Keeping Faith

by Picoult, Jodi

  Millie tugs her upright, sensing that she’s started to make some progress. She folds Mariah into her coat with the easy motions of a mother. “Then stop him,” she says.

  “Call it.” Dr. Urquhart sighs. In OR Three the cardiac surgeon strips off his gloves and balls them inside out, trapping the blood from his patient’s chest within. He hears a nurse say “nine fifty-eight,” and the faint scratch of her pen on the patient’s chart.

  Urquhart’s fingers are throbbing. Ten minutes of manual stimulation had not been enough to save the man,

  but then again, having cracked open the fellow’s chest, Urquhart knows that another few rashers of bacon would have finished him off, too. At 80 and 75 percent blockage, respectively, it’s a wonder that Mr. Eversly made it this long.

  He hears one of the surgical residents readying to prepare the patient so that he’ll be fit for a final viewing by family. With a groan,

  Urquhart realizes the worst is yet to come.

  There’s nothing worse than telling a relative a patient’s died under the knife, right before Christmas.

  He takes the patient’s chart to sign off on the death, goes so far as to click his ballpoint pen, and then he’s stopped by the voice of the resident. “Dr. Urquhart. Look at this.”

  He follows her eyes to the monitor–no longer a flat-line–and then to the open chest cavity of the patient, inside which a heart–healthy,

  unclogged–is furiously beating.

  “All rise! The Honorable A. Warren Rothbottam presiding!”

  The courtroom swells with the sound of feet hitting the ground and pocket change jingling as everyone stands. The judge stalks to his seat, one eye on the group of onlookers packing the gallery. Rothbottam has heard that so many people were trying to get in, the bailiffs had to hold a lottery for the open seats.

  He glances at the defendant’s table and sees Mariah White, thank the good Lord, just where she ought to be. Her hands are folded, her eyes trained on them as if they might at any moment fly up and betray her.

  Rothbottam levels his gaze on the gallery. “Let’s get this straight right now.

  I’m neither foolish nor na@ive enough to assume that the congestion of bodies in this courtroom has anything to do with my prowess as a judge or a sudden media interest in routine custody hearings. I know exactly who you all are and what you think you’re doing here. Well, this is not your news station. This is my courtroom. And in it,

  I’m God.” He braces his hands on the bench. “If I see a camera come in with one of you, if I hear you cough too loud, if anyone applauds or boos a witness–at the first sign of any crap, you’re all out of here. And you can quote me on that.”

  The reporters roll their eyes at each other.

  “Counselors,” Rothbottam says to the attorneys. “I’m going to assume no other emergency motions have cropped up in the past half hour?”

  “No, Your Honor,” Metz says. Joan shakes her head.

  “Terrific.” He nods at Metz. “You may begin.”

  Malcolm gets to his feet, squeezes Colin’s shoulder, and adjusts the button on the jacket of his suit. Then he walks over to the podium beside the stenographer and angles it slightly, pointing it in the direction of the gallery.

  “Mr. Metz,” the judge says. “What are you doing?”

  “I know it goes against the norm of a custody hearing, but I’ve prepared a short opening statement, Your Honor.”

  “Do you see a jury, Counselor? Because I don’t. And I already know everything about this case that you do.”

  Metz stares at him evenly. “I have a right to give an opening statement, and I’m going to object on the record, Your Honor, if you don’t let me.”

  The judge thinks, briefly, of what he could be doing if he’d retired five years early, as his wife wanted: watching the waves roll in on a Florida beach, driving a motor home into a national park, listening to Betty Buckley sing again on Broadway. Instead, he’s stuck watching Malcolm Metz play to an audience,

  because the last thing he wants is for Metz to have grounds for appeal. “Ms. Standish,” the judge says, resigned, “do you have a problem with this?”

  “No, Your Honor. I’d actually like to see it.”

  Rothbottam inclines his head.

  “Make it brief, Counselor.”

  Malcolm Metz stands silently behind the podium for a moment, pretending to gather words that have been memorized cold for the past week. “You know,” he says, “when I was seven years old,

  I used to go fishing with my dad. He taught me how to pick the best worm from the overturned earth … how to thread it on the hook just so … how to reel in a striper that was the most beautiful thing on earth. And after we went fishing, just the two of us, we’d go to the diner down the road from the pond and he’d buy me a root beer and we’d sit and count the cars that passed by on the highway.

  “Then my dad and I would go home, and Mom would have a big lunch waiting. Sometimes it was soup,

  sometimes a ham sandwich … and while she set the table, I’d go outside and look under the porch for spiders, or lie on my back and stare at the clouds. Do you know what Faith White is doing at the age of seven? She’s lying on a hospital bed, hooked up to intravenous tubes,

  getting blood drawn from a dozen different places on her body. She’s in excruciating pain, both mental and physical. She has a battalion of nurses and doctors watching her around the clock, and people gathered outside the hospital doors waiting to hear about her welfare. I ask you: Is this any way to spend a childhood?” He shakes his head sadly.

  “I think not. In fact, this child has not been able to be a child for some time. Which is why her father–my client–has made a place for his daughter,

  ready to take her with open arms and protect her from the unsavory influences that brought her to the point where she is now … that continue to endanger her very life.”

  “All right,” Rothbottam bellows.

  “Approach!”

  Metz and Joan walk to the bench. The judge covers his microphone. “Mr. Metz, let me give you a tip: I’m not going to make a ruling based on what you say to the media reps here today.

  I highly recommend you wrap this up now, because you’ve started to piss me off.”

  Metz returns to his podium and clears his throat. “In conclusion, we’re going to prove that –without a doubt–custody should go to Colin White. Thank you.” He nods, and goes to sit behind Colin.

  “Ms. Standish,” the judge says,

  “do you want to make an opening argument, too?”

  Joan gets to her feet and fans herself with her hand. “Can you give me a minute, Your Honor?

  I’m still feeling a little emotional from that speech–the fishing and all.” She takes a cleansing breath and then smiles prettily at the judge. “Ah.

  I’m better now. Actually, I don’t think I have anything to say at this moment that could possibly top that. Tell you what, though: If I feel the need to pontificate, maybe I could do it at the beginning of my case?”

  “Fine. Mr. Metz, you can call your first witness.”

  With an encouraging look at his client, Metz calls Colin White to the stand. Colin rises,

  managing to look sheepish and polished all at once. He steps into the witness box and turns toward the clerk of the court, who is holding out a Bible. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  “I do.”

  Malcolm approaches the stand and has Colin state his name and address. “Mr. White,” he begins, “what’s your relationship to Faith?”

  “I’m her father.”

  “Just for background, can you tell us about the circumstances of this past summer?”

  “I was having trouble with my marriage,” Colin admits. “I didn’t know who to talk to about it.”

  Metz frowns. “Why not your wife?”

  “Well, she has a history of being emotionally fragile, and I was a little scared of what she might d
o if I told her I felt that the marriage was in trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was institutionalized seven years ago for depression, after she tried to kill herself.”

  “If you didn’t confront her, then what happened to initiate the divorce proceedings?”

  “Well,” Colin says, reddening, “I sought the solace of another woman.”

  Beside her, Mariah hears Joan murmur,

  “Oh, for God’s sake …” She feels herself root more firmly in the seat, afraid to breathe or move a muscle, because in spite of Colin’s embarrassed admission, she wants only to sink through the floor.

  “Then what happened?” Metz prods gently.

  “One day this woman was at my house, and my wife found out about us.”

  “That must have been very uncomfortable for you,

  Colin.”

  “It was,” he admits. “God, I felt terrible about it.”

  “What action did you take at that time?”

  “I was selfish. I just knew that I needed to get my life together. I guess I thought that Faith would be all right with Mariah while I did … but in the back of my mind I understood that at some point I was going to want my daughter to come live with me.”

  “Did you ask her to live with you?”

  “Not then,” Colin says, grimacing. “I didn’t think it was right to uproot her when her family had just broken apart.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I filed for divorce. I tried to visit Faith whenever I could. And I made it implicitly clear to my ex-wife–at least I thought I did–that I still wanted Faith to be a part of my life. After I … left, I tried to go back and see her. One time I practically got shoved out the door. But Faith wanted to see me then; I know she did.”

  “Colin, maybe you can share with us some special moments you had with Faith.”

  “Oh, we used to be very close. There are little things that stay with me … like brushing out her hair after her bath, or pulling up the covers when she was asleep. Having her bury my feet in the sand.”

  “What is your current marital status?”

  Colin smiles toward the gallery, where Jessica gives him a tiny wave. “I’ve been happily married for the past two months, and in fact we’re going to have a baby. Faith’s going to love having a baby brother or sister.”

  “Don’t you think people might wonder why, in two scant months, you’ve changed your mind about who should have custody of your daughter?”

  Colin nods. “I’m not saying I’ve been perfect. I haven’t. I’ve made mistakes that I wish I could take back. But I never changed my mind about Faith. I just wasn’t willing to take her out of a familiar environment when the rest of her world had been turned upside down.” He looks at Jessica. “I love my new wife, and I love the life we’re making for ourselves. I can’t be a father to this new child without being one to Faith. I need her. And from what I’ve seen, she needs me just as badly.”

  Metz crosses in front of the judge.

  “Colin, why are you here now?”

  He swallows hard. “Well, not too long ago I turned on the news one night and my daughter was the feature story. She was hospitalized, and there was this insane story about her being a religious visionary and her hands bleeding, for God’s sake. All I could think was that Mariah cut open her wrists once, and here she was alone with my daughter, and all of a sudden Faith was bleeding. I always knew my wife was crazy,

  but–“

  “Objection!”

  The judge frowns. “I’m not going to listen to what you just said, Mr. White. Please answer the questions as they are asked.”

  Metz turns back to his client. “What made you file for a change of custody?”

  “I realized several weeks ago that Faith wasn’t nearly as safe as I’d thought.”

  “Did you ever have any previous reason to believe that Mariah wasn’t a fit caretaker?”

  “Not since years ago, when she’d just been released from Greenhaven. She was pretty fragile back then, and taking care of herself was hard enough, not to mention a newborn. But then things got better, much better–or so I believed,”

  Colin says.

  “Do you feel you can provide a safer home for Faith?”

  “God, yes. We live in a wonderful neighborhood, with a terrific backyard for her to play in–and I wouldn’t let the reporters get to her. I’d nip the whole issue in the bud, just so that she could have her childhood back.”

  “As a father, how do you feel about Faith’s situation?”

  Colin’s eyes meet Mariah’s. His are wide and honest and bright. “I’m worried about her,” he says. “I think her life is in danger. And I think her mother is to blame.”

  Mariah tugs on Joan’s sleeve before she stands to do the cross-examination. “They think I hurt Faith,” she whispers, stunned. “They think I’m doing this to her?”

  Joan squeezes her client’s hand. She’s coached Mariah to expect the worst, but –like Mariah–she figured that would mean some calculated barbs about her hospitalization, not posing her as an abusive parent. Mariah’s late arrival at court prevented Joan from warning her about Metz’s strategy, and she is not about to break the news to her client now, in the middle of testimony, that the judge has instructed Mariah to have no contact with Faith for the duration of the trial. “Relax. Just let me do my job.” Joan stands, staring at Colin long and hard, so that he knows just how reprehensible she truly thinks he is. “Mr. White,” she says coolly, “you say your marriage was in trouble.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet you didn’t talk about this with your wife,

  because she was emotionally fragile.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Can you define “emotionally fragile” for me?”

  “Objection,” Metz says. “My client isn’t a professional in the field of psychology.”

  “Then he shouldn’t have used the term in the first place,” Joan counters.

  “I’ll allow the question,” the judge says.

  Colin shifts in his chair, uncomfortable.

  “She was in a mental institution seven years ago, because she had suicidal tendencies.”

  “Ah, that’s right. You said she tried to kill herself.”

  Colin glances at Mariah. “Yes.”

  “She just tried to kill herself out of the blue?”

  “No, she was very depressed at the time.”

  “I see. Was there any reason that she was depressed?”

  Colin nods shortly.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. White. You’re going to have to speak up for the court stenographer.”

  “Yes.”

  Joan moves beside Mariah, so that the judge’s eye–not to mention the voracious gaze of the press in the gallery–must fall on her as well.

  “Maybe you could help us out by telling us the reason she was depressed.” Seeing the mutinous set of Colin’s jaw, she crosses her arms. “I can ask you, Mr. White, or you can tell me.”

  “I was having an affair, and she found out.”

  “You were having an affair seven years ago, and it made your wife depressed. And four months ago, when you were having yet another affair, you were worried that the discovery might make her depressed again?”

  “Correct.”

  “Was the only mistake you made in your marriage these liaisons with other women?”

  “I think so.”

  “Would it be correct to say that these two incidents–four months ago and seven years ago –were the only times in your marriage that you–how did you put it?–that you felt a need to seek solace.”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess, then, that the names Cynthia Snow-Harding and Helen Xavier don’t ring a bell.”

  As Colin turns white as his shirt, Mariah digs her nails into her thighs. Joan had warned her this was coming, and yet she still feels like running out of the room, or maybe up to the witness stand to scratch his eyes out. How could Joan have so quickl
y discovered something Mariah had not known for years?

  Because, Mariah thinks, she wanted to know. I didn’t.

  “Isn’t it true, Mr. White, that Cynthia Snow-Harding and Helen Xavier are two additional women with whom you had affairs?”

  Colin glances toward Metz, fuming behind the plaintiff’s table. “I wouldn’t say they were affairs,” he quickly responds. “They were very brief … connections.”

  Joan snorts. “Why don’t we move along?” she suggests. “When your wife,

  Mariah, became severely depressed seven years ago after finding out that you were having an affair with another woman, you say she was institutionalized.”

  “Yes. At the Greenhaven Institute.”

  “Did the people from Greenhaven just show up at your door to get her?”

  “No,” Colin says. “I arranged to have her sent there.”

  “Really?” Joan feigns shock. “Did you try psychiatric counseling for Mariah first?”

  “Well, briefly. It didn’t seem to be working.”

  “Did you ask the psychiatrist to have Mariah put on medication?”

  “I was more worried about what she–“

  “Just answer the question, Mr. White,” Joan interrupts.

  “No, I did not ask the psychiatrist that.”

  “Did you try to support her through this crisis?”

  “I did support her through it,” Colin says tightly. “I know it’s easy to make me look like the bad guy, the one who locked up his wife so he could conveniently keep having an affair. But I did what I felt was best for Mariah. I loved my wife, but she was … like a different person, and I couldn’t make the old Mariah come back. You don’t know until you’ve lived with someone who’s suicidal–how you keep obsessing over the fact that you didn’t see this coming, how you blame yourself for the really bad days, how you panic about keeping them safe. I could barely forgive myself every time I looked at her, because–somehow–

  I’d turned her into that. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it if she’d tried to kill herself again.”

  He looks into his lap. “It was already my fault. I only wanted to do something right for a change.”

  Mariah feels something turn over in her chest.