Fathermothergod: My Journey Out of Christian Science (17 page)

“Grandma would want to hear a lot of descriptions,” my father continues. “Symptoms. A diagnosis. That’s totally opposed to Christian Science. You understand that, don’t you?”

If we keep silent, and go along with their wishes for privacy, we could be—are—jeopardizing our mother’s health. But if we betray our parents and take action, we risk being cut off from them completely.

“What about us?” I finally ask. “Have you considered the position you’ve put us in?”

“As I’ve said, your mother’s health is my first concern. I’m not going to imperil Mom’s health just because it’s hard for you.”

Her health is already in peril!

“It’s not easy for any of us. But if we—your mother and I—were not Christian Scientists and your mother became sick and required hospitalization, that wouldn’t be easy for you either. Believe me. In a different way, hospitals and doctors present their own difficulties. But I would hope and expect you to be supportive of that decision too.”

“It’s not that we don’t want to be supportive,” I say. “We do. It’s that … she’s not getting better. Anyone can see that!”

I shove my fists into my eyes. “She’s getting worse!”

“No she’s not! No-she-is-not!”
my dad calls out emphatically, pounding the steering wheel, as though by doing so he is purging the possibility from his thoughts.

He is silent for a long time, and it occurs to me that he is praying.

“Do you want to show your support?” he says after a while. “Why don’t you start reading the Lesson again.” My father glances over at me, with tenderness in his eyes, awaiting my response, and I am incredulous.

The Lesson! He thinks that by reading Church-selected passages from the King James Bible, and correlative passages from
Science and Health
, I can help heal Mom! Does it follow that he thinks she’s not getting better because I’m
not
reading it? I turn away from him and look out the window.

“Couldn’t we at least call Ham?” I blurt out. The thought has come to me out of nowhere, but it seems like a good idea. Ham’s a Christian Scientist. He knows Mom and Dad. We haven’t seen him since he moved to Paris, but he’d know what to do.

“No, we can’t call Ham!” my father snaps. He takes the key out of the ignition, gets out of the car, and slams the door.

I am bewildered at my father’s reaction, and the mystery that lies beneath it. Dad and Ham must have had a falling-out.

My father walks briskly down a footpath. He turns and waits for me, and I can see the contours of his clenched hands outlined in the pockets of his gray trousers.

Mom’s room is in South Hall Extension, a single-story building that we enter by walking down a footpath past the white clapboard
administration house. Approaching the door, I feel my heart begin to race. I wonder what I will find. How will she look? Just inside the front door, on the wall, hang a portrait of Mary Baker Eddy and a sign:

P
LEASE
W
AIT FOR AN
A
TTENDING
N
URSE TO
A
SSIST
Y
OU

The place is very quiet and, I notice, spotless. The smell of Lysol is evident and curious: Lysol, which kills germs.
There’s no such thing as germs
, I remember being taught in Sunday school. While my cousin Mimi planted bean seeds in dirt-filled Dixie cups at St. Martin’s Episcopal Sunday school, we learned that the material world is unreal. I can’t make sense of these contradictions. A woman dressed in a white nurse’s uniform sits reading behind a desk. She stands up when she see us. Laid out before her are the Christian Science quarterly, a King James Version of the Bible, and
Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures
. In both volumes, selected passages have been marked in blue chalk. From these highlighted sections, and the movable wire page markers, I can tell that she is reading the weekly Bible Lesson, and that she is about halfway through it. The page markers are numbered, and on any given week there are approximately twenty-five designated passages in each book; her Bible is opened to the number 16 page marker.

My father introduces me, and the woman smiles warmly. I shake her hand and realize my palm is wet.

“Mrs. Ewing may be sleeping, but you can peek in and see,” she says, pointing the way.

Dad leads, and I follow apprehensively. The first door on the left is slightly ajar. He raps on it lightly.

“Jo, honey?” he whispers. “You have a visitor!” He beckons me in.

Mom is lying on her back in a semi-reclined hospital bed. The room itself looks like a hospital room except there are no monitoring devices, no IV stands. She is wearing a flannel nightgown, and a crocheted blanket is folded over her legs. She looks tired, and pale. But she is awake and alert, so I feel relieved. I expected worse.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, standing in the doorway.

“Come on in, dear,” my mother says. That’s all it takes for my eyes to fill.

“Come here and give me a kiss.”

I set down the red gift bag, move to her bedside, and perch on the edge of the mattress. She hugs me, and I hold on, and smother my face close to hers in the pillow that is propping her up. I close my eyes. She pushes me away to look at me.

“Lucia, I’m really going to be okay. I know it. You have to trust me.” She squeezes my arm for emphasis. “I’ve just had a little setback. Okay?”

“Okay,” I reply.

“Are you with me?”

I try to smile, and grab a tissue from her bedside table.

“Lucia’s got a present for you,” my father says.

“I’m only the messenger,” I say, trying to sound up. “Dad bought it.”

He hands Mom the red Steuben bag. She removes a white box and unties its red satin bow.

Inside is a crystal bud vase.

“It’s exquisite. Thank you both.”

Mom moves the Kleenex box; her hand trembles, and the tissue flutters. She sets the vase on her bedside table next to a glass of water. My father removes the cellophane wrap from a fresh red rose he picked up at the florist and places it in the vase, filling it with the water from my mother’s drinking glass.

“I’ll meet you
under the clock at Grand Central,” I say to my brother.

It is a nasty New York day; the frigid wind and horizontal rain make
it feel more like February than April. Inverted black umbrellas are strewn in the water-swollen gutters and discarded in the city garbage cans. Under my black raincoat, I am wearing a skirt and jacket, instead of my usual black leggings and top. It occurs to me that my boss might think I am using my lunch break for a job interview. I can’t worry about that now—and yet I do. I haven’t told her where I’m going because doing so might trigger questions I’d rather avoid. I see Sherman, on time. He is also dressed up—for a college student—in gray flannels, a wrinkled button-down shirt, and one of Dad’s old trench coats.

The practitioner’s office is on East Forty-second Street, across from Grand Central. So is Dad’s. Sherman and I walk the short distance quickly, breaking into a light jog when the rain gets heavier. Once inside the lobby, we sit down on a bench. We are five minutes early; the extra time sets me on edge. We have made this appointment with our father’s full knowledge, so we’re not being sneaky, but still, I feel like a lawyer about to depose a hostile witness.

“What are we going to say?” Sherman asks.

I sigh. I don’t have an answer.

I remember something I have in my handbag. I dig through the clutter—Filofax, receipts, lipstick, keys—to find a small pamphlet entitled “God’s Law of Adjustment.” The cover looks like an image of a galaxy: blue, black, speckled white. I found it on my mother’s bedside table during my last visit to Hopewell. I’d seen the pamphlet before, but until last week I had never actually read it. I open up to a page where a paragraph has been underlined in pencil. In the margin, in my mother’s handwriting, is the word
clarity
. In the text, the word
see
is circled.

“ ‘When we in our helplessness reach the point where we see we are unable of ourselves to do anything, and then call upon God to aid us; when we are ready to show our willingness to abandon our own plans, our own opinions, our own sense of what ought to be done under the circumstances, and have no fear as to the consequences—then God’s law will take possession of and govern the whole situation.’

“Can you believe that?” I say.

“Read it again,” Sherman says. I hand him the pamphlet so he can read it himself.

“Doesn’t that sound … extreme?” I ask. “Like brainwashing?”

“Let’s ask her about it,” Sherman says. “But careful, Loosh. Or you’ll put her on the defensive as soon as you open your mouth.”

We know from the initials on the door that she is not only a Christian Science practitioner but also a teacher, like Dad. I wonder if my father has ever had meetings like the one we are about to have.

Sherman knocks on the door, and we wait. A woman appears; she has silver-white hair, and there is a noticeable smell of hair spray. She is wearing a light blue wool dress and matching jacket, and a long strand of pearls. She has the pronounced crow’s-feet and the sparkly eyes of an optimist.

“Come in,” she says, motioning us through a waiting area. I set my umbrella down on the floor beside an end table, where I see the current issue of
The Christian Science Monitor
, a
Christian Science Journal
, and a stack of
Sentinels
. On the wall hangs a portrait of Mary Baker Eddy.

Sherman and I take seats in the two armchairs that face Mrs. Childs’s desk. She closes the door.

On her desk are the two volumes: a King James Version of the Bible and a copy of
Science and Health
.

“Now,” Mrs. Childs says, sitting down behind the desk, folding her arms in front of her. Her eyes may be twinkling, but she is not smiling.

I look to Sherman, and he looks back at me. He is not going to do the talking, not at first anyway. I shift in my chair, but I can’t find a comfortable position. Leaning back, I feel small and vulnerable, but sitting up straight with my hands folded in my lap feels awkward too. I settle on crossed legs and squared shoulders. Again, my hands turn clammy, clutching my bag.

“Well,” I begin, “thank you for meeting with us. We wanted to talk to you about our mom.”

Mrs. Childs says nothing.

“She’s been at Tenacre for a while now,” I say.

There is a lengthy silence.

“She’s been sick for a long time,” Sherman says.

Nothing.

“Our mom has been at Tenacre for seventy-eight days,” I say, impatiently now, and immediately regret it. Christian Scientists deny (or try to deny) commemorations of the passage of time. Pointing out the running count of days—like it’s tally-marked on a cell wall—isn’t going to endear me to her.

“Not all healings are instantaneous,” Mrs. Childs finally says. “Sometimes the demonstration is slower to unfold. But your mother’s understanding of the Truth is deepening every day. What your mother needs right now is your unwavering support.”

“She knows we’re behind her,” I say defensively.

“We’re concerned,” Sherman says, “that her family doesn’t know.”

Mrs. Childs looks at me, and then at Sherman. I’m thinking maybe she agrees it’s time to let them know. This is a good sign.

“Why does this concern you?” she asks.

I’m not sure I have heard her correctly.

I am speechless. Mom’s health is deteriorating. We are deceiving her family. And Mrs. Childs asks why this concerns us?

“Mom comes from a medical family,” Sherman finally says. “She and Dad converted. Her father was a doctor. Her mother was a nurse. Her brother is a plastic surgeon. We understand Mom’s desire to keep quiet about her problem, to protect the healing process from mental malpractice. But it’s been.…”

“I understand your position, and, unfortunately,” Mrs. Childs says, taking a deep breath, “it is one that arises when the patient is not surrounded by the love and support of family members who are Scientists. I will tell you this: I have three children; only one is a Christian Scientist. If I were working out a problem, I would
probably share it with my daughter, because I know there would be harmonious, prayerful support. But my other two are not at all sympathetic. I would not tell them.”

“Mrs. Childs,” Sherman asks, “what if—hypothetically—your condition worsened? Don’t you think your other children would want to know? Don’t you think they have a right to know, being family and all?”

“No, absolutely not. That would not be in accordance with my wishes. With my religious needs.”

“Well, what about your Christian Scientist daughter? What if she felt uncomfortable with the ongoing secrecy,” Sherman presses, “even if she shared your religious views?”

“She would understand that it’s not a matter of secrecy, but of loving protection. Now,” Mrs. Childs says, leaning forward, talking just louder than a whisper, “I happen to know that it upsets your mother a great deal that none of you are reading the Bible Lesson or attending church. These are two seemingly small but very significant ways you can demonstrate your love and support. By doing so, you might better understand why your prayerful encouragement is so important. And you may be surprised by the results. I have no doubt that you will gain a clearer vision of the efficacy of Science.”

I’m done with polite.

“Mrs. Childs, I’m not a Christian Scientist. I’m not going to pretend to you that I am,” I say. “But I’m sorry. I won’t listen to you insinuate that Mom’s condition has anything to do with my beliefs being different from hers.”