Keeping Faith Read online

  Colin liked me, he said, because I was sweet and could talk about nearly anything with knowledge and conviction--unlike most of the Magnolia Queen debutantes who had always been trotted out in front of him. But Colin was accustomed to that type of girl all the same. And whether it was unconscious or by intent, he turned me into one of them little by little--bringing me headbands to pull the hair off my face, introducing me to Bloody Marys on Sunday mornings, even buying me a cheap strand of fake pearls, to wear with everything from the Izod knit shirts I borrowed from his dresser to my own corduroy jumpers. I did whatever he asked, and more, intent on being as good a student at turning into a WASP as I had been at any academic subject. It never occurred to me that Colin was interested in what he could make me into, instead of what I already was. What struck me, then, was simply that he was interested.

  The night of Winter Formals I put on a simple black dress and hooked on my pearls and even wore a special bra that made it look as if I had something to support. We were going to Colin's fraternity, and I was bound and determined to pass muster. But fifteen minutes before Colin was supposed to pick me up, he called. "I'm sick. I've been throwing up for an hour."

  "I'll be right over," I said.

  "Don't. I just want to sleep for a while." He hesitated, then said, "Mariah, I'm sorry."

  I wasn't. I could not be sure of myself at a fraternity dance, but I knew how to take care of someone ill. I got into my faded jeans again and walked into town, where I bought chicken soup at the grocery store, fresh flowers, and a crossword-puzzle book. Then I went to Colin's dormitory room.

  Which was empty.

  I left the chicken soup still steaming on the threshold of the door and wandered aimlessly around the campus. Hadn't I expected this, deep down? Hadn't I told myself this was coming? Snow began to settle on the shoulders of my coat as I turned onto Fraternity Row. The parties were loud, with steam and laughter and fumes of grain alcohol spilling through the open windows. I edged to the back of Colin's frat house, stood on a milk crate, and looked inside.

  A group of football players and their dates formed a Gordian knot--black tuxedos threaded with splashes of colored satin on a lap or draped over a neck. Colin was facing me, laughing at a joke I had not heard. His arm was looped around the waist of a beautiful redhead. I stared for so long that it took me a moment to realize that Colin was looking at me, too.

  He chased me across campus to my room. "Mariah! You've got to let me explain!"

  I yanked open the door. "You were sick," I said.

  "I was! I swear!" His voice turned low and smooth. "When I woke up, I tried to call you, but you weren't here. The guys came by and convinced me to go over to the House for a while. Annette...well, she's nothing. She was someone who was hanging around."

  Was I nothing? Was I someone who was hanging around?

  Colin's fingers framed my face. "But I left her to be here with you," he said, reading my thoughts. His breath fell onto my mouth, a curious mix of mint and scotch, and I remembered how Colin had described gentling the horses he'd worked with in Virginia--by blowing into their nostrils, so that they would not fear his scent.

  "Colin," I whispered, "why me?"

  "Because you're different from them. You're smarter, and better, and--I don't know--I just keep thinking that maybe if I'm with you, it's going to rub off, so I'll be different, too."

  It was an amazing concept--that somehow Colin had a new explanation for why I'd always remained on the fringe: not because I wasn't good enough for others, but because I was just waiting for others to flock around me. I leaned forward and kissed him.

  Later, when we were undressed and Colin was rising over me like a great bird blocking out the sun, he asked, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  I was not only certain, I'd been waiting my whole life for this first time with a man who knew me better than I knew myself. I nodded and reached toward him, expecting magic.

  When Ian comes into the cabin, we both freeze. With great precision I lay my spoon down beside my cereal bowl; he methodically closes the door behind him.

  This time, I tell myself, I am not going to let it happen. I clasp my hands in my lap so that Ian cannot see them trembling. He's not Colin, but I am just as powerless now as I was then.

  Suddenly I realize why I could not have turned Colin away years ago. I realize why I am getting involved, once again, with a man bound to hurt me. In my experience, falling in love has little to do with wanting someone. It is much more enticing to me to be wanted.

  Without saying a word, Ian meets me halfway across the kitchen and pulls me into his arms. Inside, I am tumbling. He doesn't kiss, or stroke, or do anything but hold me, until I give in to the urge to close my eyes and let him lead.

  Ian hands Mariah his cell phone and watches her disappear into the bedroom for privacy while she calls her mother. He can't blame her. As wonderful as it is to touch her, they are still strangers of a sort. He has not told her about his morning visit to Michael; she prefers to be alone when she speaks to Millie.

  "So," he says amiably to Faith, "how about a game of gin?"

  She looks up from her coloring book, wary. Well, he can respect that, too. The last time he was with her--at Lockwood--he'd practically snarled. He widens his grin a little, determined to be charming, if only for Mariah's sake.

  Suddenly Mariah is standing at the doorway of the living room, her face white. "We have to go home," she says.

  Boston, Massachusetts

  In the Vatican there is an official whose sole responsibility is to find the holes in each proposed case of sainthood. He examines every action and writing and word spoken by the allegedly virtuous person in an effort to find one slip, one swear, one lapse from the faith that might prevent canonization. For example, he might unearth the fact that Mother Teresa missed vespers on July 9, 1947. Or that she took the Lord's name in vain when seized with fever. The Catholic Church even has a certain name for this position: Promoter of the Faith, or more irreverently, the Devil's Advocate.

  It is a job Father Paul Rampini thinks he'd fill splendidly.

  He doesn't live in Rome, though. And he is hardly important enough to be chosen for such a critical job, since he's only taught at seminary in Boston for sixteen years. But still, Father Rampini has met his fair share of the falsely venerated. As one of the foremost theologians in the Northeast, he's been called in to consult on many occasions when visionaries began spouting claims. Of the forty-six cases he's examined, not one received a favorable report to the bishop from Father Rampini. And most of them only chattered on about the usual: glowing images of Mary, a crucifix appearing in the mist over a valley, Jesus telling people the hour of reckoning was at hand.

  The idea of a female God does not sit well with Father Rampini.

  He turns off the ignition in his Honda and opens his briefcase. The pink pamphlet from the MotherGod society lies on top. Father Rampini can barely stand to look at it. It is one thing for someone like him--a priest who teaches at seminary, a man who has devoted his life to theology--to reconsider the procession of persons in the godhead. It is another thing entirely for a seven-year-old girl--Jewish, at that!--to start proclaiming God as a mother.

  It is said that she's a healer. Well, that he might even accept, with the proper sorts of proof. And that she has stigmata--again, he'd like to see it with his own eyes. But to say that God is visiting her in a clearly female form...certainly it is heresy.

  Father Rampini checks his reflection in the rearview mirror before opening the door of his car. He tucks the leather portfolio beneath his arm and steps out, smoothing the placket of his black shirt and adjusting the white collar.

  The door to the rectory sweeps open, and Father MacReady stands on the threshold. For the briefest of moments they size each other up: parish priest to seminary priest, confessor to researcher, Irish to Italian. Father MacReady steps forward, filling the doorway, making it impossible for the visiting priest to enter.

  Just as qui