Free Fathermothergod: My Journey Out of Christian Science by Lucia Greenhouse Page B

really support the movement. As a
family
,” she emphasizes, “we can support the movement.”
    “What do you mean, as a family?” I ask skeptically.
    “Well, for one thing, by praying about this, by really
embracing
this new … adventure”—my father says
adventure
with ridiculous enthusiasm—“you are in a sense doing your part for the Cause. There is a real need for Christian Science worldwide, and this is one way you can play a part. An important part.”
    “So, you’re saying the need in London is greater than here?” I ask.
    “Are you being flip, young lady?” my father snaps.
    My eyebrows rise up in defiance, but I know to keep my mouth shut.
    “So, here’s how it will work. We’re going to put our house on the market in a couple of weeks. We’ll be here until the beginning of August. Then, before we fly to London and get you settled in schools, we’ll spend some time on the East Coast, starting in Boston, traveling as far south as Williamsburg, Virginia, with stops in New York and Washington. A pre-Bicentennial tour, if you will …”
    We’ll miss our country’s big party, the two hundredth birthday we’ve been talking about in school for the last year?
    “… we’ll have a wonderful time and you’ll learn a thing or two about this great country. You’ll get to see the Mother Church. The Statue of Liberty. The White House.”
    Normally, I’d be excited to see the Statue of Liberty and the White House, and even the Mother Church.
    “Does Grandma know?” Olivia asks. Her tone is more worried than accusing, as though she’s already surrendered.
    “Not yet. We wanted to tell you first.”
    Thanks.
    “And,” Dad continues, “because we are still ironing out the details, we expect you to keep this hush for a while, to guard against malpractice.”
    Not too long ago, our homework assignment for Sunday school was to memorize Mary Baker Eddy’s definition of
mental malpractice:
“the injurious action of one mortal mind controlling another from wrong motives … practised either with a mistaken or a wicked purpose.”
    What the
hell
?
    My eyes well up again, and for the first time in my life I understand the meaning of
overwhelmed
.
    “How long?” we ask in unison.
    “Well, until we put the house on the market, anyway. We all need to do our protective work. As Mrs. Eddy says, we must ‘stand porter at the door of thought.’ ”
    “What’s protective work?” Sherman asks, bewildered.
    He hasn’t learned about mental malpractice yet, or the need to do protective work.
    “We have to keep our thoughts elevated, to know the Truth: that this is part of God’s perfect plan—” Dad says.
    “But what if it
isn’t
?” I ask.
    My father glares at me. “—so until we’ve dotted our
i
’s and crossed our
t
’s,” he continues, “we’re not going to discuss this with anyone.”
    “Anyone? Not even Grandma?” Sherman asks, his voice now at a panic-ridden, high pitch.
    “Not even Grandma,” Mom says and pauses. “There are those out there—not Grandma, just … people,” she adds, but she sounds uncomfortable with her words, “who might wish us, and the Church, ill. We need to protect this
right idea
, like a mother protects her newborn child.”
    It is late
at night. I am restless, unable to sleep. My head hurts. I have been sobbing, silently, for hours through gritted teeth. I take shallow breaths through my mouth because my nose is stuffed up. I am so angry, but I am determined to stifle the crying; I don’t want to be heard. The last people in the world I would want to be comforted by are the two responsible for this.
    I keep asking myself,
Why?
    At dinner our father’s patience was quickly exhausted, and he was left to deal with our total lack of enthusiasm. “It wouldn’t be any different if I worked for Cargill, or Exxon, or the State Department,” he said, annoyed. “People get relocated all the time. Families
adapt.
”
    But he doesn’t work for