Fathermothergod: My Journey Out of Christian Science (16 page)

There is a long silence.

“I think so,” he says, and I am relieved. “Your mother and I discussed it this morning. We’ll probably call Grandma once she gets settled at Tenacre.”

An enormous weight has been lifted from me. It was awful talking to Grandma on Christmas Day, pretending everything was fine. And I have hated dodging Mimi’s calls: Mimi, my cousin, my best friend and confidante. We usually meet after work several days a week to exercise at the same health club. Now I have stopped going so that I won’t see her. I can’t tell Mimi that Mom is really sick. Mimi is Aunt Mary’s daughter, and Aunt Mary is Mom’s sister.

Tomorrow, it will all be out in the open. Everyone who needs to know will know. Mom’s family: Aunt Mary, Aunt Kay, Uncle Jack, and Grandma; and Dad’s family: Aunt Nan, Aunt Lucia, Ammie, and Dad’s brothers. I only have to get through Sherman’s gig tonight, where Mimi will be with her boyfriend, and then tomorrow I can tell her everything. Maybe then we’ll get Mom to a doctor.

“Have you called Olivia?” I ask Dad.

“I’m going to call her now.”

I stay at the office doing mindless paperwork until four. I am in no hurry to get to my apartment, even though the weather is chilly and damp, so I stroll the aisles of Duane Reade and buy a pack of Marlboro Lights and, strangely enough, a box of cookies: chocolate digestives, a teatime favorite at Claremont that I haven’t come across in years.

The cookies are half-gone by the time I reach home. I call my sister in Cambridge for the third time today. I finish off the cookies and smoke three cigarettes while we talk.

Since Christmas, Olivia, Sherman, and I have spoken daily, sharing reports of what we think has been happening with Mom. We’ve based our sketchy conclusions on the brief conversations we’ve had with our parents every morning, during which Mom or Dad or both have reported that she is “making good progress.” One of us has always initiated the phone call, never our parents, and we’ve sensed that our inquiries are little more than an intrusive
nuisance to them. The truth is, I’ve never believed, not really, that Mom’s health is improving, and after Lucia Chase’s funeral, I knew she was getting worse.

But I kept clinging to the comfort that, as long as Mom wasn’t at Tenacre, maybe everything would be okay. Maybe Christian Science was going to work.

But now, Mom’s at Tenacre.

Olivia tells me that she can’t get home until tomorrow, and that Terry isn’t coming with her because Dad wants this first visit with Mom at Tenacre to be immediate family only.

“You okay with that?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s pretty typical,” Olivia says, sounding both nonchalant and bitter. “Terry has to study anyway. What time is Sherman’s band playing tonight?”

“Ten-thirty.”

“You going alone?” she asks.

“No, Mimi’s coming with her boyfriend.”

“Are you going to be all right?”

I’m not sure. I know it will be difficult: Sherman singing, looking for Mom and Dad in the crowd; Mimi, wondering why I’ve been so aloof lately, and why my parents aren’t there, knowing this gig is something they wouldn’t miss; and me, clapping, smiling, faking, thinking about Mom lying in a bed at Tenacre.

“God, Liv,” I say, “Mimi’s going to know. She probably senses something already.”

“Maybe since Mom and Dad are talking to Grandma tomorrow anyway, you can tell her and ask her to keep quiet until then.”

“I feel like that’s betraying Mom.”

I don’t mention that I’ve already told our cousin Mary.

Tramps is a bar not far from Gramercy Park: dark, divey, the air heavy with the stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Mimi and her boyfriend are already there when I arrive. We find a table in the center of the room. The music is loud enough, fortunately, that conversation isn’t an option. The Bureaucrats are really good, and I’m
impressed by Sherman’s stage presence.
Mom would love this
. Mimi and I swap surprised glances across the table, and she hollers over the din, “Where are your mom and dad?”

“It’s Wednesday evening. They have church,” I say without missing a beat.

At the end of each number, I throw a red and white tulip, from a bunch I bought at Mom’s request, in the direction of the stage. At first, the stems landing near Sherman’s feet embarrass him, and he tries to ignore them, but eventually he sticks one behind his ear and winks. At eleven-thirty, Mimi and her boyfriend leave. I sit at the table, alone.

Finally, it is over. Sherman flings himself into the chair next to mine and drains a mug of cold beer.

“You were great,” I say, surprisingly self-conscious that the lead singer is sitting at my table.

Women are eyeing him. I wish I could put off the next words, but it is late and I am tired.

“Come here a second,” I say, heading for the door.

Various buddies pound Sherman’s shoulders, and pretty girls offer him kisses. As we leave the bar, its steamy warmth gives way to the sharp chill of the street.

“What’s up?” Sherman asks. The empty street is not where the action is.

“Dad took Mom to Tenacre today.”

Sherman turns away and leans against a streetlight. I can feel his distress. He rubs his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

“Come on, I’ll get you a cab.”

“Wait, Sherm. What are you going to do now? Do you want to stay at my apartment? Should we go up to Seventy-seventh Street?”

“Naw, I’ve got to go back to the frat,” he says automatically.

“Please? Then we can head out to Hopewell tomorrow.”

“Lucia, I can’t. I’ll meet you in the morning, and we’ll ride the train out together. I have to turn in a paper.”

“Sure,” I say. I am pissed off, and scared to be alone, but I don’t want to fight.

“I’ll call you when I get to Fiji,” he says, referring to his fraternity.

“Hi, Liv, it’s
me,” I say. “I know it’s late, but I can’t sleep.”

“That’s okay. What’s goin’ on?”

“Sherman’s a jerk,” I say.

“Why?” she asks. “What happened?”

I tell her about the evening, about how Sherman blew me off.

“It’s rotten what he did,” Olivia says in a low voice, trying not to sound sleepy. I know Terry’s head is on the pillow next to hers. My sister’s empathy brings out what I am really feeling: unbearably alone. In all of New York, there is no one aside from Sherman with whom I can speak freely about Mom.

“I was hoping we’d go get a bite to eat,” I sob, “or hang out at Seventy-seventh Street.”

“Lucia, he’s not doing this on purpose. He’s still a kid,” she says.

Twenty-one isn’t a kid.

“He said he’d call me from the fraternity”—I glance over at my clock radio: 3:00
A.M
.—“big surprise, he didn’t.”

Olivia chooses not to reply.

“It’s late,” I say. “I’m really sorry I woke you up.”

“I’m glad you called,” she says, and I know she means it. “Loosh,” she adds tenderly, “Sherman means well. He doesn’t know what to do either.”

In the morning
Sherman calls as I’m leaving for Penn Station to say that he is taking a later train. Dad meets me at Princeton Junction, with outstretched arms, puffy eyes, and a big, incongruous
smile; he looks as though he hasn’t slept in weeks. His salt-and-pepper hair is mussed, like he ran his fingers through it instead of a comb. He is wearing a red and blue bow tie, the knot so tight I know he struggled with it, a light blue oxford shirt, a tweed jacket, gray trousers, and a heavy, tan-colored down jacket. He hasn’t shaved.

“How was the train ride?” he asks anxiously. “I see you got the bud vase.”

I hand him a red Steuben gift bag.

“I saw it before the lady boxed it,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”

My father manages another smile, but the crow’s-feet around his eyes remain pinched long after the smile has vanished.

“How’s Mom?” I ask fearfully as we exit the parking lot.

“I really think the
Challenger
tragedy put her into a tailspin. She watched the news updates over and over.”

Tailspin
is a timely word choice.

“Dad,” I asked, “is it her belly?”

My father takes a deep breath, noticeably uncomfortable with the question. I figure I already know the answer, but I’m hoping to learn something new.

“Lucia, dear, you know we don’t discuss symptoms in Christian Science. It doesn’t support the healing process.”

I close my eyes to fight off my frustration.

“I think you will be pleased with her room,” my father says. “I think you’ll be reassured by Tenacre. It’s very clean. The staff is absolutely professional.”

I don’t know how to respond, but cynicism probably isn’t the answer. Of course the place is clean! What else does a professional nursing staff do, if it doesn’t assist doctors and dispense medicine? I can’t be part of this conversation. My father is trying to convince me that all is going well. I’m not buying it.

We drive in silence through the center of Princeton, where preppy suburbanites are shopping and browsing, and college students with backpacks slung over their shoulders are strolling in groups. I feel a
tinge of nostalgia for my life at Brown, when my biggest worry was the word count on a paper, or making a deadline. My father turns on the radio and finds a classical station. He has always preferred silence to any kind of sound in the car. The music is more for my benefit than his, and I appreciate the gesture. I remember our road trips to Florida and Montana when we were kids: the tedious stretches of time, sandwiched in the backseat of the car, where we had to sit in complete silence while our father did his metaphysical work, his head bobbing in deliberate, prayerful vehemence, no doubt affirming some mysterious patient’s God-given dominion over error.

“How are you, Dad?” I ask, gently patting his shoulder. “Are you getting enough sleep? Do you need groceries at the house?”

“Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says. “I’ve never needed much sleep. You know me … early to rise.”

“Good,” I reply, although I don’t believe him.

I look at my watch. It is almost noon.

“Dad, have you called Grandma yet? Do you want me to talk to her first? I was thinking maybe if I—”

“Lucia,” he says, hesitating. Immediately, I am filled with dread.
Tell me you called her
.

“Your mother and I have done a lot of thinking and praying about this, and your mother has decided that she would prefer Grandma not be told.”

“What?” I hear my voice rising. “
What?
You said yesterday—”

I feel the rage coursing through my veins. I am suddenly nauseated. I want to punch a hole in the passenger window.

“I know what I said,” my father tries to say calmly, “and yesterday, that’s what we intended to do. But—”

“You
lied
!” I scream. “You
told
me you’d call Grandma as soon as Mom was settled at Tenacre! Those were
your
words!”

“I did not lie. Yesterday, that was the plan,” my father says calmly. “But your mother discussed it with her practitioner and decided, after considerable prayer, against calling Grandma. You
should know that I support your mother’s decision one hundred percent. Try to understand, Lucia—”

“I don’t understand,” I counter. “This is wrong. This is lying. You are deceiving Mom’s family. Mom is too sick for them
not
to know.”

“I have to respect your mother’s decision,” he says firmly.

We turn off the Great Road onto a private drive. A sign announces:

The wooded estate is pocketed with manicured lawns; a picturesque footbridge crosses a little stream. Winding paths connect the various buildings, which are well maintained but architecturally unremarkable. It looks like an upper-crust retirement community, or even a small liberal arts college, minus the students.

We pull into the visitors’ parking lot. My father turns off the ignition.

“Yesterday your mother and I were very emotional. And we really did think it would be best to call your grandmother.” My father rests his folded arms on the steering wheel and stares out to some fixed, imaginary point in front of him. “But to do so now would seriously undermine your mother’s healing.”

Your church is undermining her healing!
I want to shout.

“My first concern has to be Mom. She has decided that she wants to work this out in Science. Believe me, Loosh, this has not been a hasty decision. Your mom has been a diligent, effective Christian Scientist for over twenty years. As a practitioner and teacher—you’ll just have to trust me on this—I’ve seen cases far more serious than your mother’s that have resulted in beautiful healings.”

My father is trying to reason with me. But there is nothing reasonable about denying the existence of this illness (which, in accordance with Church teachings, is what they are trying to do),
denying medical treatment, and deceiving Mom’s family. “This is wrong,” I repeat in a low voice.

“You may think we’re being deceptive. But—as difficult as this may be for you—there are very good reasons for not calling your grandmother right now. We are working hard to protect Mom’s healing from mental malpractice. That’s in large part why we decided to come to Tenacre. Here, your mother is receiving expert care in a supportive environment. We simply can’t have non-Scientists—especially those opposed to Christian Science—interfering. It could really hurt Mom …”

This idiocy is what’s hurting Mom.

“… You know your grandmother would want to visit. And you can guess how your uncle Jack might react.

“Another thing,” my father continues. “Mom is concerned for Grandma’s health too. Naturally, she doesn’t want to do anything to upset her, or put her under strain. As you know, Grandma is unaccustomed to the practices and concepts of Christian Science. She was an R.N. Your grandfather was a doctor. It would be very difficult for Grandma to accept that her daughter is not using medicine.”

It’s difficult for your three children
, I want to say, but even stating this feels dangerous: how could Mom and Dad not view us as part of the problem? We may be accustomed to Christian Science, but we are
not
Christian Scientists.