Keeping Faith: A Novel (47 page)

“Which is what, Mr. Metz?”

“Faith White was hospitalized last night.”

At that, Kenzie snaps upright. “She what?”

“As I understand from my client, she started bleeding from her hands again, and that escalated into a more serious condition.”

“Oh, my God. Who’s with her now?”

“Her mother, I assume.” There is a hesitation on the line. “But I wanted you to know that I plan to amend that. I’m asking the judge for a restraining order to keep Mariah away from the child.

I have reason to believe that Mariah’s the one who’s harming Faith.”

“You have evidence?” she asks.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that Mrs. White suffers from a certain psychological disorder. I have an expert who’s reviewed the case, and who agrees with me.”

“I see.”

“Well, you will anyway. I just thought you might like to know in advance,” Metz says, and then he hangs up.

Kenzie turns on her computer and waits for the screen to spring to life. It makes her wince–

too much energy all at once. She begins to type furiously, hoping that she will have a chance to visit Faith before court is in session, hoping that if there is indeed a heavenly being watching over Faith, it can follow her into an ambulance, a hospital, a new and safer home.

“I recommend that custody of Faith White,” she types, “be awarded to her father.”

KEEPING FAITH

Keeping Faith

FOURTEEN

He saved others; himself he cannot save.

–Matthew 2742 December 3, 1999–Morning There had been times, when Faith was an infant and Mariah was still slightly amazed to find a baby sleeping beside her or nursing at her own breast, that she’d be overwhelmed with terror. Years stretched out in front of her like red roads on a map,

filled with hazards and errors. Faith’s life,

at that point, was unmarked and unscarred. It was up to Mariah to keep it that way.

It became clear to her quickly that this was a job she could never adequately fill, not without feeling deficient. How could she even be considered remotely qualified to be a mother, knowing that she was every bit as fallible as this baby was perfect? In the stitch of a moment, anything could go wrong–an earthquake, a viral flu, a pacifier dropped into the gutter. She would look into her daughter’s face and see accidents waiting to happen. And then her vision would clear and she would see only love, a well so deep that you could try and try and never know its bottom, but only suck in your breath at its frightening depth.

Faith stirs in her sleep, and immediately Mariah turns. Of its own volition, Faith’s bandaged hand twitches across the covers of the hospital bed and burrows beneath Mariah’s. At the contact, Faith stops moving and relaxes again.

Suddenly Mariah wonders if moments like this are what qualify you as a good parent: realizing that no matter how you try, you will not be able to protect a child from the tragedies or the missteps or the nightmares. Maybe the job of a mother is not to shelter but to bear witness as a child hits full force … and then to cushion the fall when it’s over.

Mariah’s hands are pressed tight against her mouth. She has to keep them that way, because if she doesn’t she will surely break into loud, hoarse sobs or shout at one of the well-meaning nurses to get away from her daughter.

“I don’t understand,” Millie says quietly, standing with Mariah a few feet from Faith’s bed. “She’s never been sick like this before. Maybe it’s a bug, something she caught on top of the bleeding.”

“It’s not a bug,” Mariah whispers.

“She’s dying.”

Millie looks up, startled. “What on earth makes you say that?”

“Look at her.”

Faith is pale against the hospital sheets.

Her hands, still oozing blood, are matted with bandages that have not yet been changed. Her fever has fluctuated from 104 to 106 degrees, no matter how many tepid baths and alcohol washes and grams of Tylenol and Advil she’s been given intravenously. Watching her makes Mariah nervous. She finds herself staring at the slight flare of Faith’s nostrils, counting the subtle rhythms of her chest.

Millie purses her mouth and walks from Faith’s room to the comparative quiet of the front desk. “Has Colin White called?”

she asks, knowing that the phones in Faith’s room have been diverted to allow her to sleep.

“No, Mrs. Epstein,” the nurse says.

“I’ll come in the minute he does.”

Instead of returning to Faith, Millie moves down the corridor. There, she leans against the wall and covers her face with her hands.

“Mrs. Epstein?”

She quickly wipes away tears to find Dr.

Blumberg standing before her. “Don’t mind me,”

she sniffs.

They fall into step, slowing as they approach the door to Faith’s room. “Has there been any change since last night?”

“Not that I can tell,” Millie says,

pausing at the threshold. “I’m worried about Mariah. Maybe you could say something.”

Dr. Blumberg nods and enters the room.

Mariah lifts her eyes just enough to see the nurses scatter. The physician pulls up a chair.

“How are you doing?”

“I’d rather talk about Faith,” Mariah answers.

“Well, I’m not sure what to do for her just yet. You, though … you want something to help you sleep?”

“I want Faith to wake up and come home with me,” she says firmly, staring at the shell of Faith’s ear. There were times when Faith was a baby that Mariah would watch the blood coursing through the thin membrane of skin, thinking that surely she could see the platelets and the cells,

the energy going to this tiny body.

Dr. Blumberg clasps his hands between his knees. “I don’t know what’s the matter with her, Mariah. I’ll run more lab tests this morning. And I’ll do whatever I can to keep her comfortable; you have my word on that.”

Mariah stares at the doctor. “You want to know what’s the matter with her? She’s dying. How come I can see that, even without a medical degree?”

“She’s not dying. If that were the case, I’d tell you.”

Mariah focuses on Faith’s face with a passion, gazing at the blue smudges beneath her eyes, the tiny slope of her nose. She leans close, so close that only Faith will be able to hear her words. “Don’t you give up on me,”

she whispers. “Don’t you dare. You didn’t for years and years. Don’t you do it now.”

“Mariah, honey, we’ve got to go to court.”

Millie taps her wristwatch. “Ten o’clock.”

“I’m not going.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Mariah turns so quickly her mother takes a step back. “I’m not going. I’m not leaving her.” She touches Faith’s cheek. “I do have a choice.”

The only concession that Joan Standish has made to the fact that she’ll be facing the infamous Malcolm Metz in a courtroom is the addition of fifteen minutes of butt exercises to her daily routine. They come in between brushing her teeth and drinking coffee, a brutal procession of squats and lunges and lifts that leave her clenched and sweating. She likes to picture Metz while she does them, imagines him gaping at her fanny after she wins the case and sashays away down the hall of the superior court.

So on the morning of the custody hearing, she does her exercises, showers, and then pulls a red wool suit from her closet. It’s conservative, but it’s bright, and she’s willing to use any trick she can to draw attention away from Malcolm Metz.

Sometime during her bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats she remembers that she needs gas in her car. Joan gives herself a mental pat on the back for attention to detail; maybe even at this very moment Metz is running ten minutes late because he forgot to fill up. She washes her hands carefully so as not to splatter her suit and gathers up the briefcase she’s packed the night before.

She leaves twenty minutes ahead of schedule, thinking it’s good to be a little early, never knowing that the phone in her house rings just moments after she is gone.

Joan can feel the perfect cone of calm she’s erected around her professional self crack the moment Millie Epstein comes running toward her, clearly agitated. “Tell me Mariah’s in the bathroom,” Joan says warily.

“The hospital. I tried to call you.”

“What?”

“It’s not what you think,” she explains.

“It’s Faith. She’s incredibly sick, and Mariah refuses to leave her.”

“Goddamn it,” Joan mutters as Malcolm Metz and Colin and a young female associate approach the plaintiff’s table of the courtroom.

“Joan,” Metz says pleasantly,

“I’ve got one for you: What’s the difference between a lawyer and a catfish?”

“Not now.” Joan is vaguely aware that the gallery of the court, usually deserted for custody hearings, is now packed to the point of discomfort with media representatives.

“One’s a scum-sucking bottom feeder,”

Metz says, laughing, “and the other one’s a fish.

Get it?”

“Speak for yourself, Malcolm,” Joan says,

extracting files.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge A.

Warren Rothbottam!”

Joan stands, lifting her gaze at the last possible moment. Judge Rothbottam flips briefly through the file in front of him, then glances from the plaintiff to the defendant. “Ms.

Standish. Are you missing something?”

“My client, Your Honor. May I approach?”

Rothbottam sighs. “I just knew this one couldn’t go easy. Come on up.”

Metz falls into place beside Joan,

looking like the cat that has swallowed the canary.

“Your Honor,” Joan says, “there’s been a terrible emergency. My client’s daughter was hospitalized last night, and she won’t leave her bedside in order to be present in court. I request a continuance until the girl is released from the hospital.”

“Hospitalized?” Rothbottam looks for confirmation to Metz, who shrugs. “Is she dying?”

“I don’t believe so,” Joan answers.

“It’s my understanding that Faith is suffering from medically inexplicable bleeding.”

“So-called stigmata,” Metz interjects.

“The doctors have not come to that conclusion yet,”

Joan snaps.

“Oh, that’s right. It could be something worse.”

Rothbottam scowls at him. “If I feel that I need an interpreter, Mr. Metz, you’ll be the first one I call.” Turning to Joan, he says, “I assume the girl is in critical condition?”

“I … I think so, Your Honor.”

“I see. However, the child’s father managed to make it to the courtroom; I expect the mother to do the same. And don’t think I can’t see through some “angel of mercy” device. My docket is a nightmare until Christmas. I’m denying the request for a continuance. You’ve got twenty minutes to figure out how to get your client to come to court, or I’m sending a sheriff out there to bring her in locked up. We’ll resume at ten-thirty.”

“Before she goes to find the defendant, Your Honor,” Metz interjects, “I need a court order.”

“Do you,” the judge says dryly.

“Your Honor, time is of the essence here, and I need a ruling this morning on an issue that might make the difference between life and death for the girl.”

“What the hell is this?” Joan says. “An emergency hearing? Now?”

Metz bares his teeth at her. “That’s why they call it an emergency, Joan.”

“That’s it,” Rothbottam announces. “I want you two in chambers. Now.”

Joan walks to the defense table to collect her notepad. Seeing the judge leave, she runs down the aisle to the door and beckons Millie. As a sequestered witness,

she’s not in the courtroom–but isn’t allowed to stray too far. “Do whatever it takes to get her here,” Joan hisses. “She’d better be in court by the time I get out of chambers, or she’ll be dragged in by the police.”

When Joan enters the judge’s chambers,

Metz has already taken the comfortable chair.

Rothbottam waits for Joan to sit, too.

“Malcolm, what are you doing? This isn’t Manchester. This isn’t New York City. This isn’t the three-ring circus you like to run your dog-and-pony show in. This is New Canaan,

boy. Grandstanding isn’t going to get you jackshit.”

“Your Honor, this isn’t just a ploy for positioning. I need a restraining order against Mariah White, preventing her from visiting her daughter.”

Joan laughs. “Get over yourself,

Malcolm.”

“Your Honor, I won’t dignify that outburst. I was concerned enough when the physical damage to the child just involved Faith’s hands, but the situation’s gotten worse–the child is in critical condition at Connecticut Valley Medical Center. We’ve taken the liberty of contacting an expert, who’s on his way here from the West Coast as we speak, and who will explain why Mariah White exhibits the classic characteristics of a person suffering from Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy–a mental illness that would cause her to harm her own daughter.”

Joan narrows her eyes, smelling a rat.

She’s savvy enough to know that Metz wouldn’t pull this strategy out of a hat overnight. It’s something he’s had lined up for a while, certainly long enough for her to depose his expert. This surprise witness is no surprise at all–at least not to Metz.

But he is the picture of innocence and righteous fervor. “It’s a complicated disorder. The mother actually makes a child physically or psychologically ill to attract attention to herself.

If the child is left in the mother’s care, well,

God only knows what might eventually happen.

Paralysis, coma, even death. Clearly, this issue will weigh upon who gets custody of the child in the long run, but for now, Your Honor, I beg you to protect Faith by issuing a restraining order against Mrs. White for the length of the trial.”

Joan waits for him to stop speaking, and then bursts out laughing. “Are you going to let him get away with this, Your Honor?”