Fathermothergod: My Journey Out of Christian Science (18 page)

My heart is pounding. There is an intense, charged silence while this woman and I stare each other down.

I look away. What I have just told her places me squarely in the camp of the enemy, the nonbeliever, and puts the increasingly tenuous connection between Mom and me in jeopardy.

Unbelievably, I hear a small voice in my head saying,
What harm would it do? Read the Lesson. Go to church
.

I haven’t read the Lesson since I was sixteen.

I picture myself sitting in the common room at Claremont with the rest of the fourth- and fifth-form boarders, some of us, myself included, engaged in bona fide reading of the weekly Christian Science Lesson; others sneaking peeks at folded articles ripped out of teen magazines, or making entries in diaries, or writing letters.

A much louder voice is saying,
No! This is all wrong!

“I guess I don’t understand the point of all this,” I confess, shaking my head. “What’s
wrong
with trying medicine? Maybe Mom’s condition requires a minor operation, or some … pills.”

“I see,” Mrs. Childs says. “Let me try to explain.” Her voice is too sweet. “Mrs. Eddy teaches us that every illness is mentally conceived. By treating the material manifestation of a problem, you are really only dealing with the symptom, not the root cause. If your mother goes to a doctor—and we’ll assume for now that the treatment of this … foreign growth … is seemingly effective—she will still have to overcome the
real
problem.”

A chill runs through me. What does she know about Mom’s condition, what has she witnessed, that has led her to this conclusion? And what root cause could be any more serious than a
foreign growth
? What the hell is she talking about?

“Our mother isn’t even fifty!” I blurt out. “If she were to go to the doctor and be treated with medicine, she could have another thirty, forty years to deal with the—with the
spiritual
problem.”

“I said before, let’s assume that your mother can be effectively treated by medicine,” Mrs. Childs says, perfectly composed.

“Yes?” I prod.

“But can either of you—Lucia? Sherman?—think of a single case of cancer which has really been
cured
by medicine?”

Jesus Christ.

I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

“A lot of people are treated by radiation and chemotherapy. And surgery,” I say, eventually. I look to Sherman, who nods in agreement, but he is ashen.

“But can you name a single case in which the cancer was
cured
?” she asks me again. “Can you?” She looks to Sherman.

His lip quivers, and I am about to cry. I pull a Kleenex from my bag and wipe the outer corner of each eye. This is unbelievable.

“There, there,” the practitioner says.

I wonder how anyone can say anything as trite as “There, there” at a time like this. I refuse to yield to tears.

“We all have to know that your mother is going to get her healing. That Divine Love will triumph over error.”

That ends the appointment.

Sherman and I leave the building in silence and cross the street. The rain is still coming down hard. We descend into the subway at Grand Central and are about to say good-bye when Sherman says, “Ronald Reagan, for one.”

Of course, thousands of people recover from cancer every year, but in the practitioner’s office, we could not come up with one.

I wake up
with a startle, aroused by sirens on Third Avenue. My heart is pounding, and my whole being is in a state of panic, as though I have just had a nightmare. But my mind is blank.

I glance at the clock radio on my bedside table: 7:45
A.M
.

I fall back onto my pillow and close my eyes. I am dreading today. I’m down to my last clean clothes, so I’ll be spending half the morning at the Laundromat. My apartment’s a mess. I have bills to pay and errands to run. But these duties are mindless; I can handle them. It is this afternoon that worries me. I’m supposed to go to the Plaza for tea with Mimi, Diana, Diana’s roommate Cindy, and Diana’s grandmother, whom we all call Nana Edna. It is an obligation I cannot duck.

Back in September, I got a call from Mimi at work. She asked if I was sitting down and, in a low, trembling voice, told me that Diana’s
younger sister Juliet, who had just started her freshman year at Smith College, had been killed in a car accident.

I hadn’t known Juliet well. She’d been in my cousin Teddy’s class at Blake. I had met her once at Diana’s apartment in Greenwich Village when she was visiting for a few days. Every December, when the Nelsons’ Christmas card arrived in the mail, Juliet’s image was one your eyes went to first, and lingered on. She was lovely.

I had called Mom right after Mimi and I hung up. When I shared the news, Mom was so shaken that she couldn’t talk. I remembered needing some comfort, or reassurance—but what reassurance could anyone give to news like this?—and thought Mom would try to provide it, or at least we would remain together, in silence, on the phone. After Mom said good-bye and abruptly hung up, I stared at the bulletin board on the wall behind my desk and wondered what I should do next.

Mom did not fly back for the funeral. At the time, that didn’t seem odd—and maybe it wasn’t. Mom was not particularly close to Diana’s parents. They weren’t
unfriendly;
the family friendship had just sort of skipped a generation. If Mom and Dad had still been living in Minnesota, Mom would have gone to the service with Grandma and Aunt Mary and Aunt Kay.

Mom must have already been sick when Juliet died. Maybe that’s why she was so short with me on the phone.

I haven’t seen Mom in almost a month. When I ask if I can come out to visit, she says it’s not a good time, not helpful to the healing process. I call her at Tenacre every morning. Dad always gives me the same meaningless update: Mom is making good progress. The few mornings when I have actually spoken with Mom, she has sounded tired and weak, her voice raspy. “How’s work?” she always asks. She tries to sound happy and curious, but she doesn’t stay on the phone for very long, and she isn’t really present. I could probably tell her I got fired and she’d reply, “That’s great, dear …”

Last week, however, she and Dad called
me
at work. After Mom asked me the perfunctory “How’s work?,” I learned the real reason for the call.

“I know there is a tea for Edna next Saturday,” she said. Her voice cracked. “Lucia dear, I would come if I could. I just can’t right now. Please tell Edna how sorry I am.”

Edna is like an aunt to Mom.

“Mom, what will I say?” I ask, but she has already handed the phone back to Dad.

“You can tell her we’re doing some work on the house,” Dad suggests, like they’ve got it all figured out, “that we have a meeting with the contractor.”

“Dad,” I start, but there’s nothing to say. Obviously, Mom can’t come to the tea. But also obviously, their alibi is lame. Edna will feel
—should
feel—hurt.

And this puts me in a terrible bind.

If I go to the Plaza, I will have to pretend to Edna, Diana, and Mimi that everything is fine with me, and with Mom. But Mom’s absence will make no sense to any of them.

Worse still, I just don’t know how I will be able to sit at a table with Mimi, and continue this horrible charade, when what I need to do more than anything is tell her about Mom.

The phone rings. I get out of bed and walk to the living room to answer it.

“Hey there.”

It is Stephanie, one of my roommates from Brown. She’s from West Virginia, and her
hey
—with a diphthong—sometimes comes out closer to two syllables than one.

“Did I wake you up?” she asks, but before I can even answer, she goes on. “So, we’re all set for tonight.”

Tonight? I close my eyes and stifle a groan.

“Stephanie, I just can’t,” I say.

“Awe, c’mon. It’ll do you good. Besides, you can’t
not
come. You’re the guest of honor.”

Tomorrow is my twenty-fourth birthday, and Stephanie has arranged a small dinner.

“There will only be six of us,” she says. “You can’t just sit at home.”

Mimi’s going to be there. I am thinking I should stay home.

“You
can’t
,” she says.

At ten after
four, I walk through the revolving doors at the front entrance to the Plaza Hotel. The smell of the Stargazer lilies in the grand floral arrangement in the lobby is nearly overpowering, but the flowers are stunning. I check my appearance in a large gilded mirror; the reflection betrays nothing; I look fine. In the Palm Court, the opulent tearoom in the indoor courtyard, a musician in a floor-length skirt strums her harp while a line of well-heeled ladies waits on one side of the velvet rope. The tuxedoed maître d’ is busy at work. When he returns from seating one group, I ask him if the Nelson party has arrived, and he pivots with flourish and says, “Follow me.” Inwardly, I am a mess.

Everyone is at the table. Diana is seated on one side of Edna, and Mimi is on the other. Cindy is next to Diana. The empty seat between Cindy and Mimi, facing Nana Edna, is for me.

It has been a few years since I’ve seen Nana, and she looks older, weary. She is wearing a pantsuit in her signature color, lavender. Her face has aged, and her thick-lensed bifocals sit unevenly on the bridge of her nose. But her silver hair is beautifully coiffed, and her lips are a frosted pink. I am struck, today, by how much Diana looks like Juliet: same hair, same pretty face. Does Diana see it every time she looks in the mirror? It saddens me to think of how Juliet’s death has taken its toll on Nana Edna, on Diana, on their whole family. My mind goes straight to the thought of Mom lying in a bed at Tenacre, and then it goes to Grandma. The sadness builds to anguish. My stomach knots up. I chase the thought away.

I kiss Mimi’s cheek as I brush past her, and smile. She smiles back primly. I wonder if she is angry with me that I’ve been so remote. Last month, I did nothing for her birthday other than call her. It could be I’m reading something into her manner that isn’t there. Maybe the Palm Court’s formality and splendor, which should be a treat, make everything feel stiff and artificial to me.

“Lucia,” Nana says, tenderly, standing to her feet.

“Don’t get up,” I say, approaching her.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she says. She gives me a huge, warm hug, and then another.

“That’s from your grandma. Now,” she says, pulling back, “let me get a good look at you.”

We stand there, face-to-face, hands clutching each other’s elbows, and smile. I want to say how sorry I am about Juliet, but I’m afraid that maybe I shouldn’t bring her up. I look at Diana, who is beaming at Nana’s strength and poise. Diana’s eyes are filled with tears.

“It’s so good to see you, Nana,” I say, and I realize my eyes are welling up too.

“It’s wonderful to see you,” she says.

Afternoon tea is a familiar and favorite ritual for all of us. For me, tea brings thoughts of Mom, and memories of Fortnum & Mason, and Claremont School.

The waiter takes our orders. Everyone requests Earl Grey, except for me. Mom’s and my preferred tea, Assam, is one of the offerings.

Our conversation is pleasant. Edna wants to hear all about our jobs. I try to make a joke about how Mimi should really be working at
Vogue
and I at Marine Midland Bank, given Mimi’s fashion sense and my lack thereof. But the joke is awkward and falls flat. I decide I’m better off keeping quiet. Nevertheless, Nana seems delighted to be here with Diana and her friends—all modern-day Manhattan versions of that quintessential Minnesota working girl, Mary Richards (Mary Tyler Moore)—and happy that we are close, as though our lives here together have fulfilled a dream of hers.

There is a lull while we take turns selecting finger sandwiches from the elegant three-tiered tray. The silence hovers over the table and feels like it may grow uncomfortable. I take a salmon and watercress, and a cucumber and cream cheese, and pass the tray to Cindy.

“I wish Juliet were here,” Nana says, her voice quivering.

Diana sets down her sandwich and holds one of Nana’s hands.
Mimi takes the other. Our gazes all fall downward. Eventually, we look up, as if a silent prayer is over.

“It’s too bad Joanne couldn’t come,” Edna adds, sweetly.

“She so wanted to,” I say, too quickly. Mimi and Diana both look at me, and I wonder, again, if I am being overly sensitive. “She couldn’t make it. They’re having work done at the house. The contractor’s being a pain. They’re meeting with him as we speak,” I blather, “… that is, if he shows up.”

“What are they having done?” Mimi asks.

I stare blankly.

“Oh, who knows?” I say, rolling my eyes. My stomach turns.

When we are
finished, we exit, say our good-byes, and wait for the doorman to put Nana Edna, Diana, and Cindy in a cab. In parting, Nana hugs me again and hands me a small present.

“This is from your grandmother. It’s for tomorrow. Happy birthday, dear.”

I feel like I might start to cry. I am relieved when the taxi drives off.

“You heading home?” Mimi asks.

“I have to stop at the office first,” I say, pointing my thumb over my shoulder, roughly in the direction of midtown.

“Oh?”

“We have a shoot on Monday,” I lie. I’m afraid Mimi may ask if I want to hang out. I simply can’t do it.

“Okay. Well, I’ll see you tonight then,” she says.

Back at my
apartment building, I stop in the lobby to get the mail. There is one envelope in my mailbox, a card. The handwriting is my father’s. I open it. It is a Hallmark birthday card, with a check folded in half, made out in my name, for five hundred dollars. I walk
up the three flights of stairs, staring at the card. Dad has written “Dear Lucia” at the top, and “love, Dad and” at the bottom. Next to the word
and
, in wobbly handwriting, are three letters: Mom.