Fathermothergod: My Journey Out of Christian Science (34 page)

“Doctor, have you ever successfully treated someone whose condition was as critical as Mom’s?” Sherman asks.

I can feel everyone brace for his answer.

“I’ve seen some cases far worse than your mother’s,” he says to Sherman, “and some have had almost miraculous recoveries.”

With this tiny ray of hope, Sherman smiles slightly, his chin quivering.

“I can give you a prognosis, if you like, based on statistics of similar cases,” he says, looking down at his notes again. He pauses, maybe to make sure that a prognosis is what we want. We wait.

“Mother has a fifty percent chance of living six months.”

“As adherents of
Truth, we take the inspired Word of the Bible as our sufficient guide to eternal Life.”

This is the first Tenet of Christian Science, which appears in
Science and Health
, in the chapter entitled “Recapitulation.” I try to break down what it means.
Adherents of Truth …
Clear enough: followers of Truth,
Truth
being a synonym for God, because
Truth
is capitalized.…
inspired Word of the Bible
 … That’s less clear. It
means, I guess, that Christian Scientists don’t believe in the
literal
word of the Bible. Since
Word
is capitalized, it means the inspired Word of the Bible is the Word of God. But
inspired Word …
Does that mean only parts of the Bible are inspired, and some aren’t? Or does it mean the Word of the Bible according to a particular source of inspiration or interpretation? If so, whose? Mary Baker Eddy’s? … 
sufficient guide to eternal Life
. Capital
L
. Life in God. But how sufficient is sufficient? Fifty percent?

When Mary Baker Eddy founded Christian Science, in the late 1860s, in New England, there was no penicillin, no aspirin; there were no X-rays, no radiation or chemotherapy. Surgery was primitive and fraught with danger. One probably stood a better chance of being healed—sometimes—by saying “abracadabra” over and over again than by entrusting one’s health to a medical doctor.

Why, I wonder all over again, did my parents convert to a religion founded in Victorian New England by a thrice-married woman who dabbled in hypnotism and mesmerism (whatever that is, I still don’t know) and came to believe her life was prophesied in the Book of Revelation? Why do they put their faith in a church doctrine that purports to have an answer for every question? A religion without ambiguity? Why can’t they live with uncertainty?

Admittedly, I’m struggling with uncertainty too: 50 percent chance of survival is hard to hear.

I don’t feel—nor have I ever felt—the need for dogmas, especially those that require such an enormous leap of faith. My father has all the answers right in his book (or memorized). What is Life? Life is God. Mortal life—which isn’t really life at all—is error, nothing. What is God? “The great I
AM
; the all-knowing, all-seeing, all-acting, all-wise …”

A 50 percent chance of living six months?

I go back and forth. Maybe the prognosis is not so grim. Does it mean that half of the people with her diagnosis have lived six months? Will she make it to six months? If she does, then what?

Not unlike my father, I want some truth (but not Truth) I can hold on to.

In the days
following Mom’s surgery, all of us are amazed to see the dramatic improvement in her condition: physically, the change is almost as pronounced as the difference between her premorbid state upon arrival in the emergency room and her revived appearance after the first twenty-four hours. Her eyes look brighter, her speech requires less effort, she eats eagerly from her tray without assistance, and she even requests seconds on dessert. The physical therapist who comes to work with her three times a day massages and manipulates her limbs and gets her to do strengthening exercises on her own.

It is like having our old mom back. She talks with us enthusiastically about things she’s shown no interest in for months; she laughs and jokes with the nurses. I adore the time I spend with her: giving her a manicure, playing backgammon. Even as sick as she is, she exudes a naïve optimism, maybe because she has not heard the prognosis. Fortunately, she hasn’t asked for it.

“We’re gonna lick this, Lucia,” she says. I want to believe her.

The improvement in Mom’s condition coincides with a steady deterioration of communication and goodwill between Mom’s family and us. The constant presence of relatives, while in some ways soothing, is beginning to make Hopewell feel cramped. Aunt Mary and Grandma are still staying with us, in the twin beds in my room down the hall (I am back in the Nook), but they are increasingly resentful at not having direct contact with the doctors. Our questionable aptitude for relaying accurate medical information strains things even more. Meanwhile, Aunt Kay is back in Minnesota. She calls every evening to talk with Grandma and Aunt Mary but is reticent when any of us kids answers the telephone. She says hello and asks immediately for one of them. Dad won’t even attempt to reach for the phone, always deferring to one of us.

Most disturbing of all is the fact that we have not heard from Uncle Jack since the first confusing days in the hospital. The silence frightens us, makes us paranoid. With every passing day, we are more convinced that he is planning to take some sort of legal action. Many conversations between Olivia, Sherman, and me revolve around the question of what that might be. Why hasn’t he come to see Mom yet? Has he hired lawyers? Investigators? He looms ever larger and more menacing in our minds.

Grandma, Aunt Mary
, and I are walking slowly back to the hospital, arms linked, after a pleasant, late breakfast at PJ’s Pancake House on Nassau Street.

In front of the main entrance to the hospital, we see a silver stretch limousine idling, the driver’s window open. The driver, dressed in a gray uniform and sitting behind the wheel, is reading the paper. Something about him and the fact that the car is running unsettles me. The sense of foreboding is confirmed as soon as we enter the hospital. I freeze. Uncle Jack is standing at a pay phone in the lobby.

For a moment, I think I am wrong; that can’t be him. But then I realize, of course it is. He is a bit heavier, and his hair has turned silver-blond since the last time I saw him, but his height is unmistakable.

Grandma and Aunt Mary said he might be coming next week. What is he doing here now? I wonder if Grandma and Aunt Mary are as surprised as I am, or if they have known all along.

I’m not prepared to face him. I leave my grandma and aunt without explaining and walk past him to the elevator. I don’t know if he has seen me. I go straight to Mom’s room, my stomach in my throat, but she’s not in her bed. I panic. The thought occurs to me that Uncle Jack has transferred her somewhere. Frantically, I run down
the hall to the nurses’ station. “Where’s Mrs. Ewing?” I ask, nearly shouting. “Where’s my mom?”

A nurse I’ve not seen before looks up from her clipboard and smiles. “I wheeled her down to the end of the hall. She’s on the daybed there. It’s a nicer view.”

I walk more slowly back down the hall, trying to compose myself, but my head is throbbing.

There she is, looking quite peaceful.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, relieved. “How are you this beautiful day?” I kiss her forehead and smile.

“Much better,” she says. I wait for her to mention Uncle Jack. She doesn’t.

Mom stares out the window, preoccupied.

“What’s up?” I ask.

She looks into my eyes, and a tear trickles down her cheek, but she is smiling.

“I walked today.”

Her words are so unexpected.

“That’s great, Mom,” I say. I am choked up. I hold her hand, and she looks away from me out the window.

After a long silence, I ask her if she has seen Uncle Jack.

“Yes,” she says, smiling again.

“What did he have to say?” I ask as casually as possible.

“To stay put, that these are the best doctors.”

The nurse I accosted moments ago comes down the hall to say there is a phone call for me. I know instinctively it is Dad. I haven’t seen him at the hospital yet. I wonder where he’s calling from.

He is hysterical. Through his gasping and sobbing, I’m able to make out that he encountered Uncle Jack in the hallway.

“I’m gonna get you, Heff Ewing! I’m gonna
get
you!” Dad keeps repeating, mimicking my uncle. “I’m gonna expose this whole thing!”

I feel ill with fear, terrified, and completely torn. I know my uncle’s anger could ignite even bigger problems than we already have.
Will he call lawyers? The police? Reporters? At the same time, I understand his fury, even share it.

The pity that so far has kept me from turning on my father is edging closer and closer to contempt.

I tell Dad I have to go, I want to get back to Mom before Uncle Jack does. She’s in her room again, settled in her bed, when I burst in.

“What’s wrong, Lucia? Are you upset with me?” Mom asks, alarmed.

“Yes!” I answer uncontrollably.

“Why? What have I done?”

What have you done?
I grit my teeth and look away.
What have you done?

“Please, Lucia. Talk to me.”

“Everything! This is all your fault!” I say. I am practically shouting at her. “All along, we’ve done
exactly
as you’ve wanted. Six whole months at Tenacre! We lied for you. We deceived Grandma, on your … 
orders
. And now—Uncle Jack is going to rip us apart. We’ve kept this from you, because you’re sick, but I’m not going to pretend to you anymore! You act as if nothing’s
wrong
—like—like you’re here … under the same circumstances as any other patient. But who do you think is answering for the fact that, for months,
you
refused to get medical help? Who do you think is taking the blame? All of us: Sherman, Olivia, Dad, me. You could have come here sooner! You chose not to! Bottom line, it was
your decision
to make. Not Dad’s. Not Tenacre’s. Yours.”

I’m shaking. Mom is quiet, but her chin is quivering. She bites her lip.

I suddenly feel that this is what I’ve been holding in for months—my anger and incomprehension about my mother’s passivity, her unwillingness to accept the reality of her situation.

I am totally confused—enraged but also ashamed that I’ve exploded at her.

“I’m sorry,” I say, now desperately. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

Uncle Jack, Grandma, and Aunt Mary enter the room.

“Excuse me, I’d like to be alone with Mom,” I say to them.

Grandma stares at me, horrified.

“I mean it. I don’t want Uncle Jack in here!”

Uncle Jack doesn’t move. He stands in the doorway.

“For goodness’ sake, Lucia,” Grandma says, “he’s her brother.”

“Get … out … of … here.
She’s my mother.
”

I try to push my uncle out. Aunt Mary grabs my arm and his, but violently I shrug her off.

“I love you, Jo,” Uncle Jack says.

“Don’t cause trouble, Jack,” my mother pleads. I hear him agree, though I can feel my mother is as unconvinced as I am.

“Promise me,” Mom continues.

“I promise,” he says.

Grandma, Aunt Mary, and Uncle Jack leave.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

Mom and I sit in silence.

“I want you to remember this,” she finally says. “I love your father. And I love my brother. But they don’t like each other. They never have. Your father and Uncle Jack couldn’t be more opposite: in their values, in their life’s work, everything. Your father”—she looks at me candidly—“has always been jealous of Uncle Jack, but he’ll never admit it. Jealous and intimidated. And your uncle? He doesn’t like your father because he can’t understand him. And he can’t control him.”

Mom grabs my hand and holds it in hers. “You know how much I love your father. I love my brother too.”

She squeezes my hand and asks me to find my uncle. “I want you to be a peacemaker,” she says.

On one level, this directive is a fitting one, and nostalgic, reminding me of when Olivia and Sherman and I were kids,
bickering over the usual sibling stuff. On another level, I almost find it contemptible. Here she is, invoking the Beatitudes when she’s the one who has brought this all on. If she weren’t in this hospital, with a horrible prognosis, I might dismiss the request outright. But my mother strains to sit up and leans toward me with considerable effort to kiss me. I concede.

I go off to find my uncle.

He isn’t in the SCU waiting room, so I take the stairs and head to the cafeteria, where I find Aunt Mary.

“Come here, Lucia,” she commands. “Sit down. I am appalled at what you’ve done. Your uncle has come here to see his sister. He has every right.”

Again my rage takes over.

“He may have come here to see Mom, but he has also come here threatening my father. Is he going to sue Dad? Sue us?”

Aunt Mary looks away.

“Did you think he’d greet your dad with open arms?” she asks quietly.

Grandma walks in, heading straight for me.

“Lucia—you are the cruelest person in the world. Imagine! On your mother’s deathbed!” She turns away from me in disgust.

“Where’s Jack?” she asks Aunt Mary.

“Making a phone call.”

“Mom wants to see him again,” I say coolly, hardly a peace offering.

I leave the cafeteria.

I walk back up a flight of stairs and notice, for the first time, the hospital chapel. I enter and take a seat in the second pew.

I let go a full sigh, and, with it, everything else comes. I cry for so long, and so hard, my head is throbbing.

At some point, I realize I am not alone in the room. A hand is rubbing my back. I assume it is my grandmother’s until the person speaks.