The Healing Party (17 page)

‘What is it?' he said.

‘I saw Bonnie today. Did you kiss Bonnie in a sexual way on the day she left?'

He strode to the door and shut it, then faced me with panic in his eyes. ‘Have you said anything to your mother? I don't want to hear you speaking like that. Do not say a word to your mother. There'll be no end to this if you say a word to her. She must not hear a word. Do you understand?' Spittle flew from his mouth.

‘Bonnie said you grabbed her breasts and kissed her.'

‘No, I didn't. I don't want to hear a word of this ever again. That's the end of it. Do you hear? You have really upset me. How dare you! Now leave.' He opened the door.

A day later I tried to speak to Anita while we were hanging out the washing. ‘So what?' she said. ‘Things like that happen all the time!' She flung her hands up in the air to demonstrate it was no big deal, though her eyes watered and her mouth quivered as she did this.

‘You shouldn't have invited her to stay,' she went on. ‘I should have said something. I knew it would be no good.'

‘Didn't he do the same with your friends?'

‘That was before he was a Christian. He was a different person then. He has changed. You need to understand,' she said, picking up and hanging the clothes with rough, jerky movements, ‘many men are like that. Artists have stronger sexual urges. Yet he tries. Give him credit for that. Don't over-react. It's no big deal. So what, a little kiss? We're not made of cottonwool, are we? You haven't said anything to Mum, have you?'

‘No,' I said.

‘Don't. Not to her, and not to Maria and Patsy either. There's no use upsetting them for no reason. Promise me.'

I nodded.

She stood still, rubbing her arms with her hands and trying to compose herself. Her professional voice came on. ‘Anyway, Dad told you he didn't do it. Bonnie is not exactly stable, is she? Her mother is mental, and didn't her father have to leave because he was abusing them? Why would you believe her and not your own dad? Look at all the good things he did for her. Taking her into our home, teaching her photography. She is very unstable. Maybe you told her some things that made her imagine it.'

Bonnie went back to Tyrone in Mildura. She said it would only be until I finished Year 12 and we moved to Darwin together. I couldn't study. The endless rounds of prayer meetings became more difficult and sometimes I couldn't bear being near Dad. I felt I was going to burst. I decided I couldn't stay in Melbourne or even wait for my exams. I left two months before they were to begin. Bonnie said she would join me in Darwin as soon as she could.

Dad insisted on driving me to the airport for my flight to Darwin. His eyes were tired and disappointed and for the whole trip he didn't lecture me as he usually did, but instead sang one hymn after another. The hymns he chose were solemn and reverential. There were moments when I wanted to say to him,
Please forgive me, I'm so sorry. I believe you. I should never have doubted you.

Three months after I moved to Darwin, Shirley phoned. She told me that Bonnie was dead. She had jumped from the Flinders Street railway platform into the path of an oncoming train.

Obeying Dad's command, I never spoke to him again about Bonnie's accusation. Over the years, I alternated between knowing he had done it and lied to me, and feeling like a treacherous daughter eager to believe the worst. Sometimes I told myself that it was
her
father who had been abusive. Dad had had a hard childhood – look how damaged his siblings were, whereas he had risen above it. I reminded myself that Dad was a reformed man. He tried so hard. I shouldn't have asked her to stay. But still, in all that time, until news came of Mum's cancer, I couldn't bring myself to go home.

*

The morning sun shone into my eyes. The tears had dried on my face. It was light on the oval – bright enough to see from one end to the other and beyond to the quilt-work of houses and their square fences. I had not noticed the sunrise. How many laps had I done? I had no idea. Mum would be waiting for me to get her up. I ran all the way home.

‘I'm sorry I'm late,' I said, bursting into her room. Mum and Dad were both laughing at some story Dad was telling.

‘Natasha, don't over-exert,' Mum said. ‘Aiya, your face is all red.' She was already out of bed and sitting in the wheelchair. Dad was standing behind her, giving her a shoulder rub.

‘I had the opportunity to get Mum up myself!' Dad said, with a lilt in his voice. He continued to tell her the funny story. He was trying to make Mum happy.

S
INCE THE PARTY A WEEK AGO, ALTHOUGH OUR
routine had stayed much the same, there were some definite changes. I was aware of these while I massaged Mum's feet after breakfast. You could see the pain was bad this morning from the way she held her belly and her neck twisted to one side. But she never admitted to it anymore. Instead, she would start looking for things to blame: the food she ate, bad thoughts, not enough prayer. If I offered Mum any food other than Patsy's diet of vegetable juices, salmon, rice, ginger and lemon, she would look at it as if it were poison. For some weeks I had been frying Mum's liver in bay leaves, garlic and a teaspoon of olive oil. Cooked this way, the liver was browned and shiny on the outside and juicy on the inside, and much more palatable than the grey tasteless lumps that resulted from steaming. Though you could see that she preferred fried, she had told me to go back to steaming the liver.

She seemed to distrust anything that gave her enjoyment. Yesterday, we had taken her to St Kilda beach. Ever since we came to Australia, the St Kilda foreshore had been a regular haunt for Mum and Dad. Dad especially liked the bluestone wall separating the sand from the raised walking path, and the green lawn rolling down to the sea. He said it reminded him of Stanley Beach in Hong Kong, the part built up by the British, where he had taken Mum when they were courting.

So once a week after Sunday mass, if she was well enough, we'd been taking Mum on a drive to the beach. If it was a fine day, we would take out the wheelchair and push Mum up and down the jetty. If it was too cold or windy, we stayed in the car, parked where she had a good view of the waves. She would practise her deep breathing, sucking in mouthfuls of the fresh air and coughing out the bad.

Yesterday at the beach, the weather had been brilliant. The tide was so high that the waves rode up the sand, all the way to the wall. Blue shimmering in the sky and sea, white boats, seaside restaurants, cyclists floating past – everything was sparkling and weightless. Mum didn't practise her deep breathing that day. With slow-moving, moist eyes, she took in the view. She seemed so wistful when it was time to go that we kept putting off the walk back to the car.

‘No need to go to St Kilda again,' she said, after we had helped her back into the front seat. The announcement took us by surprise. Maria asked if there was another beach she wanted to visit. ‘No, no need. I've seen so many beaches. So many years I've been coming here. What for need to see it again?'

My hands moved from Mum's feet to her calves. ‘Am I hurting you, Mum?'

‘No,' she said, ‘do harder.' She held her stomach.

‘Is the pain in your tummy very bad, Mum?' I asked.

‘No, I am healed,' she said.

The muscles in her calves had lost all suppleness and felt like bone. As I rubbed, I thought about what to ask her. She had become even more reluctant to answer my questions about her life. Still, I was not prepared to let it go. The desperation to know rose up in me again.

‘What food do you like?' I asked.

‘You already asked me,' she said.

‘I know, but you didn't answer.'

‘I like everything.'

‘But there must be a food that you don't like?'

Mum thought for a while. ‘When I was a child, my mother always scolded me for not eating my liver. I used to spit it out.'

‘Don't you like liver?' I said.

‘No.'

‘You never told us that. You've eaten liver every day for almost three months and it's the one food you hate?'

‘So what? It's good for me.'

Something snapped. ‘Have you been happy in life, Mum?'

‘What a silly question. Of course I'm happy. We have Jesus, a good family, a good home.'

‘Has anything ever made you unhappy?'

‘Of course everyone has some sufferings. But we give them to Jesus.'

I stopped rubbing her leg and leant forward. ‘But have you ever been unhappy?'

‘When my baby boy died. If only I had not been so stressed at the time I was carrying him.'

‘Were you stressed because you found out about Dad's affairs?' I asked.

She screwed up her face. ‘Your stupid questions,' she said, and her neck twisted further. I saw the incomprehension and disgust in her eyes.

*

The rest of the day we got ready for the third cycle of chemotherapy that Mum would have the next morning. No one questioned whether we were to go ahead with it, even though Dad continued to assert that Mum had been healed on the night of the party. He said the deed had been done. She just had to claim it, and it would be manifested.

When I heard Anita coming through the front door, I rushed to the kitchen to make sure that I had not left any food out. Anita swept in every evening after work like a supervisor. She checked on Mum and Dad, the state of the house, whether dinner had been cooked, appointments kept and medicine taken. She was tense and prickly, especially with me.
Don't get out of line
, her narrowed eyes would say while she questioned me on Mum's day and issued instructions.

She sat down with Mum in the lounge room. I went back into the laundry room, where I was sorting some clothes. Soon I heard Anita striding down the corridor, calling out for me. ‘I'm here,' I said.

She barged in, halting two steps away from me. ‘What did you say to Mum today? She's very upset.'

I was too startled to answer.

Her mouth was clenched and her nostrils flared. ‘She said you were bringing things up about the past. About Dad.'

‘I just asked one question.'

‘What did you ask?'

‘I asked whether his affairs had affected her.'

‘Why? Why?'

I didn't know what to say.

She had the same look of disgust on her face that Mum had had. ‘What's wrong with you? Do you deliberately want to hurt her? That was a long time ago, before they became Charismatic.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said.

‘You were too young to even know what was happening. Now Mum thinks I told you.' She was shaking, her face crumbling. ‘It was me who went through all that. Not you. What do you think gives you the right?'

‘I'm really sorry,' I said. Her shoulders slumped. I wanted to put my hand on her. I took a step closer.

She stiffened. ‘No, you're not. I can't believe you would do such a thing. Just shut up.' She stormed out.

*

We were running late. There was a review appointment with the oncologist, Doctor Richards, scheduled before the chemotherapy. Dad dropped Mum, Maria and me at the hospital entry, and drove off to park. We rushed up to the clinic, only to find a queue at the reception desk. Three people were ahead of us, clutching their medical forms and staring silently ahead. In a loud, patronising voice the receptionist was explaining to the elderly man at the front of the queue that she could not schedule an appointment more than six months in advance. Her layered red hair flapped around her face as she talked.

Dad arrived. ‘No, oh no, praise the Lord. Still in the queue? That isn't possible!' he said. He grabbed the handles of Mum's wheelchair and pushed her past the queue and up to the desk.

‘
Mo cho
, Boon Chin,' Mum said to Dad. ‘Don't fuss.' Her head barely reached the desk.

‘Excuse me,' he said. The receptionist stood up. ‘It is most important that my wife does not miss her urgent 10 a.m. appointment.' He clipped his words in the British manner he had learnt from Hong Kong's expats. ‘Kindly inform Doctor Richards that Mrs Chan is now ready.'

Unmoved, the receptionist told him to wait in line to be seen. He looked so short next to her and the others in the queue. I was not used to seeing Dad put in his place.

Twenty minutes later, the queue had disappeared. Everyone was sitting down and waiting, but few were being called. On the other side of the room, Maria had struck up a conversation with a shy young woman who covered her head with a soft hat of the kind that cancer patients wore. As the woman described her condition, Maria listened with her eyebrows knotted together, mouth downturned and eyes dripping with compassion. I reminded myself that even if it looked fake, Maria was trying to help. She handed a pamphlet to the young woman and started to evangelise to her about the power of prayer.

‘Isn't Maria wonderful? She doesn't miss an opportunity,' said Dad, who was sitting next to me. On his other side Mum was silent, tired out by the journey and worried about the chemotherapy.

Dad told me to go up and ask the receptionist how much longer we would have to wait. I answered that Maria had already asked her fifteen minutes ago and she had explained that it depended on how long the person before us took.

‘Don't be so afraid of what people might think of you. It's a simple question to which there is a simple answer. Ask and you shall receive! Go on, now!' he said, annoyed.

I rose and walked towards the reception desk. Halfway there, I stopped. It occurred to me that I would not obey him. Heart thumping, I changed direction and headed for the water dispenser.

Though Dad was upbeat most of the time, there had been an edge to him since the healing party. If we weren't all sitting around the table, waiting for him when he came down for dinner, he would storm back up the stairs to his studio. When a packet of biscuits wouldn't open the first try, he threw it in the bin. I knew that anger, I rippled to it. He no longer met Geoff every morning at McDonald's. Geoff, he said, had fallen victim to spiritual pride. That's all he said about it, but Geoff hadn't set foot in our house since that night.

Dad stood up. He was angry, I could see.

Fortunately, just then Doctor Richards entered the room, fair, well-groomed and considerable in his suit. The nurses at reception stopped what they were doing and immediately gave him their attention. He had the same benevolent and authoritative manner as a priest. His speech was unrushed, delivered in full confidence that he was being listened to.

He looked up from his file at the waiting patients. ‘Mrs Chan,' he called, nodding to us. We followed him into his office. Shaking our hands in turn, he invited us to sit down before he sat in the armchair behind his polished desk. A narrow, tinted window overlooked a park. The furniture was dignified, the wall hangings sombre and the colours muted. I wondered about the lives that had been devastated or restored with a few words in this room.

He directed his benign, almost sleepy gaze at Mum. ‘Irene, I am pleased to say that the test results show you are doing as well as can be expected after two cycles of chemotherapy. The spread of the cancer has stabilised in the bones, and the growth occurs at a lesser rate in the liver and large intestine.'

Mum smiled and nodded, her eyes still tense.

Dad sat forward on his chair. ‘Let me tell you the truth, Doctor,' he said. ‘You know we are born-again Christians. We are not therefore surprised at the positive results. The Lord has promised to heal Irene and we believe this with all our heart!'

The doctor was fully awake now. ‘I cannot comment on your beliefs, Mr Chan. I can only tell you what the medical and oncological position is. The goal of the chemotherapy is to provide Irene with the best quality of life for as long as we can in the circumstances. The results show that the two cycles of chemotherapy have been effective in slowing down the metastases. As we have discussed, the third cycle in this kind of case is usually the unknown. There is no guarantee that we will see further gains.'

Doctor Richards consulted his file notes. ‘I understand you've made an appointment to start the third infusion today.' He looked up again. ‘Irene, do you still wish to go ahead with the third and final cycle of chemotherapy?'

Mum nodded. ‘Yes.'

Sighing, Dad shook his head at the doctor. ‘You really know so little about the treatment you have recommended?'

‘This is the nature of chemotherapy,' said Doctor Richards. ‘It is the most effective treatment we currently have, but it is not as exact as we would like it to be. I always say to my patients, “It's like throwing a bucket of paint against a wall. Some of the paint will hit its target, the rest will wash off.”‘

Dad scraped his chair back and stood up. ‘If you will excuse me, I must move the car. The rest of you carry on. Before I go, let me share something with you, Doctor. You may think you are helping people with your smart paint metaphor.' Dad's face contorted when he said
smart
. ‘Let me tell you the truth – and you don't need to be a Christian to know this. People need to be inspired. Question yourself, whether you need to be inspired. And you know what the best inspiration is? Jesus.' Dad walked out.

*

That evening, after the chemo, Dad came up with the idea of holding a prayer vigil at our home until the healing was manifested. ‘The Lord put it on my heart,' Dad said. ‘Satan is on the prowl, desperate to rob us of the victory of Mum's healing. We must call on the Lord's protection at every moment.'

He instructed Maria to create a roster, to keep a candle lit all day and all night at the family altar, and to make sure that at every moment between 9 a.m. and 10 p.m. someone was rostered to pray there. He had wanted the vigil to be non-stop for twenty-four hours, but Anita dissuaded him. ‘If you want it to go all night, you organise it, not Maria!' she said.

The vigil began the next day. Maria spread a fresh lace table-cloth on our small altar table and rearranged the standing crucifix and the Turin Shroud portrait of Jesus, the rosary beads and vase, to make room for two special pillar candles that would slow-burn for up to 240 hours. Organising the vigil roster was stressful and consuming for Maria. She was constantly on the phone, trying to find volunteers for the one-hour slots of the roster, or kneeling at the altar herself, filling in for people who didn't turn up. Mum, my sisters and I wanted the altar moved from the family room to the spare bedroom so that we would have some privacy from the volunteers, but Dad said no, the altar must be in the heart of our home. At nearly every waking moment, there were visitors in front of the altar in our family room.