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

hugging her back, but everything seems strangely backward.

     
    It is eleven-thirty at night. I’m down the hall in the Quiet Room, because I can’t sleep. I’m uneasy about what I should say in this condolence letter, but I think what I wrote probably turned out okay. I take the Liquid Paper from my pencil box and dab the crossed-out words until they disappear. I crossed out “so much” because I don’t want Ammie to worry about me. And I crossed out “and if you get lonely” because mentioning it might make her feel even worse. She and Grandpa were married for forty years, and now she’ll be alone.
    I fold the aerogram into thirds, then lick the adhesive edges and seal it up. I write Ammie’s name and address on the front. I have to remind myself not to write “Gen. and Mrs. H. Terry Morrison.” That Grandpa could be—is—dead doesn’t seem possible.
    The last time I saw Grandpa was three months ago, when we flew to Minnesota for Christmas. (But first we visited boarding schools on the East Coast because, at the end of this year, we are moving. Another of Mom and Dad’s classic out-of-the-blue announcements. They said we were “moving back,” and I brightened for about a millisecond, imagining a return to our old house, our old life. But we are moving to New Jersey.
New Jersey?
)
    We were at Ammie and Grandpa’s for Christmas dinner. After the meal Grandpa tried to get up and sort of stumbled, and reached for the sideboard to steady himself. I thought he was going to fall down, but Ammie was right there beside him. I didn’t know he was sick (Mom and Dad never told me), but I remember feeling scared that something bigger was going on than just a misstep.
    Last night Mom and Dad called me from Hampstead to say that Grandpa had passed on, and they were flying to Minnesota and would be back in a week. Dad told me I shouldn’t be sad:
Grandpa’s passing wasn’t unexpected. He lived a happy, long life
.
    But it was unexpected for me! I didn’t even really know he was sick. I only found out that Grandpa wasn’t well because Ammie mentioned it in a letter. And I
am
sad. How could I not be? I’ll never see him again.
    Mostly, I’m angry that I can’t go back for the funeral. Mom and Dad said it’s too expensive, and Sherman and I would miss too much school. But
they’re
going. It’s not our fault we live here, so far away; it’s
theirs
. They should bring us. The other grandchildren—all twenty-one of them—are going to be at the service, and then everyone is flying to Washington, D.C., for the burial at Arlington cemetery.
    First James. Now Grandpa.
    Dad reminded me what Mary Baker Eddy said about death: “ ‘Death is but a mortal illusion, for to the real man and the real universe there is no death-process.’ ”
    In some ways, death
does
feel like an illusion. From here, being so far away, it’s easy to think that James and Grandpa are still alive. Even the letters from Mimi and Mary, which described James’s memorial service, seem unreal. They are not the letters I choose to reread. James’s are.
    I don’t know how Sherman’s taking the news about Grandpa. I haven’t talked to him, and I won’t see him until Sunday school. I can’t call him because I don’t have coins for the pay phone, and I can’t reverse the charges like I do when I call Mom and Dad. Either Sherman is feeling really lonely or else he’s not feeling much at all. Like me.
* * *
     
    One Tuesday morning
, my roommates and I head down to the common room for Quiet Time like we always do before school, to find that Mr. and Mrs. Williams’s door is closed. The door to their quarters is always open, except on their day off, which is Monday. Mrs. Williams always proctors Quiet Time, but today, the matron, Mrs. Mills, does.
    “Where’s Mrs. Williams?” we all ask. “Why is their door closed?”
    Mrs. Mills looks up from her
Science and Health
, then down at her plump hands. She purses her lips and in her Welsh