Keeping Faith Read online

  The doctor looks at me thoughtfully. "I can't say," he admits. "I've seen flat-line patients in the OR sputter and come around. I've seen people in comas for months wake up and start talking like nothing's happened. I will tell you that your mother was clinically dead, Mrs. White. The paramedics said so in their report--hell, I said so in my own report. Is this a temporary recovery? I don't know. I've never seen anything like it before."

  "I see," I say, although I don't.

  "Her heart shows virtually no sign of trauma. Of course, we'll want to do further studies, but right now it seems as strong as a teenager's." He pats my forearm. "I can't explain it, Mrs. White, so I won't even try."

  "Will you just stop already?" My mother shrugs off my supportive arm. "I'm fine."

  She strides out of the ER, pushing ahead of me and Faith. The triage nurse crosses herself. The paramedic who drove the ambulance, gossiping now with the desk nurse over a danish, drops his Styrofoam cup of coffee onto the floor.

  "Excuse me," my mother says, stopping an intern. "Which way to the elevators?" The woman points, and my mother looks back at me. "Well? Are you just going to stand there?"

  She marches down the hall, right past Ian Fletcher, who is staring at us with such disbelief that, for the first time in hours, I laugh.

  While the phlebotomists poke and prod my mother, Faith and I sit in the waiting room on the patient floor. She looks pale and tired; purple smudges the size of thumbprints are just beneath her eyes. I don't realize that I've spoken my question aloud until Faith's small face lifts. "I did what you wished for," she whispers.

  I swallow hard. "You had nothing to do with Grandma getting better. You understand?"

  "You asked her," Faith murmurs. "I heard you."

  "I asked who?"

  "God. You said, 'Oh, God. God. Oh, my God.'" Faith rubs her nose on the shoulder of her shirt. "And she heard you. She told me what to do to make you feel better."

  I bow my head and stare at my daughter's sneakers. One is untied, the laces straggling on the linoleum like any other kid's. But my child has been talking to God. My child has apparently just performed a miracle.

  I fight the urge to burst into tears. This whole thing has been a prolonged nightmare, and before I know it Colin will shake me and tell me to roll over and go back to sleep. Children are supposed to go to school, play on swing sets, skin their knees. This is the stuff of TV movies, of novels. Not of everyday, ordinary life.

  My thumbs absently rub a callus on the inside of Faith's palm. "What's this?"

  Faith hides her hands in her lap. "From the monkey bars."

  "Not from..." How do I say this? "Not from touching Grandma? It didn't...hurt you?"

  Faith shakes her head. "It felt like being on the hill of the roller coaster, going down." She stares at me, confused. "Mommy, didn't you want Grandma to be okay?"

  I fold her into my arms, wishing I could take her inside me again and protect her from what is certain, now, to come. "Oh, Faith. Of course I did. Do. It just scares me a little that you might have been the one to make it happen." I stroke her hair, her shoulders.

  "It scares me a little, too," Faith whispers.

  Woman Dies, Comes Back to Life

  1 October, 1999; New Canaan, NH--Yesterday, at approximately 3:34 P.M., Mildred Epstein passed away. At 4:45 P.M., she sat up and asked what she was doing in the hospital.

  Epstein, 56, was visiting her daughter's home in New Canaan when, witnesses say, she clutched her chest and fell to the ground. EMTs on the scene performed CPR for over 20 minutes, but never managed to revive her. She was pronounced dead on arrival at Connecticut Valley Medical Center by Peter Weaver, M.D. "I've never seen anything like it," Weaver told reporters last night. "In spite of the corroborative stories of many witnesses and trained emergency medical personnel, tests prove that Mrs. Epstein's heart shows no indication of trauma, much less of having stopped for over an hour."

  Sources indicate that Epstein went into cardiac arrest after verbally sparring with Ian Fletcher, the teleatheist known for denying the existence of God. He was preparing a piece on Epstein's granddaughter, concerning the controversial claim that the child has been communicating with God. Neither Ms. Epstein nor Mr. Fletcher could be reached for comment.

  "You know, this doesn't count," Ian says, stretching back in his chair. "When I said fresh seafood, I wasn't talking about tuna casserole."

  "It was this or Donut King." James grins. "Crullers or Chicken of the Sea."

  Ian shudders. "Do you know how much I'd pay for a good cut of Angus beef right now?"

  "You could probably pilfer a whole cow from the dairy outfit across the road. There's so damn many I bet no one's been keeping count." James pats his mouth with a napkin. "At least you're in a restaurant."

  "That's like saying traveling in a Winnebago is similar to going on safari."

  "No--it's like going on a grassroots revival. Or so you told me several weeks ago." The producer leans forward. "C'mon, Ian, you're just picking up steam. The NBC Nightly News aired your segment with the grandmother buying the farm, and ran it hourly on the late-night editions." James lifts his coffee cup. "I have a good feeling about this one. The kid's the hook--people don't expect her to be making it all up. Which is only going to make it more spectacular when you draw back the curtain."

  Ian smiles faintly. "Worth suffering accommodations in steerage, at the very least."

  "Look at it this way: if this story puts you back in the game, you'll never have to look at an RV as long as you live." James reaches for the check, laughs, and pulls out his credit card. "I actually used to like camping, as a kid. Didn't you ever do that?"

  Ian doesn't respond. James's childhood was probably a bit different from his own recollections. "Oh, that's right. You were never a kid."

  "Nope." Ian smiles. "I sprang fully formed from the brow of my executive producer."

  "Really, Ian. I mean, we've known each other--what?--seven years? And all I know about you before you started in radio is that you got a Ph.D. at that inferior school in Boston."

  "That inferior school in Boston had the superior judgment to leave you to the likes of Yale," Ian says. Feeling the prick of unease, he pretends to yawn. "I'm beat, James. Better head back to the old homestead."

  James cocks a brow. "You? Sleepy? Like hell."

  For a moment Ian tenses. How could James know about his insomnia? How could he know that the last time Ian remembers getting more than a few hours of rest was several years ago? Has James seen him leave the Winnebago in the night to walk the woods or the plains or the prairie of whatever particular hell he's stuck in?

  "You're just feeling cornered," James deduces, "and trying to change the topic." Ian relaxes, safe in his privacy. "I'm serious, Ian. I'm asking as a friend. What were your parents like? How'd you grow up?"

  Overnight, Ian thinks, but he does not say so. He pushes back from the table. "I've got a powerful hunger for a cruller just now," he answers, slipping his facade into place with a grin. "Care to join me?"

  October 3, 1999

  Fortunately, the police have forced Ian Fletcher and the members of that weird cult and the fifty or so other gawkers who've turned up all the way off our property. Unfortunately, that doesn't get them far enough away. The road--a public venue--is only a half acre away from the house, so we can see them from the windows. And that means they can see us, too.

  I haven't let Faith play outside, although she is restless and whining. They clamor for me when I step out for the briefest moment; what would they do to her? I even wait until after midnight to sneak outside with the trash, trying to set it out for collection without being barraged by reporters. I steal past the swing set and under the fringe of oak trees.

  "Penny for your thoughts."

  I jump up. Behind the glowing tip of match is Ian Fletcher. He lights the cigar and clamps it between his teeth, inhaling.

  "I could have you arrested," I say. "You're trespassing."

  "I know. B