Fathermothergod: My Journey Out of Christian Science (8 page)

One Thursday, as Bill drives us to school after the weekly breakfast, I become aware, very quickly, that I don’t feel well. My stomach is uncomfortably full, and a queasy sensation starts making its way from my belly up toward my throat. During the Chinese fire drill I stay put, while my friends climb over me to make their dash around the outside of the car. As everyone piles back into the car, fortunately oblivious to me, I elbow my way to the window seat and
pray that, first, I don’t barf right then and there; second, I am not forced to ask Bill to stop the car; and, finally, I can make it to school without anybody noticing me. I don’t know if this desire for privacy is a function of being a seventh grader and not wanting to stand out at all, in any way, or if everything I’ve learned from Mom and Dad and Sunday school is kicking in.

God, please don’t let me barf.

I crank down the window for some air and pray pray pray.

The car pulls up to the traffic circle at the school’s entrance. I run to the bathroom, lock the stall door, and vomit my French toast. I made it. Thank you, God. I try to hold back my hair the way Mom does when I throw up. I wish she were here. Once I’ve emptied my stomach, I curl up cold and clammy on the tile floor and stay there for a while.

Eventually, I get up and walk down the hall to the nurse’s office, a room I’ve never had to visit. “My goodness, dear, you don’t look so good,” the nurse says, hands on her hips, before taking my arm and leading me to the cot against one wall.

She asks me my name, and I wonder if she knows I’m a Christian Scientist.

“Can I call your mom? Would you like to go home?”

I nod.

She dials our number, but there is no answer. I remember that Mom plays tennis on Thursday mornings and there is no way to reach her, so the nurse looks up something in my file and tells me she is calling Dad at the office.

“… she is white as a ghost,” the nurse explains when he answers. “Sure, she’s right here.”

The nurse looks over at me and tilts her head sweetly. “Would you like to talk to your dad?”

I get up and move to her desk.

“Hi, Dad,” I say.

“Hi, kiddo.”

“I threw up.”

“Would you like me to pray for you?”

I look at the nurse.

“Can I go home?” I ask Dad. I want him to say yes.

“That might not be necessary,” he says. “Lucia, you, as God’s perfect creation, cannot be sick. You are the perfect reflection of God.”

“Can you come get me?” I whisper.

I stare at the floor, because I know the nurse is looking at me.

He goes on. “Mrs. Eddy says, ‘Let unselfishness, goodness, mercy, justice, health, holiness, love—the kingdom of heaven—reign within us, and sin, disease, and death will diminish until they finally disappear.’ ”

There is silence now, and I am trying to concentrate on what Dad is saying, about disease disappearing if I fill my thoughts with goodness, health, and love, but my eyes are filling with unwelcome tears. My fingers fiddle with the phone cord. I’m embarrassed that the nurse is listening, and Dad is not offering to come get me.

“… you needn’t give in to the erroneous suggestions of mortal mind. You
cannot
be sick, Lucia. Jesus said, ‘Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.’ ”

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.

“Loosh?” Dad asks. “Do you think you’d like to go back to class?”

“Yes,” I say. But what I’d really like is to be in my bed. At home. With Mom.

“That’s wonderful,” Dad says. “I know you’re going to feel fine.”

I say good-bye and hand the phone to the nurse.

“My dad’s going to call my mom again and she’ll come get me,” I tell her.

“Hmm,” the nurse
says, an hour later. “Do you want to try her again?”

She dials the number and hands me the phone. I count six rings, seven, eight, and am about to hang up when Mom answers.

“Mom, I’m at the nurse’s office. I threw up. Can you come get me?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Mom says. “I’m on my way.”

I feel such relief.

I am thirteen
years old, nearing the end of my seventh-grade year, with one week to go before school lets out for the summer. Olivia has just returned from Principia. She is now officially an eleventh grader. Her steamer trunk stands on end just inside the door leading from the kitchen to the garage. As I set the table for our first family dinner in months, my sister and mom chat in the kitchen. Olivia is showing her how to make something called guacamole, which sounds to me like something stuck in your throat. It looks even worse than it sounds. Still, I feel curious and a bit resentful at this proof of my sister’s maturity—that she is actually in a position to teach Mom something about cooking. I’ve gotten used to being the oldest kid here, but now Olivia has returned with another Stevie Wonder album, and guacamole, and tales of dormitory life, all pointing to the differences between her exciting world and mine.

Dad is standing in the backyard grilling steaks, wearing an apron and his goofy chef’s toque. Chipsie and Moptoe, our two dogs, are hovering nearby, tongues hanging out, hoping for scraps. Sherman is playing a solo game of tetherball. As Dad turns the steaks, and
swats away the smoke, he sings an old favorite song called “George Jones,” which dates back to his own boarding school days. I figure he must be happy to have my sister home again, and all of us under one roof.

“Five minutes!” he hollers.

We sit down to eat at the table in the screened porch off the dining room. I get to light candles, which I know signifies a special occasion. My mother sits at one end of the glass table, my father at the other. Olivia and I take our places at one of the long sides of the table, with Olivia next to Dad, me next to Mom. Sherman sits on the opposite side, facing us. We bow our heads and hold hands around the table to say grace. I squeeze my sister’s hand: welcome back.

My brother and I replace the word
doth
with
death
and peek up from bowed heads, smiling at our usual joke.

Steak. Salad. Baked potatoes. Green beans. Sliced tomatoes with vinegar and sugar: our standard menu for Friday family dinner. We all drink milk.

For dessert, Mom has baked a rhubarb crisp, served warm with vanilla ice cream.

The meal is winding down, everyone spooning up the last mouthfuls of melting, sweet ice cream and tangy, soft fruit.

“Your mother and I have something important to tell you,” Dad says.

Our parents’ eyes meet, and they both smile. The last time they said this, Dad announced his decision to become a Christian Science practitioner. I exchange glances with my sister and brother.

“What?” we all ask in unison.

“We-ell,” our father says in a jovial, teasing way, enjoying the moment of suspense, “you’ve all learned the metric system at school, right? You may want to brush up on it.”

Family trip abroad this summer? Might be fun. But I’d rather go back to camp.

“You remember when your mother and I flew to London in April?”

I sense something ominous. I set down my spoon and look again at Sherman and Olivia.

“Well, while we were there, we visited two terrific schools. There’s a Christian Science boarding school for girls called Claremont. There’s also a Christian Science boarding school for boys nearby called Fan Court.”

Olivia, Sherman, and I sit there, dumbstruck.

Eventually, my sister speaks. “What are you
saying
?” she asks in an uncharacteristically low voice.

“We’re moving to London!” my father says.

Dead silence. Utter disbelief on Olivia’s face. Absolutely nothing on Sherman’s. Our parents smile at each other.

Some intangible, shatterproof thing has shattered.

My father starts talking again, but only shards of his run-on sentences register with me. “… an opportunity for all of us …,” he says.

“What about our friends?” I ask.

“Mom can pursue Christian Science nursing …,” he adds.

“What about Grandma? And Ammie and Grandpa?” Olivia asks.

“… at a place called Hawthorne House, and I can take my practice
anywhere
,” he says.

“What about our friends?” I press, more urgently.

“You’ll make new friends,” he finally answers, casually. “We’ll get to travel …”

“What about our house?” Olivia asks. I feel frantic.

“We’ll sell the house.… We’ve found a nice duplex in Hampstead … right
near the Heath … you’ll love your new schools … right outside London.”

What?
What
?

“
I
don’t want to go to boarding school!” I yell.

“Can’t I stay at Principia?” Olivia pleads.

“Is there hockey?” Sherman asks. “What about hockey?”

“No, there’s no hockey, kiddo,” my father says gently. Seeing my brother’s eyes overflow with tears, he adds, “But they have soccer. And they don’t have football, but they have something like it called rugby.”

“I don’t play soccer,” Sherman says. “Or rugby.” He looks dazed.

“What about eighth grade? What about Chipsie? And Moptoe? And the cats?” I ask.

“It will be wonderful,” my dad says, plowing over my questions. “You’ll love London. It’s a real European city. And there’s no language barrier—”

“I’m not
going
to boarding school,” I announce.

“Why can’t I stay at Prin——?” Olivia asks again.

“But … hockey,” my brother murmurs.

My mother leaves the table and reappears moments later with two brochures in her hand and a stack of photographs. “This,” she says, handing Olivia and me one brochure, “is Claremont. And this is Fan Court. I also have pictures of our new house in Hampstead. It’s right across from John Keats’s house.”

That she took these photos with her Instamatic camera way back in April feels like a worse betrayal than the brochures themselves.

“Who the heck is John Keats?” I ask, my voice rising again, cracking.
And who cares?

My mother slides her chair over to Sherman’s side and sits down next to him to show him the brochure of the boys’ school. It takes me all of twenty seconds to see enough of Claremont—a big mansion with white columns, and images of ruddy-cheeked girls wearing uniform everything: beige socks; brown shoes; beige skirts;
white blouses; maroon blazers; maroon, brown, and pink striped
neckties
.

I get up from the table.

“I’m not doing this,” I announce, and I rush from the screened porch and head for my bedroom. If I close the door, and bury my face in my pillow, maybe it will go away.

London? Boarding school?
When I think of England, I see Mary Poppins, Oliver Twist, and Simon, the whimpering, pasty-faced kid down the street who wears belted, pleated shorts on the school bus, even in November, frequently without underwear, his little jigglies there for everyone to see.

There is a
knock at my door.

“Loosh?”

“Don’t come in,” I say, lying flat out on my bed.

My dad enters anyway.

“Listen, I know this comes as a surprise. And I know that change can be difficult, but sometimes it is for the best.”

“But why? What’s wrong with Minnesota?”

“Nothing’s
wrong
with Minnesota. It’s just that we have an opportunity to give you kids something really special.”

“But what if we don’t want it?”

“Well, you have to trust that we are doing the right thing. We’ve given this a lot of prayerful thought. We’ve been led to the right decision. Things have fallen into place so beautifully. I just know we are being divinely guided.”

I don’t really have an argument. I’m never good at debate when the moment calls for it, so my dad’s viewpoint goes unchallenged. Later that night, waiting to fall asleep, I come up with a response: Nothing has fallen into place, any more than shrapnel falls into place.

“Would you please come downstairs, so we can finish our discussion?” he asks.

“I need to splash my face,” I say, not disguising my bitterness.

When I go to the bathroom, I find my sister, fuming.

“This is unbelievable,” she says, shaking her head. I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or to her reflection in the mirror. “They throw this fait accompli at us” (like guacamole, it’s another new term for me) “the day I get home. I can’t even say good-bye to my friends! Could they have let me know last week even?”

Now she looks at me, and I think she wants an answer.

“Don’t you think maybe we can change their minds?” I ask. “I mean, they can’t
make
us go. Can they? You wouldn’t have gone to Principia if you hadn’t wanted to. Right?”

“Lucia,” my sister says. “We’re going. It’s done.”

Sherman is still sitting at the table when we return. Mom’s arm is draped over his shoulder as he stares silently at the Fan Court brochure. He’s not yet eleven, which seems really young for boarding school. I think maybe Dad was sent away to boarding school when he was even younger. But I never knew my parents intended to shove us down the same path.

“Listen, kids, maybe we should have eased you into the idea,” my father says. “And maybe this warrants some further explanation. Your mother and I have always said that the two most important things we can give you are Christian Science and your education. With this move, we can give you both. This is a real gift, believe you me.”

“And we have been so blessed in Science,” Mom adds. “This is an opportunity for us to give back. With your dad’s practice, and my goal of becoming a Christian Science nurse, we can really support the movement. As a
family
,” she emphasizes, “we can support the movement.”