The Healing Party (11 page)

‘What's so insulting about Dad's old Holden?' I said under my breath, and had Patsy and Maria giggling just like old times.

While the collection-takers waited in the aisles, Lou spoke of God's promise that whatever you give, you will get back tenfold. He told people to ask Jesus to put on their heart what they should give. It did not have to be cash – cheques, gold watches, pearl necklaces would be accepted too. I saw Dad take out a fifty. That was more than enough from the whole family, I thought, trying to pass the collection cup on quickly down the row, but Maria threw in thirty dollars, which I knew would leave her broke for the week.

More songs, then Tom Bronson was introduced. He came running onto the stage, punching the air and swinging his microphone like a rock star. He was stocky and wore a white suit. ‘Can I have the lights?' he boomed. ‘I want to have a good look at my Australian brethren. Do us a favour – when the lights reach you, shout out “Amen!”'

As the lights circled the hall, the amens rolled out like a never-ending wave.

Now Tom closed his eyes. ‘Thank you, Jesus, for showing us the light, for bringing us here today. I know there is a football game at the MCG just a mile from here. I heard you Australians like your football. There's 100,000 people at the MCG right now. Well, don't you love the Lord, creator of mankind better? Jesus, you will reclaim the people. Soon
we
will be at the MCG! Lord, we are hungry for your miracle. God is perfect. Are we made in his likeness? So aren't we perfect?' Tom asked, and to each of his questions the audience responded, ‘Amen!'

‘Sickness belongs to the devil. Tell me, who does sickness belong to?'

‘The devil!' shouted the crowd.

‘There are some who say we must carry our cross just like Jesus did. But Jesus don't want no martyrs. Satan says, that's your life, the mediocre life, the life of pain, the life of make-do. Jesus says, get thee behind me, Satan. We have been reserved the kingdom of heaven …'

His voice was deep and thrilling; at times he was almost singing, bringing us high and bringing us low, speaking in a whisper and building up to a crescendo. The content, however, was the same old stuff.

Gazing at the stage, I remembered the day my parents were born again, less than a year after arriving in Australia. It was here at Dallas Brooks Hall. The preacher had called out to members of the congregation to come forward and be baptised in the holy spirit. Before the preacher could finish his sentence, Dad had jumped out of his seat. It was as if he had been waiting all his life to be called. Taking Mum's hand, he pulled her with him up to the stage.

Mum and Dad looked like children next to the tall, blond preacher in his tight blue suit. I felt anxious at how small and Asian they appeared. The preacher crouched down. ‘Where are you from? Do you speak English?' he asked.

To the preacher's surprise, Dad leant over and grabbed his microphone. ‘I am fair dinkum Aussie! And I tell you, praise the Lord!' Dad's voice projected over the speakers loud and clear. The crowd loved it. When their cheers subsided, the preacher laid one hand on Dad's head and the other on Mum's. Immediately, Dad fell back as though he had been struck by lightning. Mum gently cascaded to her knees. Within a few seconds, Dad rose to his feet again and spoke in tongues. Volleys of gibberish shot from his mouth.

I had shivered uncontrollably. Hundreds of people were cheering and clapping for my parents. Something amazing had happened, and my parents were at the centre of it. Smiling and in awe, Mum stayed quietly kneeling. Dad sobbed in great guttural heaves. It stunned us, because it was the first time we had seen him cry. He often cried after that. I grew used to it and then later came not to trust it, even to be repulsed by it.

Now Tom Bronson's shouting drew my attention back. ‘Over there in the back corner, I sense that there is a man with one leg shorter than the other – come on up!' He pointed to the back and beckoned. ‘Someone who has been hearing voices. Only Jesus is the true voice – come on up!' He continued to point to people in different parts of the auditorium where Jesus put on his heart that a sickness lay. Finally he made the call for those with cancer. Dad had already taken Mum's wheelchair brakes off and was running with her towards the stage.

A line was forming in front of the stage. Leaders of the renewal took their places to assist with the laying on of hands. It looked like only about a dozen people would be prayed over by Tom himself. The rest would be prayed over by the leaders below the stage. Dad pushed Mum right past them and lined up. I counted the people in front of her: twelve. I could only see the backs of my parents but knew they were anxious.

The general call-up came. Tom stood with his arms open to the people. ‘All the Lord's children! Ye who seek to be healed. Ye who rebuke Satan. Come forward!' he shouted.

They responded. The auditorium came alive with people standing up, clambering, filling the aisles and flowing to the front. The band started up.

‘And Jesus said, come to the waters,' we sang, ‘stand by my side, I know you are thirsty, you won't be denied.'

Patsy squeezed past us. I grabbed her arm, but she pulled away.
You don't need healing
, I wanted to say.
You don't need demons cast out. You're fine, you're okay
. She walked down the aisle and joined the yearning multitude.

‘In the name of Jesus!' Tom shouted. He began to speak in urgent, rapid tongues. With both palms outstretched towards the people below, he walked across the front of the stage. As he passed, the people fell backwards, slain in the spirit. Some were caught by volunteers, and others, like Patsy, hit the carpeted ground without intervention. She pulled her skirt down as she fell. Bodies, some jerking and shaking uncontrollably, were strewn on the ground. Now there was a clear view of Mum and Dad. Mum sat with her eyes closed and a beseeching smile on her face. Dad knelt beside her, weeping and punching his hand upwards as though reminding Jesus,
I'm saved, we're saved!
Seeing them, I had to hold my own tears back. Next to me, Anita watched too. Her face looked sad. Maria, hands stretched out to the slain at the front, swayed and babbled in tongues.

The auditorium started to fill with the speaking and singing of tongues. In the unintelligible languages, I heard pleading, nourishing, anger and rejoicing. A thousand voices clashed and blended into a powerful, complete sound. I was tingling, wanting to open my mouth and join in as I had when I was twelve, but I wouldn't let myself. One by one the slain rose, and the laying on of hands began. In the background the music and singing continued, now soulful and worshipful.

A young woman was dragged up onto the stage by her parents. Swearing and spitting, her face twisted and ugly, she tried to pull away. Tom took one look at her and directed the band to stop playing. He conferred with Lou. The auditorium was hushed and apprehensive. Four suited Charismatic leaders strode onto the stage.

Tom turned his microphone back on. ‘By the almighty power of Jesus, we will have victory over the devil which has inhabited her soul. Pray with me. But first, if anyone of you is a doubter, unclean or possessed of fear, you may leave the room. For when the devil is cast from her, he is going to be mad! And he will go looking for someone else to possess.'

I tried not to care what they thought. I stood up and walked out, looking at my feet, ruing the long walk of shame to the doors at the back. Maybe another thirty people left too, slinking, trying not to stand out. Volunteers directed us to sit in the foyer until we were called back in again. I ignored them and kept on walking, desperate to get out of the building.

I pushed the doors open, walked to the edge of the landing and stood there, looking out over Fitzroy Gardens. We had been in the hall for over three hours. The sun would be setting soon. A shimmering blue tint presided over everything.

Hearing the doors open behind me, I turned around to confront the volunteer I thought had followed me out. Instead it was the long-haired man who had helped carry Mum's chair up the stairs.

‘Do you mind if I join you?' he said.

‘What makes you think the devil won't find us here?' I said.

He grinned. ‘You were scared that devil was going to jump into you? I just needed a smoke.' He leant against the stair rail and took out his tobacco and papers.

‘Oh, please, can I have one?'

‘Maybe,' he said, narrowing his eyes playfully at me. I watched his deft hands at work rolling the cigarettes. It was easy to flirt with him. As we smoked and talked, there was something familiar about him. He seemed casual but at the same time alert, his gaze continually shifting.

‘The woman in the wheelchair with you. Is that your mother?'

I nodded.

‘She's beautiful,' he said.

‘Do you think so? She has cancer. She's supposed to die – the doctor gave her five months. That means she's supposed to have about two and a half months left.'

‘I'm really sorry,' he said, and for a while he stopped gazing around and looked down. He seemed genuinely sad.

‘It's okay, you don't even know us,' I said.

He laughed, then became serious again. ‘I work as a carer for older people. I see so many of them die. Every time I hear of someone else dying, I think of all of them.'

‘Well, my family doesn't see my mum as dying.'

He nodded. ‘No, of course not. Sorry.'

‘You don't sound very Charismatic, if you don't mind me saying so.'

‘Praise the Lord!' His face creased into a smile. ‘How's that?'

I smiled too. ‘Nup.'

‘You're right. I started coming to these meetings about a month ago.'

A volunteer stuck his head out the door to call us back in.

We butted out our cigarettes. He asked me my name as we walked back inside. His name was Eduardo. Ed for short, he said. I left him at his seat and walked down to mine.

Anita moved up one seat for me. ‘Lucky you came back,' she said. ‘Mum's going up next.'

‘What happened to the possessed woman?' I asked.

‘Which one?' Anita asked. Obviously things had moved on.

Mum's chair was being lifted up the side steps to the stage by Dad and two volunteers in their yellow T-shirts. At the top of the stage, they set her down. Dad took off her brakes and pushed her across the floor to Tom, who waited for them in the spotlight. Holding the microphone to Dad, Tom asked their names.

‘We are Paul and Irene Chan, we are leaders of the Charismatic, and we love the Lord!' Dad said. Cheers and alleluias came from the audience.

Tom went down on one knee, facing Mum. She was very nervous. ‘Why are you in this chair, honey?' he said, his voice kind. He held the microphone to her.

‘I have cancer,' she said softly.

He snatched the microphone away, jumped to his feet and shook his head. ‘Why is she in this wheelchair?' he shouted. Now he pointed the microphone at Dad.

‘That the victory of Jesus will be manifested!' Dad proclaimed.

Tom aimed his hands like pistols at Dad. ‘Yes, sirree!' he shouted. ‘Cancer. I hate that word. Doctors don't know how to cure it. But Jesus does. When we don't forgive, it grows in us like a tumour. Unforgiveness is spiritual poison. Sister, have you forgiven?'

‘I must forgive … Yes, Lord, I have forgiven!' Mum said with determination.

‘Alleluia. Praise you, Jesus,' Tom said. He laid his hand on Mum's head and prayed in tongues. The whole auditorium joined in.

Bastard, leave her alone
, I prayed with clenched teeth.

He removed his hand. ‘You have been healed. Now, sister, go home. It will be manifested.' The band started, indicating that Dad and Mum were to leave the stage.

Dad asked if he could say a few words. Tom handed him the microphone and the band stopped.

‘The Lord has spoken through you, Tom.' Dad turned to the audience. ‘The Lord has commanded me to gather the people to my home to witness the manifestation of the miracle. You are all invited to the healing party at 7 p.m. on Sunday 19 September. On this night, in three weeks' time, you will see Irene throw away her wheelchair. Our phone number is 94871552. Our address is 17 Aquarius Court, Jackson —'

Tom pulled the microphone away from Dad. The leaders directed the band to start up. The volunteers who had helped carry Mum onto the stage came out of the wings to carry her down.

‘That's so rude. He should have let Dad finish,' Anita said.

‘Dad's too much, even for Tom!' I said.

The rally finished with more songs and speaking in tongues. Night had fallen by the time we were back in the car and driving home. Dad seemed all the more determined to hold the party, Mum was focused on forgiveness, and my sisters and I, tired and hungry, shared some irritable words with each other in the back.

*

At home, I locked my bedroom door and dragged out the cardboard box stashed under my bed. Jason had written to me. I hadn't expected him to, and if Dad had not finally remembered to give me the letter, I may never have known. He had handed it to me just as we were about to leave for the rally. I asked him when it had arrived, and he said one could not be sure, with the mountain of correspondence and Mum's medical bills demanding his attention, but maybe last week. I felt that familiar helplessness from the time I had lived here. Letters and phone messages passing through my parents' hands would be casually forgotten, disappeared or misplaced.

I pulled out the letter, sat on my bed and unfolded the single page. It looked as though it had been ripped from the pad that Jason kept by his bed. He would reach for that pad and fill it with the ideas that came into his mind on waking. His handwriting always surprised me. It was scrawled and flourishing, and so unlike the way he presented himself to the world.

The letter was dated three weeks ago. Would it really have mattered if this letter had been lost in the piles of paper in Dad's study, never to be seen again? I looked at the scramble of words and wondered how any message in them could possibly change the way things were.