My mother doesn't say a word. She stares at my mouth, red and kissed, and raises a brow.
"I wasn't thinking," I confess, and at least this much is true.
"What did you say to him?"
"To be polite to my attorney in the future," I lie, staring Joan right in the eye, "or else he'll have to answer to me."
A few minutes before Petra Saganoff and her film crew are due to arrive, I pull Faith aside into an alcove by the bathroom. "You remember what we talked about?"
Faith nods solemnly. "No talk about God. At all. And there's going to be a big camera," Faith adds. "Like the ones outside."
"That's right."
"And I can't call Petra Saganoff the B word."
"Faith!"
"Well, you called her that."
"I was wrong." I sigh, thinking that if I survive this day, I will never complain again in my life. Through Joan, I've arranged to have Petra Saganoff in to film what she calls "B-roll"--background footage of Faith playing and of us just being us in our house, that she'll then go off and record over with her own narrative, before airing the segment on Hollywood Tonight! Joan made sure that Saganoff signed a release about what she is allowed to film and what she isn't, but I worry about her visit all the same. Although I think Faith will be able to act normally for a half hour, this could backfire...something Joan has pointed out to me ever since I suggested this exclusive. Our lives haven't exactly been predictable lately. What if Faith starts bleeding again? What if she forgets, and starts talking to God? What if Petra Saganoff makes us all look like fools?
"Mommy," Faith says, touching my arm. "It'll be okay. God's taking care of it."
"Excellent," I murmur. "We'll make sure to give her a good seat."
The doorbell rings. I pass my mother on the way to answer it.
"I still don't like this. Not a bit."
"Neither do I," I say, scowling at her. "But if I don't say something, people are going to assume the worst." I pull open the door and fix a smile on my face. "Ms. Saganoff, thank you so much for coming."
Petra Saganoff, primed and in person, is even more attractive than she is on television. "Thanks for the invitation," she says. With her are three men, whom she introduces as a cameraman, a sound man, and a producer. She does not make eye contact with me; instead her gaze darts around the hall, looking for Faith.
"She's just inside," I say dryly. "Why don't you follow me?"
We have agreed to allow her access to Faith's playroom. What better way, I figure, to show that a child is just a child, than to watch her with her dolls and puzzles and books? But by the time the cameraman and the producer have decided where to set the camera and arranged the lighting for the shot, nearly thirty minutes have passed. Faith's getting fidgety; the cameraman even gives her a "gel"--a colored piece of plastic that he's affixed to the lights with clothespins. She takes it and peers through it, screening her world yellow, but I can tell that she's reached the end of her patience. At this rate, Faith will be ready to leave her toys and go somewhere else by the time Petra's just getting started.
I am thinking of the time Ian filmed Faith at my mother's stress test, of how even with limits in place, there is still so much that can go wrong--when suddenly a fuse blows. "Ah, damn it," the cameraman says. "Circuits are overloaded."
Another ten minutes until we fix the fuse. By now Faith is whining.
The cameraman turns to the producer. "You want continuous time code or time of day?" Then the sound man holds up a white card in front of Faith's face. "Give me some tone," the cameraman says, and a few moments later, "Speed." The producer looks at Petra Saganoff. "Whenever you're ready."
When filming begins, I'm on the floor helping Faith play with a felt board. As per Joan's instructions, I don't talk to Petra or the camera; I do only what I would normally be doing with Faith. I try to keep Faith's attention from the little red light on top of the camera, a place she seems to want to fix her gaze. Petra watches from the corner.
"I'm hungry," Faith says, and I realize it's already lunch-time.
"Come on. We'll go into the kitchen."
Well, that creates a quandary. Technically we haven't filmed for thirty minutes, but the crew is off limits to the rest of the house. I suggest that the crew take a break and continue filming after Faith eats. Graciously, I invite Petra into the kitchen.
"You have a nice place here, Mrs. White," she says, the first words she's really addressed to me since her arrival.
"Thank you." I reach into the refrigerator and pull out the peanut butter and jelly, set it on the table--Faith likes to spread her own sandwiches.
"I imagine this has been hard for you," Petra says, and then smiles at the expression on my face. "Want to frisk me? See if I'm wearing a mike?"
"No, of course not." Joan's ultimate command: Keep your cool. I choose my words carefully, sure that the voice-over narrative Saganoff does will somehow come back to whatever conversation we are about to have. "It has been difficult," I admit. "As you've probably noticed, regardless of what the people outside think, Faith's just a little girl. That's all she wants to be."
Behind Petra's back, I see Faith holding up her palm. She's spread jelly all around the Band-Aid, so that it looks as if she's oozing blood, and she's waving her hand in the air and silently pretending to moan. My mother, catching my look, rushes over to Faith and wipes the jelly off her hand with a paper towel, firmly waggling a finger in her face in warning. I focus my attention on Petra again and smile brightly. "What was I saying?"
"That your daughter's just like any other little girl. But, Mrs. White, there are a lot of people who'd disagree with you."
I shrug. "I can't tell them what to think. But I don't have to believe what they believe either. First and foremost, Faith is my daughter. Plain and simple, and whatever else is going on really has nothing to do with us." Proud of myself, I stop while I'm ahead. Even Joan couldn't find fault with that last statement; I almost wish the camera had been rolling.
I take a head of lettuce out of the refrigerator. "Would you like some lunch, Ms. Saganoff?"
"If it's not too much trouble."
For years afterward, I will never be able to figure out what made me say what I say next. It bursts out of me like a belch, and leaves me just as embarrassed. "No trouble at all," I joke. "We're just having loaves and fishes."
For a single, horrifying moment, Petra Saganoff stares at me as if I've grown another head. Then she breaks into laughter, steps up to the counter, and offers to help.
November 24, 1999
On Wednesday, Hollywood Tonight! runs teasers, promising an inside look at the White household: "Home with an Angel." To my surprise, I begin to get nervous about the broadcast. I do not know, after all, what Saganoff is going to say about us. And millions of people are going to hear it, no matter what.
At six o'clock, we eat dinner. At six-thirty, I make a bowl of microwave popcorn. By twenty to seven, my mother, Faith, and I are sitting on the couch, waiting for Peter Jennings to stop talking so that Hollywood Tonight! will come on. "Oh, shoot," my mother says, patting her chest. "I left my glasses at home."
"What glasses?"
"My glasses. You know, the ones I need to see."
I raise a brow. "You were wearing them this afternoon. They're probably in the kitchen."
"I wasn't wearing them; you're mistaken. I clearly remember leaving them on the kitchen counter in my house." She turns to me. "Mariah, you know how I hate driving in the dark. You have to get them for me."
"Now?" I ask, incredulous. "I can't leave when this show's about to go on."
"Oh, please. My house is five minutes away, even less. You'll be back before the news is over. And if you aren't, you can always turn on my TV and watch, too."
"Why can't you just pull a chair up close to the television set?"
"Because she'll hurt her eyes," Faith pipes in. "That's what you always tell me."
Frustrated, I press my lips together. "I cannot believe yo
u're making me do this."
"If you hadn't complained to begin with, you'd be back by now."
I throw up my hands and grab my purse, speeding out of the driveway so quickly that the reporters don't have time to jump in their cars and follow me. I rip through the streets of New Canaan until I reach my mother's house.
Not only has she forgotten her glasses, she's left the light on in the kitchen, as well. I unlock the door and step inside and see Ian.
"What...what are you doing here?"
He smiles, reaches for my hands. "A little birdie gave me the key."
I shake my head. "A little birdie about yea high, fifty-something, with a blond bob? I can't believe it."
Ian slides his arms around my waist. "She wanted to play fairy godmother, Mariah. Don't ruin it for her."
I move around, shutting curtains, locking the door, checking to make sure that no telltale car lights are hovering outside waiting for me. Ian's car is nowhere to be seen. "But I have to get back home...the show..."
"It's on in the other room. Your mama came to the trailer yesterday and asked me if I would mind coming down here, watching it with you. I guess she figured you might want some moral support."
"She could have given me moral support," I say.
Ian looks affronted. "But it wouldn't have been nearly as much fun."
That brings me up short. "Are you telling me that my mother...that she wants us..."
He touches my hair. "She's heard you talking to me at night, on the phone. And she said that you deserve a little bit of happiness about now." He grins at me. "She also told me to tell you that she'll put Faith to bed, which sounds like she's certainly giving us her blessing, in addition to her house." Twining his fingers with mine, he leads me into the living room, where the anchors of Hollywood Tonight! have just appeared on screen.
I am barely aware of Ian settling beside me on the couch as the television fills with pictures of my home, my daughter. Petra Saganoff's rich voice seems oddly out of place, superimposed on the scene of Faith arranging figures on her felt board. "For weeks now we've heard of the miracles brought to pass by this little girl, Faith White." The scenes cut away to pictures of the hospital, where Petra mentions my mother's resurrection, and to a close-up of the infant with AIDS who had played in our yard. Then Faith is on the floor of the playroom again, but this time I'm with her.
"Don't you look fine on the small screen," Ian whispers.
"Sssh."
Petra continues. "Perhaps the greatest miracle, however, is the way Faith's mother, Mariah White, is struggling to keep a level head and a loving home for her daughter in spite of the maelstrom just outside their doors."
"Oh," I gasp, a smile breaking over my face even as tears come to my eyes. "Oh, Ian, did you hear?"
He opens his arms, and I launch into them, laughing and crying and so very, very relieved. I am not listening to Hollywood Tonight! anymore; it fades in the wake of Ian's hands on my shoulders and back, pulling me even closer. Cradling his face between my palms, I kiss him deeply, until I am lying flush against him on the couch and breathing just as hard as he is.
He unbuttons my shirt and presses his lips to the skin revealed at my throat. "I like the effect this show has on you."
He is teasing, but I have moved past that point. I want to feel him, take him, celebrate him. I am shaking as I lock my hands behind his neck.
Sensing the change in me, Ian draws back enough to look into my eyes. "I have missed you so," he whispers, and he kisses me. With his hands he builds a fire in me. This is love, I think. A place where people who have been alone may lock together like hawks and spin in the air, dizzy with surprise at the connection. A place you go willingly, and with wonder.
Then my hands are freeing him and as Ian moves inside me, our fingers lace together, so that we hinge on each other. Mine, mine, mine. His hair falls over my eyes, and when I turn my face against my own shoulder, I realize that I smell of him, as if he has already taken root under my skin.
The television hums, a kaleidoscopic test pattern splashed over the screen. I touch my hand to the base of Ian's neck, to the small knot of collarbone beneath his shirt, all places that I am beginning to know by heart. "Ian...do you ever think about going to hell?"
He pulls back and smiles quizzically. "What brought this on?"
"Do you?"
Running a hand through his hair, he leans against the headboard. "Believing in hell means believing in some religious construction, so I'd have to say no."
"You'd have to say no," I agree slowly, "but that doesn't tell me what you think."
He covers me with his body and breathes against my neck. "What made you think of hell? Was it this?" He scrapes his teeth over my shoulder. "Or this?"
No, I want to tell him. This is heaven. This must be heaven because never in my life have I imagined that someone like you would want to be with me, here, doing this. And on the heels of this thought comes another: that such pleasure, surely, comes with a price.
Then Ian tips his forehead to mine and closes his eyes. "Yes," he whispers. "I think about going to hell."
Metz scowls at the television set and turns it off in the middle of the videotape. "This is crap," he announces to an empty room. "Crap!"
Mariah White one-upped him by giving Hollywood Tonight! a backstage pass to her home, and frankly, from what Colin White has told him about the woman, it's surprised him. Traditionally, she's rolled over and played dead at the first sign of confrontation. This media courting, after weeks of hiding away, is clearly a positioning strategy--one that Metz unfortunately admits is paying off. With the trial a week away, a press corps that's in love with Faith White, and a very anxious client in the wings, he has his work cut out for him.
There is a knock on the door. "Yeah?"
Elkland, one of his young female associates, sticks her head in. "Mr. Metz? Have you got a minute?"
Hell, he's got a minute. He's got a whole evening full of them, since he doesn't seem to be using them to any advantage stacking the odds in his favor in the White case. "Sure." He gestures to a chair and wearily rubs his hands over his face. "What's on your mind?"
"Well, I was watching that show Nova on PBS last night."
"Congratulations. You want to be an attorney or a Nielsen family?"
"It's just that it was about this disease. It's called Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. Basically, if you've got it, you make someone else look physically or mentally ill."
Metz sits up, intrigued. "Tell me those papers in your hand are some preliminary research," he murmurs.
She nods. "It's a clinical disorder. Usually, it's a mother doing it to her kid, in secret. And the reason is to get positive attention--to look, ironically, like a good mother because she's dragging the child into the ER or to a psychiatrist. Of course, since the mom made her sick in the first place, that's a crock."
Metz frowns. "How do you make someone else have a hallucination?"
"I don't know," admits Elkland. "But I found someone who does. I took the liberty of interviewing an expert on Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy over the phone. He wants to talk to you about the case."
Metz taps his fingers on his desk. The chances of Mariah White's having this Munchausen disorder are probably rather slim, but that's neither here nor there. His strongest cases usually have nothing to do with the truth, but simply with being able to blow smoke the right way. The best strategy for Colin White will be to make the judge find fault in Faith's mother, so that he has no choice but to award custody to the father. Metz could hint that Mariah has leprosy, schizophrenia, or this Munchausen by Proxy--anything, just so long as it makes Rothbottam sit back and reconsider.
In a way, he's only fighting fairly, using the same tactic Mariah White did when she invited Hollywood Tonight! to her home. The fact of the matter is, in this case, perception is everything. Judges don't traditionally give custody to fathers, unless the mother is proven to be a heroin addict or a whore. Or, perhaps, crazy as a loon.
/>
"I like this," he says guardedly.
Elkland grins. "I haven't told you the best part. These mothers? The ones who really have Munchausen by Proxy? They're pathological liars--it's part and parcel of having the syndrome. If you ask them to their faces whether they've hurt their children, they'll deny it, they'll act outraged, they'll get very hostile."
Metz smiles slowly. "Just like Mrs. White is bound to do when we cross her."
"Just like," Elkland says.
November 25, 1999
My mother decides that it's time for her to move back home. Whether it is the approaching trial that fuels this decision, or the fact that she's sick of sleeping in our guest room, I don't know. I help her pack up her things in the little suitcase that she has had since I was a young girl.
On the bed I fold her nightgown into thirds, and thirds again. She is in the bathroom, gathering together the creams and pastes and powders that make up a smell I will always associate with her. It reminds me of the night Ian and I spent at her house. I would have thought that this scent, so familiar from childhood, would make me rear away from the thought of making love with Ian in my mother's house, but I was wrong. It was the smell of security, of comfort, oddly seductive to both Ian and myself.
"I haven't thanked you," I say, as my mother comes out of the bathroom carrying a toiletry kit.
"For what?" She waves a hand at me. "This was nothing."
"I didn't mean you staying here. I meant...well, for making me go."
My mother's head comes up. "Ah. I was wondering when we were going to get around to that."
I can feel my cheeks going red. After all these years, I still cannot speak of boys to my mother without feeling as if I'm eleven again. "It was a nice gesture," I say diplomatically.
"Good lord, Mariah, call a spade a spade, will you? It was a rendezvous. An assignation. A trysting spot. A love--"
"Let's just leave it at that, okay?" I grin. "You are my mother."
She cups my cheek. It tingles, as if she were holding my childhood right there in her palm. "But somewhere along the way, I also became your friend."
It is a silly thing, to put it in such terms, but it is true. The women in my life, my two best friends, are my mother and my daughter. A few weeks ago, I almost lost one. A few days from now, I might lose the other.