Keeping Faith: A Novel (40 page)

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 same 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 parents 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.

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?”‘