hildren are the anchors that hold a mother to life.

–Sophocles,

Phaedra It takes several long seconds before Joan’s words sink in. “Are you kidding?” I finally manage. It is laughable, really,

except that the whole thing makes me want to cry.

“They think I’m going to kill my own daughter?”

“Malcolm Metz is painting you as an emotionally unstable woman in a crisis.

Supposedly he’s got some expert who’s going to testify about other mothers who have done the same thing.

There’s a name for it–Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy.”

A crisis. How much, after all, am I supposed to bear? My daughter is hospitalized. The man I’ve fallen in love with has been lying to me. The man I used to love thinks I’m capable of killing our child.

“It’s not true,” I say firmly. “Can’t you make them see that?”

“I’m gonna try. But Metz is allowed to say anything he wants to. If it strikes his fancy, he can build a case around the idea that you’re programming Faith’s behavior with voodoo dolls. Whether or not it’s the truth doesn’t matter. The important thing is that we can get up when he’s done and make the judge realize what a load of bullshit he’s been handed.” She sighs. “Look. You’ve got a weak spot. You were in a mental hospital. If I were in Metz’s position, I’d probably be running with that particular play, too.”

“Joan,” I say shakily, “I’ve got to be able to see my daughter.”

The pity in her eyes almost sends me over the edge.

“I’ll call the hospital for you and find out how she’s doing.”

I know she is trying to give me hope, but it slips through my grasp like sand.

“We’re going to get Faith back home with you.”

For her sake, I nod and manage a smile.

But I do not say what I truly think: that a custody battle means nothing at all if the child is dead.

When Joan walks back into the courtroom,

she feels as if she’s just finished climbing Mount Washington. There’s nothing like reducing your client to emotional Jell-O before you need her to be coherent on the stand. She glares at Metz with all the horrible thoughts that are on her mind,

praying for a brief moment of psychic connection.

He’s leaning over the gallery railing, speaking to a smaller, slighter, carbon copy of himself who could only be another underling from his office.

He turns as the judge enters and summons counsel to the bench. “Well, Mr. Metz, as I recall, we agreed to rendezvous about now.

I assume that you’re ready to put on your expert witness?”

Before he can answer, Joan interrupts.

“Excuse me, Your Honor, but I have to raise an objection once again. My client was just told that she can’t see her daughter for the duration of the trial, and, frankly, she’s a basket case.

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and since I don’t have the same army of human resources available to me that Mr. Metz does at his big-city firm, I still have not had a chance to research Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. I don’t know this expert, I don’t know his credentials, and I certainly don’t know about this esoteric disorder. Out of fairness, if you’re going to allow Mr. Metz to put on his witness, I feel that I ought to have at least the weekend to prepare my cross.”

Metz nods. “I agree. In fact, I recommend that we break for the day, if it pleases Your Honor, so that Ms. Standish has the rest of the afternoon to begin her research.”

“You do?” Joan says, surprised.

Judge Rothbottam frowns. “Hang on a second. You were too fired up this morning for an about-face. What’s the problem, Mr. Metz?”

“My witness has apparently tried several times to interview Faith White today, which of course would be germane to his testimony, but she is too incapacitated to speak to him.” He smiles,

conciliatory, at Joan. “It turns out that I’m going to need a little more time, too.”

“Too damn bad,” the judge says. “You jumped in the water, you’re going to swim. As you pointed out, it’s three. I have supreme faith that you’ll be able to keep your expert on the stand for an hour reciting credentials. We’ll get through whatever you can, and pick up on Monday.

Your doctor will have a chance to talk to the girl this weekend.” He turns to Joan. “And by then, I assume, you’ll have a cross-examination prepared.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Marvelous.” He looks at Metz.

“Call your witness.”

Metz’s expert psychologist, Dr.

Celestine Birch, clearly resembles the tree that shares his surname. Tall and cadaverously thin,

pale as the silver bark, he sits on the stand stiffly with the air of supreme confidence that comes when you know you are outstanding in your field.

“Where did you go to school, Doctor?”

“I attended Harvard University, then Yale Medical School. I did my residency at UCLA Medical Center and practiced for ten years at Mount Sinai in New York City before setting up my own private practice back in California.

I’ve been practicing there for eleven years.”

“What is your major field of practice?”

“I deal mostly with children.”

Metz nods. “Are you familiar, Doctor,

with a psychiatric disorder called Factitious Disorder by Proxy?”

“Yes, in fact I’m considered one of the top three specialists in the nation on the disorder.”

“Could you describe it for us?”

“Certainly,” Birch says. “According to the American Psychiatric Association’s DSM-IV, Factitious Disorder by Proxy is a rare disorder in which a person deliberately produces physical or psychological symptoms in another person under his or her care.” The psychiatrist begins to warm to his subject. “Basically, it involves one person making another look or feel sick. It’s often called Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy–or MSP–AFTER Baron von Munchausen, an eighteenth-century mercenary who became famous for his exaggerated tales.

“The majority of victims of Munchausen by Proxy are children. Most often, a mother artificially creates or exaggerates symptoms in a child, and then presents the child for medical care claiming to have no knowledge about the etiology of the problem.

The theory of mental-health professionals is that these women do not want to inflict pain on a child, but to indirectly assume the role of the sick person–by getting sympathy from doctors whom they encounter when they bring in the ailing child.”

“Whoa,” Metz says. “Let’s take this a little more slowly. You’re saying that the mother makes her own kid sick, just to get attention?”

“That’s exactly what it boils down to,

Mr. Metz. And making a child sick would be the simpler end of the spectrum. Some mothers contaminate urine samples with blood, create leaks in an IV, or suffocate newborns.

Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy is considered a form of child abuse, and there’s a nine-percent mortality rate.”

“These mothers kill their children?”

“Sometimes,” Dr. Birch says. “Unless they can be stopped.”

“What are some of the ailments produced by these mothers?”

“Bleeding presents in forty-four percent of MSP cases. Then seizures, forty-two percent. Followed by central-nervous-system depression, apnea, and gastrointestinal disorders. Not to mention psychological symptoms.”

“Can you tell us what might trigger this behavior in a mother?”

The doctor shifts in his chair. “Remember,

this isn’t going to happen to ninety-nine percent of mothers–it’s not like a flu virus you come down with.

These women are disturbed. Often it’s triggered by life stressors–marital conflict,

divorce. Perpetrators may have a history of being abused themselves, and they often have some exposure to medical communities, so they know the ins and outs and the lingo. They need–no, they crave support and attention. To them, being sick is a way of being loved and cared for.”

“You said psychological symptoms can be produced in a child, too? Can you explain?”

“By symptoms, I mean hallucinations or delusions; memory loss or amnesia; or conversion symptoms, like pseudoblness. It’s harder to understand how a mother can “fake” them in a child, but basically it involves the mother selectively reinforcing maladaptive behavior. For example, she may provide tremendous nurturing when the child reports a vivid dream and ignore or harm a child when the child is acting perfectly normal. Eventually, the child will learn to give her mother what she wants, so to speak.”

“Would it make a difference if that child had only one parent living with her?”

“Absolutely,” Birch says. “In fact, it makes parental approval that much more integral.”

“So an alleged vision is something that might be reinforced in MSP?”

“Yes, although you’d be more likely to find delusions and hallucinations reinforced in a child if the mother has had some personal experience with either delusions or hallucinations.”

“Such as a mother who spent time in a mental institution?”

Dr. Birch nods. “Entirely consistent.”

“Doctor, what happens if the mother is confronted with her behavior?”

“Well, they lie and say they’re not doing it.

In rare cases, the mother may honestly be unaware of her behavior, because she’s unconsciously harming the child during a dissociation that occurs as a result of earlier trauma.”

“You mean that you could ask these women flat-out if they’re hurting their children, and they’ll tell you no?”

“They’ll all tell you no,” Birch says.

“It’s part of the symptomatology for this disorder.”

“So a woman who seems shocked, confused,

even righteously angry when confronted with this behavior–a woman with no memory of harming her child–might still have done it?”

“That’s correct.”

“I see,” Metz says slowly. “How do you diagnose MSP, Doctor?”

Dr. Birch sighs. “Carefully, Mr.

Metz, and not often enough. Remember, the ones with the presenting symptoms are the children–and they’re not going to tell you what’s happening, because it’s what buys the mother’s love. Parents are the primary informants for doctors, who assume their honest report of a child’s illness. But most physicians don’t make the mental leap and move from trying to diagnose the child to diagnosing the parent.

“Moreover, these mothers don’t exactly have scarlet letters on their chests. They deny harming the child and ironically look rather attentive to the child. One way a health-care provider can be tipped off to MSP is to see a long, complicated medical history. Or a description of symptoms that’s almost too textbook. Or, in the case of psychological symptoms, to discover that administering drugs doesn’t help a whit … since these children of course are not truly psychotic.” Birch leans back. “But the only conclusive way to diagnose MSP is to catch the mother in the act–with video cameras rigged in hospital rooms–or to remove the child from the mother’s care. Presumably, if it’s Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy, the acute illness will remit once the child is taken away.”

“Doctor, have you seen Faith White?”

“No, but not for want of trying. I tried to get access to her hospital room three times today but was told she was too ill to speak to me.”

“Have you interviewed Mariah White?”

“No, I’ve reviewed information on her institutionalization and her current mental health.”

“Does Mariah White fit the profile of a perpetrator of MSP?”

“In many ways. The behaviors in her child ensued after a period of great personal stress.

Mrs. White has seemed a concerned parent,

taking her daughter for psychiatric treatment–which,

note, did not respond to drug therapy–and to the emergency room. And perhaps what is most telling,

in this case, is the choice of stigmata as a presenting ailment. Bleeding is easy to produce in a victim, yet stigmata are fairly brilliant. It has to be a symptom with a textbook description, because there aren’t any chronicled cases. What physician can say that the child’s not a stigmatic, when he’s never seen one in his life?”

“Is that all, Doctor?”

“No. Mrs. White also has a history of mental-health problems. As a result of marital stress, she attempted to commit suicide–and suddenly a hundred doctors and nurses were there for her support. On some level she equates being loved and taken care ofwith attention from health-care personnel. Which could explain why, when a similar marital stress occurred, she began to make her child sick. Every time she brings Faith in to be treated, Mrs. White herself, by proxy, receives the attention she got seven years ago from doctors and psychiatrists.”

“Could she be hurting her daughter and not know it?”

Metz asks.

The doctor shrugs. “Not having examined her,

it’s difficult to say. But it’s possible.

Mrs. White suffered from severe depression before,

and the shock of finding her husband involved in another extramarital affair might be enough to cause a dissociative break. Rather than face the pain all over again, she absents herself mentally. It’s during these episodes that she feels most neglected, and therefore it’s during these episodes that she harms her daughter.”

“What do you imagine would happen if you confronted Mrs. White with this behavior?”

“She’d flatly deny it. She’d be very upset that I would accuse her of something so heinous. She’d tell me that she loves her daughter and only wants her to be healthy.”

Metz stops at the defense table. “Dr.

Birch, as you know, Faith is in the hospital.

If her mother were allowed no contact with her for a period of time, what would you expect to happen?”

The psychiatrist sighs. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see Faith White bounce back to health.”

December 3, 1999–Late Afternoon After the court empties, Joan and I are left sitting alone. “What are you going to do now?” she asks.

“I’m not going to go to the hospital, if that’s what you mean.”

“It wasn’t. I just … well, I didn’t know if you had other plans.”

I smile at her. “I was thinking of going home, taking a hot bath, and then sticking my head in a gas oven.”

“Not funny.” She touches my arm. “Do you want me to call Dr. Johansen for you? I’m sure, given the circumstances, he could squeeze you in for an appointment, just to talk.”

“No. Thanks.”

“Then let’s go out for a drink.”

“Joan,” I say, “I appreciate this.

But I don’t feel like having company right now.”

“Well, I’m going to go to the hospital to check on Faith. I’ll fill your mother in on the court order and ask her to call you at home.”

I thank Joan and tell her I’m going to sit for another moment, and then I listen to her heels click down the long aisle of the courtroom. Resting my head on the table, I close my eyes. I try very hard to picture Faith. If I do, maybe she will know that I’m here, thinking of her.

When the custodian comes in with the machine that buffs the floor, I leave, surprised to find a bustle of activity in the hallways and lobby of the courthouse. Just because our hearing is finished for the day does not mean anyone else’s is. Leaning against a wall is a weeping woman, an elderly man with his arm ratcheted over her shoulders. Three toddlers weave through a bank of plastic chairs.

A teenager hunches like a question mark over the receiver of the pay phone, whispering furiously.

Although I don’t want to see Ian, it is still a disappointment not to find him waiting.

It has started to snow, the first snow of the winter.

The flakes are thick and fat; they melt against the pavement as if I have only been dreaming them. I am so caught up in the beauty of it that I do not notice Ian standing beside my car until I am only a few feet away.

“I have to talk to you,” he says.

“No, you don’t.”

He grasps my arm. “Aren’t you going to speak to me?”

“Do you really want me to, Ian? Do you want me to thank you for calling that idiot reporter from the Globe and getting him to dig up Greenhaven, so that Malcolm Metz could twist it into some sick psychological disorder I have that makes me mutilate my own child?”

“If I hadn’t called, Metz would have dug it up by himself.”

“Don’t you dare make excuses,” I say, my voice low.

I get into the car and try to close the door, but Ian holds it fast. “I think I’m in love with you,” he says.

“And why is that? Because I had the good fortune to give birth to an extraordinary child you could use to boost your show’s ratings?”

“What did you want me to say? I didn’t know you when I called McManus. Afterward, I didn’t want to tell you, because I thought you’d hate me for it. And as for what I said about Faith –well, Christ, I had to be vague. I thought the last thing you wanted was for me to tell the world that I believe Faith can heal.”

“Somehow, Ian, I have a hard time believing you had Faith in mind up there on the stand.

I have a hard time believing you were thinking of anything but your show-biz reputation.”

A muscle jumps along Ian’s jaw.

“All right, maybe I was. But I was also thinking of Faith. And you. What do I have to do to convince you? I’ll give the money Metz paid me to Faith’s college fund … or to the frigging Jesuits. I’ll go public saying whatever you want. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry. Why can’t you just believe me?”

Because, I want to say. Because of what’s happened to Faith. She believed, and look at where it’s gotten her.

“Mariah,” Ian begs hoarsely, “let me come home with you.”

With a tremendous yank, I manage to pull the door out of his grasp. “You can’t always get what you want,” I say. “Not even you.”

Let me tell you what you feel like when you know you are ready to die.

You sleep a lot, and when you wake up the very first thought in your head is that you wish you could go back to bed.

You go entire days without eating, because food is a commodity that keeps you here.

You read the same page a hundred times.

You rewind your life like a videocassette and see things that make you weep, things that make you pause, but nothing that makes you want to play it forward.

You forget to comb your hair, to shower, to dress.

And then one day, when you make the decision that you have enough energy left in you to do this one, last,

monumental thing, there comes a peace. Suddenly you are counting moments as you haven’t for months.

Suddenly you have a secret that makes you smile,

that makes people say you look wonderful, although you feel like a shell–brittle and capable of cracking into a thousand pieces.

I was looking forward to dying. I remember holding the razor blade and hoping to make the cleanest, deepest cut. I remember calculating how long it would be until I heard the voices of angels. I wanted nothing more than to be rid of myself, of this body and this person who had nothing coming to her but pain.

In short, I have been there. I, of all people,

should understand wanting to give up, when the ache is too great. But instead I feel myself fighting furiously, grasping at straws to keep Faith from succeeding where I once failed.

“Her temp’s at one-oh-six. Something’s got to give.”

As if the doctor’s words have prompted it,

Faith’s limbs stiffen, and she begins to thrash from side to side. “She’s going into seizures,” the doctor calls out. A nurse gently pulls Millie away from the bedside. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to get in here.”

The doctor holds down one of Faith’s wrists. The nurse holds the other one.

Faith’s body continues to buck and heave, with the jerky rhythm of an amusement-park ride.

“She’s bleeding again,” the nurse murmurs.

“I want pressure and elevation,” the doctor calls, and the bed levitates with the push of a button as two nurses begin to press against her palms.

High-pitched beeps suddenly break the flurry of activity and make Millie jerk her head toward the monitors behind Faith’s bed.

“She’s coding. Get a cart!” The doctor moves to the side of the bed and starts to perform manual CPR.

Within minutes, the room is filled with nurses and doctors. “Ressler, bag her and intubate her. Chest compressions at fifteen per minute.”

The doctor checks the rhythm of Faith’s heartbeat and continues shouting orders. “Wyatt,

put in a central line and pour in lactated Ringer’s as fast as it’ll go, for one liter. And Abby, I want a CBC, platelets, and a clot sent to the blood bank for type and cross.”

“Ma’am, why don’t you come with me, so we can help her?” The nurse tugs Millie out to the hall, where she stands with her face pressed to the glass of the pediatric ICU. Millie watches someone rip open Faith’s hospital johnny and set defibrillator paddles on her small chest. She does not realize that her hand has crept up to cover her own strong heart.

A Half Hour Later Joan sits beside Millie in the patient lounge. She’s never liked hospitals; this one is no different … but there’s something she can’t put her finger on that seems even more unnerving than usual. She smiles gently at Mariah’s mother, encouraging her to continue.

“The doctor,” Millie tearfully relates, “says that she has an excellent prognosis because she spent less than a minute in cardiac arrest. Her airway’s clear, and her rhythm’s been steady.”

Joan glances at the girl, limp on the hospital bed. “She doesn’t look good.”

“But they’ve got her heart under control, and her fever is down. The only thing they can’t stop is the bleeding.” Millie takes a deep breath.

“So how long before Mariah gets here?”

“Actually, that’s why I needed to speak to you.

Mariah can’t come to the hospital.”

“Did something happen? Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. She’s just under a restraining order, courtesy of the judge and Malcolm Metz. They think she’s causing Faith’s symptoms.”

“That’s … that’s ridiculous!” Millie sputters.

“You and I know that, but you don’t mess with a restraining order. I’m going to need you to stay with Faith and call Mariah with updates.”

“She can’t even call?”

Joan shakes her head.

“This must be killing her.” Millie rubs her temples, clearly torn between keeping watch over her granddaughter and going to her own child to provide emotional support.

Joan glances down the hallway. It suddenly hits her: The strange thing about this pediatric ICU ward is that Faith is the only patient in it. With the exception of the doctors and nurses called in for Faith, there’s no one around. “When you call–“

“I won’t make it sound this bad,” Millie says. “I’m not a fool.”

Colin walks into the darkened ICU room and stands at the foot of his daughter’s bed.

Her arms are spread wide, loosely tied with restraints to the bedrails to keep the wounds in her palms from reopening. Her feet are anchored by the blanket. His eyes touch upon the wires taped to her chest, the tube in her throat, the gauze pads cupped in her hands.

He does not know what to believe. He listens to the doctors when they speak to him. He listened to that psychiatrist, Birch. And he listens to Mariah when she swears she’d never hurt Faith. Colin sits gently on the bed next to Faith.

“”Hush little baby, don’t say a word.

Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.”"

He presses his wet cheek against Faith’s,

hears the steady beep of the monitor attached to her chest. “”If that mockingbird don’t sing,

Daddy’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.”"

The doctors told him that Faith’s heart gave out. That with all the stress put on it by the other failing systems of her body, it simply stopped.

He knows what that feels like. He would drop the custody case this minute if it meant Faith would walk out of the hospital as healthy and hale as any seven-year-old.

He leans down and awkwardly wraps her in his arms. “Hug me back,” he whispers, and then more forcefully, “Come on.” Just one slight twitch and he’ll be happy. He shakes her a little,

urging her to consciousness, but then a nurse is beside him and pulling him from the bed. “You need to let her rest, Mr. White.”

“I want her to hold me. I just want her to do that one thing.”

“She can’t,” the nurse says. “Her hands are tied.” And while Colin is still turning that phrase over in his mind, she ushers him out of the room.

“You’re telling me everything?” I ask,

hanging on to the receiver of the portable phone so tightly I must be leaving nail marks.

“Would I lie to you?” my mother answers.

“She’s in there sleeping.”

“So she hasn’t gotten better, but she hasn’t gotten worse.” Stability I can handle. It is having to sit idly while Faith is in trouble that sends me over the edge.

“Kenzie van der Hoven’s here,” my mother says. “She’s been at the hospital for an hour.”

“Did that idiot psychiatrist show up?”

“The one who kept coming all day? No.”

She hesitates; I can hear it in her voice. “What, Ma?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s something,” I press.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just that Colin came, too.”

“Oh,” I answer, in a very small voice.

“Did Faith wake up?”

“No. She didn’t even know he was here.”

I’m sure my mother says this to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I hang up the phone,

realizing moments later that I never said good-bye.

Ian has walked the streets of New Canaan for the past three hours. The town is tiny and dark, and every store is closed, with the exception of the Donut King, and he can’t go back inside there yet again without looking like a jerk. The problem is, there’s nowhere else to go.

He sits on the curb. He doesn’t want to head back to the Winnebago and face the people who work for him, people sure to be confounded by his testimony today. He doesn’t want to go anywhere near the hospital, where he’s certain to be accosted by the press.

He does want to be with Mariah, but she won’t let him.

Ian doesn’t know when, exactly, he went from thinking that Mariah was some kind of “Mommie Dearest” putting her kid up to this kind of attention, to thinking that Mariah was the victim in this whole mess. Most likely it was in Kansas City. He’d done such a thorough job of pretending to want to help Mariah that at some point it became an honest emotion.

But, just maybe, Mariah wasn’t the one who needed help. Maybe that distinction belongs to Ian himself.

He’s never really asked himself why he’s an atheist, but the answer’s there for the taking. Knocked down as a child by fate, he couldn’t buy into the concept of a loving God. After all the people close to him were taken away, he couldn’t buy into the concept of love, period, so he re-created himself into someone who wouldn’t have to. And, like the Wizard of Oz, he’s learned if you hide long enough behind a curtain of bluff and principle, people stop trying to find out who you are in the first place.

Maybe there is more to a person than a body and a mind. Maybe something else figures into the mix–not a soul, exactly, but a spirit that hints you might one day be greater, stronger than you are now.

A promise; a potential.

Mariah has fallen apart and pulled herself back together. She may weave in the wind, but she stands there, scars and all. And, unlike Ian, she’s stood up to the same bolt of lightning that knocked her down before, willing to risk it again. For all intents and purposes, she,

too, should shy away from love. But she doesn’t –and no one knows that better than Ian himself.

Mariah might have tried to kill herself once;

she may be the one whose credibility and mental stability are being debated in a court of law; but in Ian’s eyes, she is one of the strongest people he’s ever met.

Ian stands, dusts off his bottom, and starts walking down the street.

The last person I expect to find when I open the door is Colin. “Can I …?” he gestures inside. I nod, step back, so that he can enter the house he used to own.

I close the door behind him and hold my hand to my throat, needing to physically keep all the horrible things I want to say from springing to my lips. “You shouldn’t be here. Neither of our attorneys would allow it.”

“I don’t really give a flying fuck what Metz thinks right now.” Colin crosses to the stairs and sits down, burying his face in his hands. “I just saw Faith.”

“I know. My mother said you were there.”

Colin glances up. “She’s– God, Rye.

She’s so, so sick.”

After the initial shock of fear that runs through my system, I force myself to relax. After all,

Colin was not around the first time her hands bled. He wouldn’t know what to expect.

“They say that her heart’s going to be all right …”

“Her heart?” I say, my voice dry as ash. “What about her heart?”

Colin seems honestly surprised that I do not know. “It stopped. This afternoon.”

“It stopped? She went into cardiac arrest and nobody told me? I’m going there.”

Colin is on his feet in one smooth motion,

grabbing my arm. “You can’t. You can’t, and I’m so sorry about that.”

I stare down at his hand on my arm, his skin on my skin, and then suddenly he is holding me and I am crying against his chest. “Colin, tell me.”

“She’s been intubated, to help her breathe.

And they used defibrillator paddles–you know,

those things–to get her heartbeat steady again. Her hands started bleeding again after she had a seizure.”

I hear the tears in his throat, and stroke his back. “Did we do this to her?”

I look at him, wondering if he is accusing me. But he seems too upset for that; I think he is truly just shaken. “I don’t know.”

Suddenly I remember the night that Faith was born. It was only a month after I’d left Greenhaven, and still buffeted by the drugs I’d been given, I found that there was very little that seemed real. Not Colin, not my home, not my life.

It wasn’t until the pain of a contraction sliced down my middle that I realized I’d come back.

I remember the lights that were set up at the foot of the birthing bed, like some Hollywood production. I remember the plastic mask the doctor wore, and the smell of latex when she snapped on her gloves. I remember the sound of Colin’s head striking the edge of the nightstand when he fainted, and the fuss that was made over him while I splayed my hands over my belly and waited my turn. I remember thinking of my heart,

balanced just above the baby’s feet, like the ball on a trained seal’s nose. And then there was the remarkable drive that came when I realized the only way to stop the pain was to get it out of me,

to push and push until I was certain I’d turn myself inside out, even as I felt her head widening and changing me and the small knob of her nose and chin and shoulders as they slipped in succession, streaming between my legs in a shuddering rush of breath and blood and beauty.

But what I remember the most was the nurse who held Faith up before her umbilical cord had been cut. “What a beautiful daughter!” She brought her closer, so that I could see the swollen face, the pumping legs. And the baby, purely by chance, kicked the umbilical cord. I felt it all the way up inside me, an odd tug and a trembling that continued straight along to the belly of my daughter, so that Faith’s eyes startled open,

too. And I thought for the first time, We are connected.

Colin buries a sob against my hair.

“It’s all right,” I say, although it isn’t, not by a long shot. I turn in his arms and realize I am glad he is here; I am glad we can do this for each other. “Sssh,” I soothe, as I might have soothed Faith if I’d been by her side.

December 4, 1999 First thing Saturday morning Joan gets a cup of very strong, very black coffee at the Donut King and enough jelly rolls to last through an extended day, and then continues fifty yards down the street to her law office. She starts to set the key in the door and finds it already unlocked.

Thinking of vandals, robbers, and, actually,

Malcolm Metz, she pushes the door so that it swings open.

Ian Fletcher is hunched over her secretary’s computer. He looks over his shoulder. “It’s about time. I’ve printed out everything I could find on the Web about Munchausen by Proxy. I think your best bet’s going to be pointing out the specificity of the disorder. There were only two hundred cases nationwide last year.

What’s the chance of Mariah being one of them?

Plus, she doesn’t have the background for it.

She wasn’t abused as a child, and if Millie’s on the stand–“

“Wait. What are you doing here?”

Ian shrugs. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m your legal assistant.”

“The hell you are! Mariah doesn’t want you within state limits anymore, much less helping out on the case. For all I know, you might be playing double agent again, trying to bring us down before we even get to present our side.”

“Please,” Ian says seriously. “This is what I do for a living. I dig things up. I unearth. I disprove. If Mariah won’t let me help her, at least let me help you.”

Realistically, Joan has a marginal shot at finding out enough to bring down Dr. Birch–that is,

if she’s working alone. She doesn’t have the time or the resources Metz does at his high-end law office; plus, she doesn’t even know where to start.

Sensing her weakening, Ian holds up a sheaf of papers. “You need a defense against Munchausen by Proxy. So I’ve been talking on-line to a doctor out at UCLA who’s a specialist in psychosomatic illnesses that present in children of divorce.” He raises a brow. “Dr. Fitzgerald says there have even been cases of psychologically based bleeding.”

Joan hands him the box of jelly rolls.

“You’re hired,” she says.

When my mother calls first thing that morning, I let her have it. I yell at her so long and so loud for lying to me about Faith’s condition that I bring her to tears. She hangs up the phone, and immediately I feel awful; I can’t even call her back to apologize.

Colin stayed until 4:00 A.m. It crossed my mind that his new wife was probably trying to find him. Then again, maybe she wasn’t.

Maybe that’s why she was his new wife.

Before he left, he kissed me good-bye. Not with passion, but with an apology that slipped between my lips like licorice, and tasted just as bitter.

The house is quiet. I sit in Faith’s bedroom, staring at her dollhouse and her art set and her Barbies, trying to get up the nerve to touch them. I sit so rigidly that my jaw hurts, just from keeping it clenched.

I ought to be with her now, the way my mother used to stay with me when I was sick, holding the cup of juice to my lips, circling the Vicks VapoRub over my chest, sitting there when I woke up, as if she hadn’t moved a muscle all night.

It’s what mothers do. They keep vigils; they put their children first.

It is exactly what I have not done.

My first act of motherhood was to blame my unborn child for her father’s infidelity. My second act of motherhood was to swallow a rainbow of pills, although the doctors did not know what the consequences would be to a fetus. They told me that it was more important to cure my depression than to worry about the risks to the baby. And I–fool –believed them.

I spent months hoping Faith would be born healthy, so I’d be off the hook. Then, when she was, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But now I see it was a waste of time. Motherhood isn’t a test, but a religion: a covenant entered into, a promise to be kept. It comes one-size-fits-all, and it camouflages flaws like nothing else. How could it have taken this to make me see that Faith is the one thing in my life I got right on the very first try?

I look down at my hands. Without realizing it, I have wandered into the bathroom, picked up the razor I use to shave my legs, and snapped open its harmless plastic holder, so that I’m now holding the lethal edge of a blade.

With care, I throw it into the trash.

“What do you mean we can’t speak to her?”

Malcolm Metz yells. “Do you have any idea what we had to do to get upstairs? It’s a fucking zoo in the lobby.”

A nurse turns toward Dr. Blumberg.

“What’s up?”

“A bunch of AIDS patients. Their T-cell counts are suddenly in normal range.”

“No kidding?” the nurse says.

“I don’t care if the bodies in the goddamned morgue are now eating lunch in the cafeteria,” Metz growls. “I want Dr.

Birch to be granted permission to speak to Faith White.”

“Oh, he has my permission,” Blumberg says. “Just don’t expect him to get too far.”

At the sound of raised voices, Kenzie comes out of Faith’s room. She’s been reading to her for the past three hours, even though Faith is unconscious. “What’s going on?”

“This is the fifth time Dr. Birch has tried to interview Faith,” Metz says. “My case will be seriously hampered if we don’t walk into court on Monday with this information.”

“I’m sorry Faith can’t accommodate you,”

Kenzie says tightly. “She’s comatose.”

At that, Metz looks surprised. “She is? I thought Standish was exaggerating to win sympathy. Christ, I’m sorry.” He turns to Birch. “Maybe you could speak to her doctors.”

“I’d be happy to talk to you,” Dr.

Blumberg says.

But before he and Dr. Birch can leave,

Millie suddenly sways on her feet.

Malcolm Metz catches her in his arms before she hits the floor.

“Millie?” Kenzie asks. “When was the last time you got some rest?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s been a while.”

“Go lie down. There are enough free beds around here. I’m not going to let anything happen to Faith.”

“I know. I just don’t want to miss it when she comes around. Maybe if I close my eyes for ten minutes …”

“Take your time,” Kenzie answers, but she does not say what she’s thinking: that Faith may never wake up.

That night I dream I am talking to Faith’s God.

She is, quite definitely, a She. She comes to sit at the foot of my bed, and I stare at the bright edges of Her hair, at the glow at the seams of Her fingers, like a child cupping a flashlight. Her mouth is turned down at the corners, as if She, too, is missing Faith.

A peace settles over the bed like an extra blanket, but I feel myself stirring and sweating.

“You,” I say, anger clawing its way up my chest.

“She isn’t in pain.”

“Do you think that makes it all right?” I shout.

“Believe in what I’m doing.”

I cannot trust myself to answer right away. I think of Ian, of what he has said about God.

“How can I believe in You,” I whisper, “when You would do this to a little girl?”

“I’m not doing it to her; I’m doing it for her.”

“Semantics don’t make much difference when you’re about to die.”

For a while God just sits on the edge of my bed smoothing Her hand over the covers and leaving behind a silver patina, like the gilding of great ages gone by. “Did you ever consider,” She says softly, finally, “that I know what it’s like to lose a child?”

December 5, 1999–2:00 A.m.

Faith goes into cardiac arrest again an hour later. This time Kenzie stands outside the glass windows with Millie, watching the doctors fight to stabilize the little girl. After several minutes of confusion and brutal intervention on Faith’s body, Dr. Blumberg approaches them. He knows of the court order, and disapproves. He invites Millie to step aside so they can speak privately, but she waves away the suggestion and tells him to speak in front of Kenzie.

“She’s hanging on, but her heart stopped beating for a while, and she lost oxygen. We won’t know if there’s brain damage until she wakes up.”

“What …” Kenzie tries to ask a question, but it lodges in the pit of her stomach.

“I can’t say for sure. Kids can tolerate a lot more than adults. But in Faith’s case,

things are happening that don’t follow logic.” The doctor hesitates. “There’s no apparent medical cause for Faith’s cardiac distress,

but her body is failing. She’s comatose.

We’re keeping her alive on machines. And I don’t know how long that’s going to last.”

Millie tries to steady her voice. “Are you telling me–“

Blumberg inclines his head. “I’m telling you that friends and family should think about saying their good-byes,” he says gently. Then he turns to Kenzie. “And I’m telling you to think about whether a piece of paper signed by a judge is as important as that.”

As he walks away, Kenzie finds herself frozen in place. It is early Sunday morning. Only twenty-four hours till they all return to the courtroom. If that’s even necessary.

At the sound of a muffled sob, she turns.

Millie’s face is stoic; even now, she is trying to be the strong one.

Kenzie embraces her. They both know what has to be done. “Don’t call Colin,”

Millie blurts out. “He’s the one who’s keeping Mariah away. He doesn’t deserve to be here.”

She watches the older woman clutch on to her anger like a lifeline. “Millie,” she says softly, “I’ll be right back.” Then Kenzie walks down the hall to the nearest pay phone.

Digging into her pocket, she pulls out a piece of paper, and dials the phone number on it.

The telephone rings in the middle of the night.

“Mariah,” Kenzie van der Hoven says,

“I want you to listen carefully.”

Now, nearly twenty minutes later, I feel foolish walking through the entrance of the hospital wearing my mother’s spare pair of reading glasses and an old wig Faith used to use for dress-up. I act as if I know where I am going, and, true to her word, Kenzie is waiting at the elevator banks. Once the doors of the elevator close behind us, I put my arms around Kenzie in gratitude. She told me, on the phone, that Faith was not getting better. That her heart had stopped again. That she might even die. “At this point I don’t care about the judge,” Kenzie said. “You ought to be here.”

She did not point out the obvious–that keeping me from Faith had done no apparent good, that, in fact, since I’ve been away from her, she’s been failing faster.

I move through the halls of the hospital quietly behind Kenzie, terrified that at any moment someone is going to jump out and point a finger,

tag me, cart me off to jail. I concentrate instead on keeping a center of calm, like a hard little nut in my chest, so that when I see Faith–

no matter how bad it is–I do not fall apart.

At the elevator it strikes me that something is odd. There is virtually nobody in this hospital. Even at two in the morning, there should be red-eyed doctors, tired relatives, women having babies. As if Kenzie can read my thoughts, she turns to me. “The rumor mill says Faith’s healed a bunch of patients,”

she explains simply. “Just by being here.”

For only a moment, I wonder if it’s true. Then I think: at what cost? After bringing my mother back to life, Faith’s strength had been sapped. How many patients have come in contact with her in the past two days? And suddenly I understand why Faith is so much sicker this time.

Healing others has been killing her.

Just before the elevator doors open, I say what has been on my mind since Kenzie telephoned. “You have to call Colin.”

“I already did. He told me to call you.”

“But–“

“He didn’t care about the court order either.

He said you ought to be here, too.”

Then we are on the pediatric ICU floor.

I follow Kenzie to Faith’s room–she’s been moved since I last saw her. At the glass window, I stop. My mother is sitting on a chair beside Faith’s bed, and I’m struck by how old she suddenly looks. Faith …

well, I would not have recognized her at all.

Full of tubes and pads and wires, she looks so small on the narrow bed.

A nurse moves like a shadow as I enter.

My mother stands, embraces me. Without speaking,

I sit down in the spot she’s vacated.

Right now I understand those mothers who can lift automobiles off children who are pinned, women who step heroically in front of bullets. I would give anything to be the body that is lying so still. I would give anything to take her place.

I lean over, my words falling on her face.

“I never told you that I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For a long time I was so busy with myself that there was no time for you. But I knew you would still be waiting for me, when I was ready.” I touch my hand to her cheek. “It’s your turn, now. Take your time. When you look over your shoulder–days from now, months from now–well, I’m not going anywhere without you.” I close my eyes, listening to the fleeting, occasional whir of the machines feeding into Faith. One piece of equipment picks up its pace, beeping with quick regularity. The nurse looks up, frowns. “Something’s going on,” she says, reading the printout from the electrocardiogram. “I’d better page Dr. Blumberg.”

She’s barely left the room when Faith’s eyes fly open. They focus on Kenzie first,

then my mother, and finally come to rest on me. Faith opens and closes her mouth, trying to speak.

The doctor flies into the room, pulling his stethoscope from around his neck. He checks Faith’s vital signs, murmuring quietly to her as his hands move over her body. “Don’t talk yet, kiddo.” He nods to a nurse, and she braces Faith’s shoulders while he extracts the endotracheal tube. Faith coughs and gags, and then her voice comes in a sandpaper snap. “Mommy,” she rasps, smiling, her bandaged hands coming up to frame my face.