Keeping Faith: A Novel (38 page)

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 mother 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.”

She turns away. “I want …”

Kenzie takes a deep breath, waiting. But instead of speaking, Faith curls her hands into fists and tucks them beneath her armpits. Kenzie stares at her fine-boned wrists, wondering if the girl’s hands hurt, if she ought to call Mariah, if she just ought to come back another time.

Kenzie knows nothing about stigmata–alleged or real. But the one thing she understands inside out is what it feels like to be a little girl who doesn’t fit in.

“You know,” Kenzie says casually, “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

Faith pops to her feet. “Does that mean I can go?”

“I guess so. Unless you’d like to come outside.”

“Out … side?” Faith’s voice breaks with delight.

“It’s beautiful out. Just cold enough that your throat tickles when you breathe in deep.” She cocks her head. “I’ll tell your mom where we’re going. What do you say?”