Read Online Fathermothergod: My Journey Out of Christian Science by Lucia Greenhouse - Free Book Online Page A

hand.
    “Have fun!” she says, and I feel myself cringing as Bill and I walk down the path.
    “Is that your sister?” Bill asks.
    “That’s my
mom
,” I say, mortified.
    “Wow, she’s not bad looking.”
    I climb into the backseat, say hi to my friends, and try to erase Bill’s comment from my head.
    Every Thursday at Perkins, I order the same thing: French toast with bacon. I love the golden ovals of spongy French bread with the powdered sugar sprinkled on top and the mini-scoop of whipped butter.
    “Dear Lord,” Bill says, as we are about to dig in. We follow his lead and bow our heads, smiling self-consciously and checking in with one another out of the corners of our eyes. “Bless this meal, and be a comforting presence for these friends who have gathered in Your Name. Teach them what it means to have a deep personal relationship with You. Amen.”
    Even without a text in front of me, I am sufficiently literate in religious matters to know which of Bill’s words should be capitalized. But having a “relationship with Christ”—like He’s a person—is something I’ve never considered. In our church, God has never felt personal. I’ve been taught to think of God as the Father-Mother, but God has always felt inanimate, more like the three-letter word
air
than the three-letter word
Him
.
    Bill’s blessing is the only reference to religion at breakfast. After the grace, we dig in. James and I usually sit across from or next to each other, and occasionally make eye contact or smile. Throughout the meal, there is much laughter and the occasional tossing of food before we pool our dollars to pay the check. We get back into Bill’s car for the drive to school. At the first red light, we jump out, chase one another once around the car, and pile back in before the light turns green. Arriving at the school’s front entrance just in time for the first bell, I feel like I am—by dint of sheer luck—part of quite possibly the coolest group at school.
    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 andpray 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.
    When thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret, shall reward thee openly.
     
    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