Millie nods. "I will."
Lake Perry, Kansas--October 24, 1999
Mariah finds herself unable to sleep. She turns on her side and watches the night sky through the cabin's window, the moon rising and the stars three-dimensional, as if she could reach out and have them settle on her palm. She marks time by Faith's steady breathing and lets questions chase their own tails in her mind: How long can we stay? Where do we go next? How is my mother coping? Will a reporter arrive here the next day, or the next, or the next?
She sits up, tugging down the sweatshirt she's been using as sleepwear. Ian had bought Faith a nightgown, but not one for herself. She thinks of him rifling through serviceable flannels, slinkier silks, wondering what he might choose for her. Then, feeling her cheeks flame, she gets up and paces. No reason to dream about things that won't ever come to pass.
She would love to go for a walk now, but that would mean trekking through the living room, where Ian is sleeping. Instead she crosses to the window and gazes out. Ian is leaning against the hood of the car. The copper glow of a cigar paints his face in profile, as wide-eyed and preoccupied as Mariah herself. She stares unabashedly, wondering what keeps him up at night, willing him to turn.
When he does, when their eyes meet, Mariah's heart hitches. She presses her hands against the window sash, caught. They do not move, they do not speak, they simply let the night tie them tight. Then Ian crunches the cigar beneath his heel, and Mariah gets back into bed, each mulling over the thought that he or she is not the only one counting the minutes till morning.
Atlanta--CNN Studios
Larry King smooths down his scarlet tie and looks at his guest. "You ready?" he asks, not waiting for an answer, and then the tiny light at the edge of the camera flickers to life. "We're back with Rabbi Daniel Solomon, spiritual leader of Beit Am Hadash, which is affiliated with ALEPH, or Jewish Renewal."
"Yes," Rabbi Solomon says, still awkward after ten minutes on the air. "Hello." He is wearing a moth-eaten black jacket--the only one he has with lapels, instead of a mandarin collar--and his trademark tie-dyed T-shirt, but he might as well be naked. There are millions of people listening to him--millions!--after his years of fighting to be heard. He keeps reminding himself that he owes this fortuitous interview to Faith White, as well as to his own congregation. So what if King's brought in a Catholic prig of a professor to rebut whatever Solomon says? Even David managed to conquer Goliath, with God on his side.
"Rabbi," King says, capturing Daniel's attention. "Is Faith White the Messiah?"
"Well, she's certainly not the Jewish Messiah," Rabbi Solomon says, rolling his shoulders in the familiar feel of his own theological turf. "One criterion for a Jewish Messiah involves creating a sovereign Jewish state, according to the Torah. And nothing that Faith's heard from God indicates this." He crosses his legs. "The interesting thing about a Messiah is that it differs greatly from Judaism to Christianity. To Jews, the Messiah won't show up until we've managed to rid the world of all its evil and make it ready for a divine being. To Christians, far as I understand, the Messiah heralds the age of redemption. Brings it with Him. Jews have to work to get to a Messianic age; Christians have to wait."
"If I can object?"
They turn at the sound of a voice on a TV monitor overhead. "Yes, please do," King says. "Father Cullen Mulrooney, chair of theology at Boston College. You were saying, Father?"
"I find it irresponsible for a rabbi to tell me what Christians have to do."
"Let's talk about that, Father," Larry King asks, tapping a pen on the desktop. "How come the Catholic Church is investigating the claims of a little Jewish girl?"
Mulrooney smiles. "Because she's affecting a large group of Catholics."
"The fact that she's only seven isn't an issue?"
"No. Visionaries younger than Faith White have been accredited by the Catholic Church. And actually, seven used to be called the age of reason, when a person was mature enough to be morally responsible for his own deeds. That's why the first confession takes place then."
Larry King purses his lips. "By the admission of her mother, this is not a girl who is schooled in formal religion--any religion. Let's take a caller." He pushes a button. "Hello?"
"Hello? I have a question for the rabbi. If she's not a Jewish Messiah, what is she?"
Rabbi Solomon laughs. "A little girl who is exceptionally spiritual, maybe more skilled at opening herself up to God than the rest of us."
A second caller's voice fills the studio. "If she's Jewish, why does she have the wounds of Christ?"
"If I may I address that?" Father Mulrooney asks. "I think it's important to remember that the bishop hasn't offered any official statement about the alleged stigmata. It may take years...decades...before the bleeding is authenticated by the Vatican."
"But it's a good point," Larry King says. "We're not talking about a Carmelite nun here, just a kid, and a non-Christian one at that." He turns to Rabbi Solomon. "How come a Jewish girl would develop the wounds of a savior she doesn't believe in?"
"Faith White is a blank slate," Father Mulrooney cuts in. "If a religious innocent, a non-Christian, develops the wounds of Christ, surely that's proof that Jesus is the one true Lord."
Rabbi Solomon smiles. "I didn't see it like that at all. I think God's picked a little Jewish girl and tossed stigmata into the mix because it's the way to gather many different people. Christians, Jews--we're all watching her now."
"But why now? Why wait thousands of years, and then just show up? Does it have to do with the millennium?"
"Absolutely," the priest says. "For years the turn of the century has been posed as the apocalypse, and people are looking for redemption."
The rabbi laughs. "Forget the millennium. According to the Jewish calendar, there's forty-three years to go before we even hit the turn of the century."
"Caller?" King says, pushing another button.
"She's the devil's handmaiden. She--"
"Thank you," King says, cutting off the line. "Hi, you're on the air."
"I say good for Faith White. Even if she's making the whole damned thing up, it's about time someone suggested God might be a woman."
"Gentlemen? Is God male?"
"No," say the rabbi and the priest, simultaneously.
"God is neither, and both," Mulrooney says. "But there's so much more to a vision than just physical attributes. There's the concrete, verifiable sign of proof apart from the vision, and the visionary's piousness and Christian virtue--"
"I've always resented that," Rabbi Solomon murmurs. "The idea that it's only Christians who have virtue."
"That's not what--"
"You know what your problem is?" the rabbi accuses. "You say you're open-minded. But only as long as your visionary happens to be seeing something you all like. You sit on a college faculty. You haven't even met the girl, but she's a round peg in a square hole, so you're discrediting her with your theology."
"Now, just a moment," Father Mulrooney says, fuming. "At least I have a theology. What kind of radical hippie movement calls itself Jewish but uses chanting and Buddhism and Native American imagery?"
"Hey, there's room for a female God in Jewish theology."
The priest shakes his head. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't Hebrew prayers addressed to 'adonai eloheinu'--the Lord our God?"
"Yes," Rabbi Solomon says. "But there are many Hebrew names for God. Hashem, for example, which means 'the name'--very unisex. There's God's presence, Shekhinah, traditionally considered to be a feminine term. My personal favorite word for God is Shaddai. It's always conjugated in the masculine, and for years rabbis have translated it to mean 'the Hill God' or 'the Mountain God.' Yet shaddai is amazingly similar to the word shaddaim which means 'breasts.'"
"Oh, for criminy's sake," Father Mulrooney snorts. "And 'hello' minus the o is 'hell.'"
"Why, you--" Rabbi Solomon nearly comes out of his chair, until Larry King restrains him with a touch of his hand.
"Faith White, healer or hoax?" King says smoothly. "We'll be back in a minute." When the camera light blinks off, Father Mulrooney is an alarming shade of scarlet, and Rabbi Solomon's eyes are blazing with anger. "Look, you guys are giving me terrific stuff, but try not to kill each other, all right? We've got to fill twenty more minutes of air time."
Lake Perry, Kansas--October 25, 1999
A full Kansas moon is a remarkable sight, luminous and filled to bursting as it grazes the plains. It is the kind of moon that coaxes animals out of hiding, that makes cats dance on fenceposts and barn owls cry. It changes you, if only for the time you stare at it, making your blood beat thick and your head spin to a song played on bare branches and marsh reeds. It is the kind of moon that thrusts its belly toward Ian and Mariah on Monday night, only hours before he will go to visit Michael.
This has become their habit, a moment to wind down before Mariah goes inside to bed and Ian goes back to work. On the porch they speak of easy things: geese they have seen flying south, the remarkable number of stars, the way winter already hangs in the air. They wrap up in plaid blankets and sit side by side until their cheeks pinken and their noses run and they surrender to the cold. Tonight Ian has been unusually quiet. He knows what he has to do--the acting job of his life, essentially--but he's putting it off. Every time he draws in a breath to start, he looks at Mariah and realizes that he does not want to set in motion the beginning of the end.
Mariah yawns. "Well, I guess I'd better go in." She glances around the porch for stray items that Faith might have left outside and reaches for a pair of shoes. "I swear that girl sheds," she murmurs, then picks up a worn leather Bible. Clearly assuming that Faith found it inside the cabin, she tries to tuck it into the folds of her blanket before Ian can notice.
"Actually, that's mine."
"The Bible?"
He shrugs. "It's a starting point for my speeches. It's great reading. Course, I see it as fiction, not fact." He closes his eyes, tilts back his head. "Ah, hell. I'm lying to you, Mariah."
He can sense the moment she tenses, takes a mental step back. "I beg your pardon?"
"I lied. I was reading the Bible tonight because...well, because I wanted to. And that's not all I lied about. I let you think I was on that plane because I followed you to Kansas City, but I was booked on the flight before you probably ever thought of running to the airport. I come here fairly often, matter of fact, to see someone."
"Someone." Her voice is cool, and although it's what Ian expected, it still smarts.
She is anticipating a producer, a documentary filmmaker, some other satellite person who might expose Faith. "A relative who's autistic. Michael lives out here in an assisted-care facility, because he can't function by himself in the regular world. It's real private to me, which is why no one knows about him--not my producer, not my staff. When I saw you and Faith on that plane, I knew you figured I was tailing you. I wasn't, but I didn't want you to know why I was there. So I did what you expected--I followed you."
He rakes his hands through his hair. "What I didn't figure on was what might happen when I did that." Ian glances away. "Faith--I've seen her day in and day out, now. And the more time I spend with her, the more I wonder if maybe there isn't something to her story, if maybe I'm wrong." He swallows hard. "I go out during the day and I see Michael and then I'll come back home and see Faith, and--God, the two of them get all tangled up and my head starts spinning: What if? What if she's telling the truth? What if she could cure Michael? And then, just as quick, I'm ashamed of myself--me, the great disbeliever!--for even thinking such a thing." Ian turns to Mariah, his eyes glistening, his voice broken. "Can she do it? Can she make miracles happen?"
He can read Mariah's heart in her eyes; she sees him as a man in pain. She reaches for his hand. "Of course we'll go see your relative, Ian," she murmurs. "And if Faith can do something, then she will. And if she can't, it's no different from what you've been saying all along."
Without a word Ian lifts her hand to his lips, the very image of gratitude, even as the tiny microphone and tape recorder hidden in his clothing capture Mariah's promise.
October 26, 1999
Lockwood is an ugly place. The halls and floors are the color of pistachio ice cream. There are doors lined up like dominoes, and each one has a little box outside with a chart stuffed into it. Mr. Fletcher leads them to the end of a hall, where they enter a room that's a lot nicer than anything else Faith's seen. There are books on the walls and a bunch of tables with board games and even some classical music playing. It reminds her a little bit of the library in New Canaan, except the library doesn't have nurses walking around in their soft white sneakers.
Her mother hasn't told her much of anything, except that Mr. Fletcher has a sick relative they are going to visit today. It's fine with her; that cabin is so boring. Plus, some of the rooms that they passed had TV. Maybe this person has the Disney Channel, and Faith can watch while the grown-ups all talk.
Mr. Fletcher walks to the corner of the room, where a man is sitting with a deck of cards. The guy doesn't even turn around when they get close, but just says, "Ian's here. Three-thirty on Tuesday. Just like always."
"Just like," Mr. Fletcher answers, and his voice sounds strange to Faith, stiff and high.
Then the man turns around, and Faith's eyes go wide. Why, if she didn't know any better, she would have said it was Mr. Fletcher himself.
Mariah's mouth drops open. His twin? Pieces begin to fall into place: why Ian would keep this a secret, why he visited on a regular basis, why he had such a vested interest in having Faith meet this Michael. She falls back to the periphery, where Ian has asked her to stand with Faith while he slowly approaches his brother.
"Hey, buddy," Ian says.
"Ten of diamonds. Eight of clubs." The cards fall in a pile, fanning out across the table.
"Eight of clubs," Ian repeats, settling into a chair.
Ian has told her that Michael has been diagnosed as severely autistic. His survival strategy in the real world is to live by a routine. To break the routine sets him off. It can be as simple as someone's rearranging the order of the eating utensils on his napkin, or Ian's staying two minutes past the hourlong visit. And he cannot stand to be touched.
Ian has told her that this is the way Michael will always be.
Faith yanks at her hand. "Let go," she whispers.
Michael turns over an ace. "Oh, no."
"Ace in the hole," the brothers say in unison.
There is something of the scene that moves Mariah greatly: Ian sitting inches away from a man who could be his mirror image, trying to connect with words that do not signify anything. She brings up her hand to wipe at her eyes and realizes she's no longer holding on to Faith.
Her daughter moves toward the card table. "Can I play, too?"
Frozen, Ian waits for Michael's reaction. He turns from Ian to Faith and then back to Ian and begins to shout at the top of his lungs. "Ian comes alone! Three-thirty on Tuesday. Not Monday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday; alone alone alone!" With his hand, he thrashes at the cards so that they scatter across his lap and the floor.
"Faith." Mariah tries to draw her away as a member of the staff arrives to calm Michael down. But Faith is crawling around on the floor, picking up the fallen cards. Michael is rocking, throwing off the soothing words of the nurse who knows better than to lay a hand on him. Faith awkwardly sets the pack of cards on the table, staring curiously at the grown man with the mind of a child. "It might be best if you and your friends go, Mr. Fletcher," the attendant says softly.
"But--"
"Please."
Ian flings himself out of the chair and walks from the room. Mariah reaches for Faith and follows him, glancing over her shoulder once to see Michael reach for the deck of cards, cuddle it close to his chest.
Just outside the library, Ian closes his eyes and takes great, deep breaths of air. Just as whenever Michael has an episode, he finds himself shaking. But s
omehow this seems worse.
Mariah and Faith slip outside and wait beside him quietly. He can barely even stand to look at them. "That was your miracle?"
There is a phenomenal rage running through him, like a poison working its way through his system. He doesn't know why, or where it's come from. After all, this is what he had expected to happen.
But not what he'd hoped.
The thought catches him unawares, pulls the world out from beneath his feet. He feels himself spinning and has to lean against the wall. All the bullshit he'd fed to Mariah last night, all the little concessions he'd made during the week to make them think he was starting to believe in Faith...they weren't really lies. Professionally, Ian may have wanted Faith to fail today. But personally, he had wanted her to succeed.
Autism isn't something you can fix with a blink or a touch of your hand; he's known that all along. Faith White, for all her claims, is a fake. But being right, this time, doesn't bring him any sense of satisfaction. This little girl, who's been playing everyone for a fool, has managed to show Ian he's only been fooling himself.
Mariah touches his arm, and he shrugs it off. Like Michael, he thinks, and he wonders if his brother cannot stand to be touched because he cannot bear such open, honest pity. "Just go away," he mutters, and he finds himself walking off. By the time he reaches the doors, he's nearly running. He circles around to the back of Lockwood, to the small pond with its brace of swans. Then he rips the microphone from beneath his lapel. He takes the microcassette recorder out of his pocket, tape still turning. He throws them both as hard as he can into the water.
It is nearly three-thirty in the morning before Ian returns to the cabin. Mariah knows exactly what time it is; she's been waiting up the whole night, worried. After running from Lockwood, Ian had driven off in the car, leaving her and Faith to find their own transportation back. And even after the taxi had dropped them off and the car was nowhere in sight, Mariah assumed Ian would return by dinnertime. By nine o'clock. Midnight.