want to know who she had been with, how the whole thing happened. More publicity.
“Millie?”
“I’m here, Mom.”
“Can you talk?”
“It’s kind of hard now, Mom. But I’ll be all right.”
“I want to come to you.”
“Mom, don’t — ”
“I have to see you, Millie. I have to. I feel I do. I can have Royal get me a ticket and take me to the airport. I — ”
“Mom, it’s going to be a madhouse here.” Millie pressed a finger to her right temple. She didn’t want her mother here with all this going on. In fact, Millie herself did not want to be here. She could already feel the clamoring of media.
“Then you come out here,” Ethel said. “Stay awhile.”
“I really can’t — ”
“It’s been too long and I . . .” Ethel stopped, and Millie could only wonder what her mother was feeling. In some ways Ethel Hollander, shaped as a child during the Depression, would always be tough as nails and not easily impressed. Indeed, Millie could not remember a time when her mother had said she was proud of her. As a little girl, that had hurt sometimes. But that was Ethel Hollander.
“Mom,” Millie said, “I have to do what Dr. Cross says. I’ll call you every day if you want.”
“I do.”
“I’ll call you again tomorrow, huh?” Millie said.
“Yes,” Ethel said. “Don’t forget. And, Millie?”
“Yes?”
“God is with you.”
“Bye, Mom.”
Millie hung up the phone. She looked at the ceiling and thought about what her mother had said. Prayer, that was the fabric of her mother’s life. It was a fabric Millie had long since abandoned.
When had she rejected her childhood faith? she wondered now, lying in the bed. It had been a slow transition, but Millie did remember waking up one morning in her dormitory at Berkeley and thinking explicitly, I don’t believe that anymore. I do not believe in God. How will I ever tell Mom?
She hadn’t, for many years. When her mother would call to check up on her, she’d always manage to ask her daughter about her church attendance. Millie could anticipate the question coming, and formed several clever ways to steer the conversation elsewhere.
Finally, after she had been a judge for a year, she could not hide the fact from her mother any longer. It was the most difficult conversation of Millie’s life. Sitting in the living room of her childhood home, where she had once sung Sunday school songs her mother had taught her, she told her mother she had developed another sort of faith — in humanity, in principles of justice.
When the tears came into her mother’s eyes it was like a death had occurred. And in a way, it had.
“I will never stop praying for your soul,” her mother had said, almost with defiance. The thought of her mother continuing to pray for her was sometimes like a curse. Millie overcame it by learning to live in forward motion, not dwelling on her mother’s spiritual concerns.
So why was she thinking about them now? And then the most disturbing thing happened. The word hell popped into her mind.
Her whole body clenched. Pain shot through her limbs like liquid fire.
Hell? Where had that come from? Why should she have thought it? Because of that vision when she’d almost died?
She would go mad if she didn’t get that vision out of her system. She had always been able to think her way out of any dilemma. Her psychiatrist had been her reasoning, rational mind. She could always rely on it.
And she would now. What she needed was to get back into her own world as soon as possible.
| 7
By Wednesday, Millie finally felt like she could see visitors. Helen had called every day — faithful Helen — and there were requests from all sorts of people for a personal one-on-one. Reporters, mostly. All the network anchors had requested interviews. NBC had even sent along a huge gift basket filled with flowers, Godiva chocolates, and an assortment of gourmet almonds.
She turned them all down. She was not going to let an
“Millie?”
“I’m here, Mom.”
“Can you talk?”
“It’s kind of hard now, Mom. But I’ll be all right.”
“I want to come to you.”
“Mom, don’t — ”
“I have to see you, Millie. I have to. I feel I do. I can have Royal get me a ticket and take me to the airport. I — ”
“Mom, it’s going to be a madhouse here.” Millie pressed a finger to her right temple. She didn’t want her mother here with all this going on. In fact, Millie herself did not want to be here. She could already feel the clamoring of media.
“Then you come out here,” Ethel said. “Stay awhile.”
“I really can’t — ”
“It’s been too long and I . . .” Ethel stopped, and Millie could only wonder what her mother was feeling. In some ways Ethel Hollander, shaped as a child during the Depression, would always be tough as nails and not easily impressed. Indeed, Millie could not remember a time when her mother had said she was proud of her. As a little girl, that had hurt sometimes. But that was Ethel Hollander.
“Mom,” Millie said, “I have to do what Dr. Cross says. I’ll call you every day if you want.”
“I do.”
“I’ll call you again tomorrow, huh?” Millie said.
“Yes,” Ethel said. “Don’t forget. And, Millie?”
“Yes?”
“God is with you.”
“Bye, Mom.”
Millie hung up the phone. She looked at the ceiling and thought about what her mother had said. Prayer, that was the fabric of her mother’s life. It was a fabric Millie had long since abandoned.
When had she rejected her childhood faith? she wondered now, lying in the bed. It had been a slow transition, but Millie did remember waking up one morning in her dormitory at Berkeley and thinking explicitly, I don’t believe that anymore. I do not believe in God. How will I ever tell Mom?
She hadn’t, for many years. When her mother would call to check up on her, she’d always manage to ask her daughter about her church attendance. Millie could anticipate the question coming, and formed several clever ways to steer the conversation elsewhere.
Finally, after she had been a judge for a year, she could not hide the fact from her mother any longer. It was the most difficult conversation of Millie’s life. Sitting in the living room of her childhood home, where she had once sung Sunday school songs her mother had taught her, she told her mother she had developed another sort of faith — in humanity, in principles of justice.
When the tears came into her mother’s eyes it was like a death had occurred. And in a way, it had.
“I will never stop praying for your soul,” her mother had said, almost with defiance. The thought of her mother continuing to pray for her was sometimes like a curse. Millie overcame it by learning to live in forward motion, not dwelling on her mother’s spiritual concerns.
So why was she thinking about them now? And then the most disturbing thing happened. The word hell popped into her mind.
Her whole body clenched. Pain shot through her limbs like liquid fire.
Hell? Where had that come from? Why should she have thought it? Because of that vision when she’d almost died?
She would go mad if she didn’t get that vision out of her system. She had always been able to think her way out of any dilemma. Her psychiatrist had been her reasoning, rational mind. She could always rely on it.
And she would now. What she needed was to get back into her own world as soon as possible.
| 7
By Wednesday, Millie finally felt like she could see visitors. Helen had called every day — faithful Helen — and there were requests from all sorts of people for a personal one-on-one. Reporters, mostly. All the network anchors had requested interviews. NBC had even sent along a huge gift basket filled with flowers, Godiva chocolates, and an assortment of gourmet almonds.
She turned them all down. She was not going to let an
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