy. She stares at Kenzie, unwilling to back down this time.

  To her surprise, Kenzie does. She doesn’t whip out a notepad or ask more questions or rebuke Mariah at all, but instead shifts the slightest bit away from Mariah on top of Faith’s bed. T
hen she bends back toward her task, humming softly, winding Faith’s beautiful hair through her fingers like yarn through a loom. And all Mariah can do is watch as Kenzie wraps together all the loose ends.

  “Ian, oh, God. I’m so glad you called.”

  He curls his hand around the receiver, smiling.

  “That’s one hell of a reception, sugar.”

  “I think she knows. The guardian ad litem.

  She was asking questions today and Faith blurted out something about Kansas City and–“

  “Mariah, calm down. Take a deep breath. … There you go. Now, what happened?”

  He listens, frowning as she recounts the conversation with Kenzie van der Hoven. “Well, I don’t think that’s anything conclusive. All she knows is that someone who struck Faith’s fancy was on the plane. That could mean one of the Backstreet Boys, or Prince William.”

  “But she knows what day we left, and when Colin filed the papers.”

  Ian gentles his voice. “She was gonna find that out anyway. The best defense you have is that you came back with Faith.” He hesitates,

  thinking of his meeting with Metz. “I told you not to worry, Mariah. I told you that I’d figure this out. Don’t you trust me?”

  For one horrible moment, she does not answer.

  And then Ian can feel it, a rush of warmth that reaches through the phone connection before her voice does. “I do, Ian.”

  He tries to respond, and finds that there are no words.

  “I’m sorry that I brought you into this,” Mariah adds.

  Ian closes his eyes. “Sugar,” he says, “there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  November 16, 1999 On the day that Kenzie meets with Millie Epstein, the blue-plate special at the caf`e in the center of New Canaan is fish and chips. “Very bad,” Millie says, clucking over the menu. “You don’t even know if it’s done in canola, or what.”

  It seems like the perfect introduction, so Kenzie leans forward, elbows on the scarred table of the booth. “I guess you’re pretty careful about what you eat these days.”

  Millie glances up. “Why should I be? If I croak again, I’ll just call for Faith instead of a paramedic.” Watching the younger woman’s jaw drop, Millie smiles. “I’m kidding. Of course I’m careful. But I was careful before the heart attack, too. I ate well, took my medicine like clockwork. Let me ask you something: