Fathermothergod: My Journey Out of Christian Science (40 page)

In part because of the dogmatic way I was raised, in which there was an absolute answer for every question, I am more comfortable muddling my way through matters of faith. For a while after my mother died, I attended a socially liberal, liturgically traditional Episcopal church; the church where my husband and I eventually married and my second cousin Lucia—
Lu-chee-ah
—was a minister. (She had introduced herself to me in Hopewell the afternoon of my mother’s service, handed me her card, and said, “Look, I wouldn’t blame you if you never set foot in
any
church, ever again. But if you find yourself in the neighborhood, or ever want to talk … why don’t you keep this in your wallet.”) I finally got to indulge my childhood longing for stained-glass windows, kneeling cushions, choirs, and communion. But eventually, I realized that I didn’t believe the Nicene Creed any more than I believed the Scientific Statement of Being, so I couldn’t in good conscience recite it. Now I attend,
when I can, a nondogmatic, liberal, urban church, for its beautiful music, thought-provoking sermons, and calming sanctuary. In the company of my fellow congregants, I recite two lines I can live with:

In April 1988
, I walked into my East Village studio apartment and found the red light on my answering machine flashing. I hit Play and heard the voice of a guy named David, whom I had met in the Hamptons nearly a year before. He’d heard that I had finished writing a book and was calling to take me out for a drink to celebrate. Two years later, I married the guy, and twenty years after that I am finally writing the acknowledgments for
fathermothergod
—the same book, sort of, after several drafts and many years on and off the back burner. I owe my greatest thanks to him, for acts mundane and wonderful and everything in between; for his forbearance, comfort, devotion, intellect, and, perhaps most of all, his sense of humor.

I am indebted to my editor, Sydny Miner, at Crown, whose enthusiasm for my story, encouragement, wisdom, compassion, gentle prodding, and deft use of a pencil (and Delete button) transformed my manuscript into a real book. Thank you to Kimberly Witherspoon of Inkwell Management for offering to look at my manuscript two decades after we first spoke about it, for getting editors to read it, and for holding my hand while she worked her magic. Without Kim, this manuscript might still be unfinished in various files scattered throughout my hard drive. Thanks also to my extraordinary writing teacher, Joelle Sander, and my esteemed colleagues in the Art of the Memoir class at the Writing Institute at Sarah Lawrence College, who will go unnamed except for Inge Hershkowitz, who is an inspiration to everyone who knows her. To the late Richard P. Brickner of the New School; Greg Pagano, M.S.W.; Annette Rotter,
Ph.D.; and the late Rev. Forrest Church. To my dear friends Susan McGovern, Laura Sillerman, Erica Gourd, Susan Gibbs, Christina Clifford, Nancy Lauritzen, Betsy Swindell; my brother, Sherman; and my daughter, Ellie; for reading one of a number of penultimate drafts. To Deirdre Carmody Millones, who read the earliest draft and has cheered me all the way to the finish. At Crown, I would like to thank Sydny’s assistant, Anna Thompson, cover designer Laura Duffy, interior designer Lauren Dong, senior production editor Tricia Wygal, and copyeditor Susan Brown, as well as Matthew Martin and everyone else there who supported this book. At Inkwell Management, I would like to thank Kim’s assistant, William Callahan. Thanks to Terri Riendeau for assistance with a chronology question. To Adrienne Rogers, M.D., for guidance with medical concepts. To Rita Swan, for her close reading of the manuscript, and to her organization, CHILD, Inc. (Children’s Healthcare Is a Legal Duty, Inc.) for its ongoing effort to fight for repeal of the religious exemption laws that allow parents to deny medical care for their children on the basis of faith doctrines. To Meredith Manning and Richard Cooper for assistance with legal terms. To Bobby Friedel and Brooke Greenberg. To my friends whose love has sustained me over the years: Ebit, Kath, Meredith, KJ, Boatie; Elise; Pam, Melissa, Susan, Anne; Laura, Mary, Silda, and our dear, much-missed friend the late Connie Hays. To Gus, Deneze, Stephanie, Amber, Wendy, Bella, and Gemma. To the Rye Free Reading Room, the Greenwich Library, the Stonington Free Library, and the New York Public Library; and to Arcade Book Sellers, of Rye, New York. To Google. To the people whose support and encouragement have never failed me, even if my memory to include them by name in these pages has. And finally, to Ellie, Dwight, Truckie, and Charlie, who are God’s greatest blessing (and who have always called me a writer).