The Healing Party (2 page)

‘So what is my point, Natasha?' The sudden thickness in his voice alerted me. Dad stared at me with fierce eyes. His nostrils flared and his mouth twisted in an ugly smile. No one had said anything about my leaving, but it had not been forgotten. We had resumed the conversation we were having when I left eight years ago.

I looked away. I knew that face, possessed with anger, almost savage.

‘The point is,' he said in a loud voice, ‘that only He is perfection and we, until we join Him in heaven, are human. But the miracle is there. He loves us so much that He cannot bear for us to suffer – that is why He died on the cross for us. The miracle is there, we only need to believe. Find it in your heart to believe, Natasha. Will you? Put aside the “smartness”' – he spat that word out – ‘and the fashion of ideology and … just believe!'

I had anticipated this, but still my whole body prickled with humiliation and anger. I longed to say something that would show how I despised what he had to say. In my teens I had never known how to reply, but at least I would do something surly – roll my eyes, smirk, make a scoffing sound, or pretend I hadn't heard.

Dad looked at me expectantly. Mum said, ‘Praise the Lord,' and smiled in silent appeal to me. When I didn't react, Dad started rolling up his prints.

‘Now I must make some important phone calls,' he said, and walked up the stairs to his studio. I gathered the cups and took them into the kitchen, washing up slowly to steady my breathing and still my shaking.

As so often happened when I saw my father angry, I thought of that other face – so different and yet so closely aligned with his. Though I tried to suppress the image, it appeared as I had seen it as a ten-year-old in my grandmother's tall, thin terrace house on Rowling Road in Hong Kong, where my father and his twelve brothers and sisters had grown up.

We were not allowed up on the third floor, but once on a visit I had sneaked up the staircase that grew narrower and steeper the higher you got. The door at the top of the landing was not locked. I turned the knob and peered inside. A barely clad man sat on a mattress in a cage almost the size of the small room. When he saw me he lurched over, put two fingers in a V to his mouth, which was covered in sores, and asked me for a cigarette.

The next time I saw him, some cousins and I were playing on the concrete in front of the house. A cousin, laughing, pointed her finger at the top floor. He had escaped from his cage and squatted naked on the window railing. Perched up there like a great ugly eagle, he took in his surrounds. Stretching his thin arms to the sky, he leapt. The sound as he landed was no louder than a coconut falling to earth. His face, which looked so strangely like my father's, lay smashed and seeping into the pavement.

*

When I returned to Mum she was tired, so I supported her while she shifted to the couch. She smelt of powder and soap and something slightly bitter. I helped her rest her head on the armrest and spread a blanket over her. Between bouts of silence, we talked about members of their Christian community or my sisters, until she dozed off and her mouth grew slack.

Dad walked into the lounge room wearing his coat and beret. Seeing Mum asleep, he told me in a quiet voice that he was going out for two or three hours to see Father Lachlan and Geoff Atkins from his ministry team. He explained that they would be doing God's work by witnessing to a woman who wanted an abortion. I asked him which bedroom I should sleep in and he told me to take my pick.

I entered the corridor leading to the three bedrooms and glanced behind me to make sure the door did not swing shut. When the door to the corridor and all the bedroom doors were closed, the corridor became a pitch-black vault.

The first room had belonged to Anita and Maria before Anita moved out, the second room had been shared by Patsy and me, and the bedroom with the ensuite bathroom at the end was my parents'. Thinking I would take the first room, since it was further from Mum and Dad's room than my old bedroom, I opened the door but saw that it was crammed with old furniture and Dad's photos and equipment. I went to the bedroom that Patsy and I had shared. Mostly unchanged, it had two single beds with their own bedside tables, separated by a chipboard wardrobe that we had painted pink to match the walls.

Our room had looked like the bedrooms of our schoolfriends, or so we'd hoped, with its pastel colours and posters of cute animals. No pictures of pop stars had been allowed by Dad, though, and suddenly remembering, I swung the door shut. A poster of Bono that my friend Bonnie had secretly stuck to the back of the door was still there. Bonnie had shared this room with me when she came to us for refuge. She had taken Patsy's bed, while Patsy moved into Maria's room. I ripped the poster off the door and was about to crush it but stopped myself. Since Bonnie's death, I had not been able to throw away anything of hers. Folding the poster, I placed it in my backpack to take to Darwin and add to the cardboard box where I kept her photos, letters and books.

The room had a sour smell of old bedding. I imagined also a hint of vanilla, the scent of the discount moisturiser Bonnie had worn. Opening the window, I gathered the curtains and let them hang on the outside of the window. I stripped the blankets and sheets from the beds and, although the weather was cold and grey, carried them out the back to hang on the Hills Hoist. The large backyard was an intimidating tangle of long grass, teeming weeds and towering cacti. Dad had been meaning to clean it up since we'd moved in thirteen years ago. Only the side edge of the yard where a path led to the Hills Hoist was clear.

Returning to the room, I emptied my backpack and stuffed my clothes into the wardrobe. Then I flopped down on the bare mattress, still wearing my shoes and jacket, meaning to rest for one minute but sinking straightaway into a deep sleep.

I woke up, startled. The phone was ringing in my parents' bedroom and I rushed to pick up. It was Dad, gushing and breathless. ‘Where's Mum, Natasha? Wonderful news. Praise the Lord!'

‘What is it, Dad?' I was shivering from cold.

‘Geoff and I prayed with Father Lachlan, a true man of God. We were singing in the most mellifluous of tongues when suddenly Geoff burst out in prophecy. “Your hands have been blessed so that Irene may live!” Do you understand, Natasha? Jesus will heal your mother through the hands of Father Lachlan. Isn't that wonderful?'

‘Do you mean healed of cancer?'

‘Of course, Natasha.'

‘And when is this to happen?'

‘This year – by the end of this year. Alleluia! There is plenty more, but now I must tell Irene. Give the phone to Mum.'

‘She's sleeping, Dad.'

‘Wake her up.'

‘Can't this wait until you come home?'

‘She will want to be woken up for this wonderful news. Your mother is healed. Tell her to sing and dance and eat anything she wants – no more hospital, no more chemo, we are going to throw that wheelchair away. A miracle, Natasha. Give the phone to Irene – now!'

Her face was sensitive, sweet and sad while she slept, her brow relaxed, mouth gentle and eyelids lightly flickering. It seemed so cruel to wake her.

‘Mum, wake up,' I said, rubbing her shoulder. And louder, ‘Mum, Dad's on the phone.' Her eyes opened, shocked and unseeing. The panic on her face subsided as she took in my presence and her surroundings.

‘Huh, what?' she said in a hoarse voice.

‘It's all right, Mum. It's just Dad on the phone. He says he has some good news for you.' I handed her the phone.

‘
Meeyeaah?
' she asked. Dad's excited talking, rising and falling over the line, was loud enough for me to hear. Then the tinny sounds stopped, and she said, ‘Praise the Lord. Okay … Alleluia … Yes, I believe … Yes, I am healed …' Her voice sounded tired and dull, but when she put the phone down and I saw her eyes, they were glowing.

P
ATSY, THE YOUNGEST, RANG WITH A MESSAGE
from Anita, the eldest. The family was coming over for dinner at 7 p.m., and Anita said I had to cook. Patsy's voice often trembled from shyness. Now it took on a self-important tone. Everything had to be organic and free-range. No frying, no soya sauce, no chemicals or preservatives, no chillis or pepper. Avoid wheat, oil, butter and sugar. As she reeled off the foods that Mum could not eat, it sounded like a more extreme form of the diet Patsy had been following for the past year.

The bag of chicken livers was sitting in the fridge, as Patsy had said. Liver, rich in iron, was supposed to be good for Mum. She had cooked it for us when we were children. I had seen her pick the livers up with both hands, squish the extra fluid out, massage them with five spice and soya sauce and throw them in a wok of sizzling oil. I couldn't bear to touch the things. I tipped the bag into a mixing bowl and the livers slithered out like large blood clots.

Dad arrived home with a shining face. He went straight to Mum in the family room to talk more about the miracle. Although I could see them from the kitchen, I could not hear what they were saying over the racket I was making. Mum and Dad looked hopeful and happy as they talked. I lit the stove and banged down the pressure cooker.

Dad went up to his studio. I helped Mum lie down and hurried back to the kitchen. I opened and shut cupboard doors searching for implements and ingredients, rinsed, chopped vegetables, scraped out jars, and filled and stirred the pots. At the same time, I ran back and forth to the family room when Mum called for water, or to move her pillows or take her to the toilet. Every few minutes I turned my head to look at the clock.

Five minutes before the family was due to arrive, I had cooked two dishes: a colourless chicken and lentil soup, and steamed liver with vegetables. The liver had lost its plumpness and rich brown sheen, and sat in shrivelled, grey lumps in the steamer.

At least I could make the table look good. My parents still dined as though they were in a cheap Hong Kong eatery. I pulled away the plastic sheet covering the table and replaced it with a pale yellow bedsheet I found in the linen cupboard.

With a clattering of high heels Anita strode in, well groomed, suited and swinging a glossy briefcase. She had recently been promoted to marketing manager of the property development firm she worked for. Her perfume and the corporate air she wore momentarily overpowered the smell of cooked liver. Everything seemed to lift a notch in pace.

‘You're looking well,' she said and lifted her eyebrows, code for
You've put on weight
.

‘And you are looking exceedingly well,' I responded, puffing out my cheeks and crossing my eyes. We both laughed.

‘How was the trip?' she asked. Before I could answer, she walked into the family room to greet Mum and started organising her pillows. When she returned to the kitchen, she lifted the lid of the steamer. ‘These are overcooked. Do you know how much organic liver and vegetables cost?' She tasted the soup. Without asking me, she took out a jar of tomato paste from the fridge and scraped half of it into the pot.

She started to make a shopping list. Pushing me aside, she fossicked through the fridge and cupboards, calling out what we had and what we needed to get. She then opened a drawer full of bottles of pills. Pulling out one bottle after another, she said, ‘You give two of these blue pills at dinner time, one pink pill, two capsules and a tablespoon of this tonic. Same at breakfast time, except you also give two capsules from this blue bottle and one tablet from this foil pack. Got that, or do I need to repeat?'

Irritation rose in me. ‘Do you mind writing that down?'

She raised her voice. ‘Look! There are a million and one things to do. Read the labels and ring me tomorrow if you are not clear.'

I was about to say,
What's the matter with you?
but stopped short when I saw the resentment on her face.

Before we could argue, Anita's husband, Charles, came through the door with William on his hip. Anita rushed to them, gushing, ‘How's my little boy!' Charles, warm face smiling, put his arm around my shoulder and said, ‘Welcome back, Bindi Windi Booroomool! Say something in Aboriginal!' I gave a weak laugh. He came closer and said in a lowered voice, ‘It's good you're back. Your mother is really very ill.'

He went into the next room to greet Mum. Charles, a property developer from Shanghai, had converted to Catholicism so he could marry Anita. He was well liked by Mum and Dad, who said he was very ‘open'. Anita brought Will over to me. ‘Say hello to your Aunty Natasha,' Anita said.

I picked up Will, a solid little bundle in his overalls. He looked me straight in the face, gave me a half smile and squirmed away, saying, ‘I want Mummy.'

Patsy was right next to me in the kitchen before I noticed her. ‘Hi, nice to have you home,' she said. She wore a cream-coloured pinafore that puffed around her small frame. ‘How did you go with the cooking?'

‘Don't ask. Anita thinks everything is overcooked,' I said.

‘What? The vegetables and liver are organic, you know,' Patsy said, frowning. The furrows made her thin, pale face look even more pinched, and I wanted to reach over and smooth them away. She was supposed to have been cured of her anorexia, but to me she still seemed far too skinny.

‘Maria late as usual?' I asked.

‘She's on executive time, of course,' Anita said sarcastically.

Just then Maria arrived, carrying three large handbags with their zips undone and contents spilling out. Her evangelical pamphlets, first-aid kit, things she'd picked up at the Salvos; she always carried too much with her in case she needed it. My sister, the bag lady, dressed in a shapeless blue tracksuit, had been unemployed for too long.

‘Hi, Nat. Great to have you here,' she said and hugged me. Maria was the most tactile of us, giving big Christian hugs, though she did so with her hands balled up. ‘Is that a new jumper? Looks nice on you,' she said. Her face was still pretty despite the dowdy clothes. She was the best-looking among us sisters.

I tugged on the polyester sleeve of her tracksuit top. ‘Thanks, Maria – you shouldn't have dressed up for me!'

She laughed. ‘Oh, I just came from ministry group. I was in a rush!'

My sisters and I moved to the family room. Mum sat on the sofa watching William propel matchbox cars off the sofa arm. Charles, who was in the armchair opposite Mum, told us to sit down.

‘Listen, your mother has news,' he said.

‘Natasha, you tell them,' Mum said.

‘You can, Mum. I don't really know what it's all about. You talked about it with Dad more than me.' I wanted them to hear it from her, though we all knew how difficult it was for Mum to recount even simple stories.

We waited while Mum picked at the seam in her skirt and fumbled for words. ‘Well, you see, your dad and Geoff Atkins, Father Lachlan also … they were going to pray with this woman … she wanted to, you know, abortion … but then, um … she didn't turn up, la. They thought, let's pray for her anyway but then … it ended up they were praying for me … then your dad and Geoff said Irene is healed … a miracle …'

Maria and Patsy seemed to pep up as soon as they heard Mum say the word ‘miracle', but Anita and Charles started to question her. ‘Wait till Dad comes out of his studio – he will explain,' Mum said. She picked up Will's cars from the cushion next to her and busied herself handing them to him.

Dad came down the stairs, rubbing his hands together. ‘Wonderful news, everyone. Wonderful news! Is dinner ready? You must all be sitting down when I tell you.' He saw the food had not been laid out and turned back towards his studio. ‘Call me when everyone is seated at the table.'

We rushed around, setting the table and putting the food out in serving bowls. I spooned out the liver and vegetables into an oval ceramic dish, garnished it with finely chopped fresh coriander and spring onion and arranged thinly sliced cucumber around the edges of the dish. Anita served the rice while Patsy ladled the soup into each bowl and Maria placed a slice of orange on top.

I went into the family room looking for candles. Next to the TV was the family altar, which was basically a coffee table covered in a pink scarf on which sat a crucifix, a statue of Mary and six candles. A portrait of the face of Jesus derived from the Turin Shroud hung on the wall behind the altar. I grabbed the two long white candles and brought them back with me to the kitchen, where I placed them at the centre of the table. I had picked some jasmine on my walk from the bus and wove the stems around the candles. With the candles lit, the table looked festive and aglow. Patsy fetched Mum. ‘
Umboy!'
she said, admiring the grandness of the table. Then Maria went to the studio to fetch Dad.

*

‘We thank you, Lord, for the great miracle you have bestowed on your faithful servant Irene. We acknowledge you, O Lord, as almighty and powerful saviour. And we thank you for bringing Natasha home. Let us sing.' Dad broke into ‘Thank you, thank you, Jesus'. It was a simple, rousing tune. We sang it with gusto, and I enjoyed hearing our voices fill the house.

‘So, what's this about a miracle?' Anita asked.

‘Let's taste this food first and then I will tell you the whole wonderful story,' Dad answered, scooping the liver onto his plate of rice. He clicked his spoon and fork together enthusiastically and took a large mouthful. Within a few seconds, his face lost all expression and his chewing slowed. He reached for the soup, sipped at it and then moved his mouth around uncomfortably.

Pushing his bowl away, he stood up. ‘Thank you to the cooks, but we will agree that this is a time of celebration. Irene, you are healed and can eat anything you want, not this … this … bland horse food.' He smiled as though he thought his choice of words was cute. ‘I will order noodles from Ting Chu – they are very quick. Charles, leave now to pick it up.'

Dad grabbed the phone and dialled. ‘Good evening, it is Paul Chan. I want to order takeaway for a very special occasion. Two large char kway teow, two large hokkien noodles, one roast duck and one large barbeque pork. Are you listening? We must have the dishes cooked now as a matter of great priority – cooked deliciously, but cooked now. You can do that? Can be ready in ten minutes? Very good.' He put the phone down and walked to his studio, calling back to us, ‘Fetch me when the food has arrived.'

I continued to spoon soup into my mouth. My throat, hot and constricted, threatened to gag.

‘Never mind, Natasha, I like it,' said Maria, always the kind-hearted one.

‘It's not too bad,' Mum said, also drinking her soup. ‘You know your dad – he wants to celebrate.'

‘Let's just say, use a recipe next time,' Anita said, and Patsy was already clearing the table.

Within forty minutes, my carefully presented dishes had been packed away in the fridge. Plastic takeaway boxes, stray noodles and duck bones littered the table, and oil, soya sauce, red barbeque sauce and brown gravy spattered the tablecloth. Dad had eaten and was ready to talk.

‘I was summoned this afternoon to do God's work. A young Filipino woman wanted to abort her child. It had been arranged that she would meet Father Lachlan and me for counselling. Geoff Atkins also came to lend his prayers. We sat together in a room in his seminary, waiting to talk with her. We waited and waited but she did not turn up. So we prayed for her and her unborn baby in her absence. This happened for a reason. A reason preordained by the Lord.

‘We held hands and I led the prayer. I said, “Dear Lord, we intercede for this woman who holds the decision of life and death in her hands. May she see that it is only you who giveth life and who taketh life. May she see the light, may she manifest your divine will and choose life.” As soon as I said this, the Lord put it on our hearts that we were not just praying for this young mother – we were praying for Irene to choose life. Suddenly, a warmth filled my spine and abdomen just where Mum's cancer is. As though it was God speaking through me – I believe it was God's voice – I said, “We denounce the demons of despair and failure and call forth your miracle. Yes, Lord, we claim your miracle. Irene chooses life!” At that moment a fragrance of oranges was in the air and the sky outside seemed suffused with purple light. I burst out into tongues and Geoff and Father Lachlan followed and then we were all singing in the most mellifluous of tongues. It was beautiful. It really was magnificent. When the singing faded away, Geoff uttered forth a prophecy from God that Father Lachlan will be blessed with healing powers so that Irene shall live.

‘Isn't that wonderful, everyone? We started praying for a Filipino woman who wanted an abortion and the Lord showed us that just as that woman must choose life for her baby, so must Irene choose life for herself!' He turned to Mum. ‘Do you accept God's miracle, Irene?'

Mum closed her eyes. ‘Amen,' she said quietly.

Dad turned his attention to the rest of us. ‘All must believe! It is only through our belief that it will happen. Jesus cannot force miracles on us. We must accept in faith and not let our doubts prevent the healing which the Lord wants to bestow on Irene. Jesus knocks on our door, but he will not let himself in. Only you can let him in.'

‘Alleluia,' Maria responded. Patsy spoke quietly in tongues.

Charles, with Will asleep on his lap, whispered, ‘Thank you, God.'

‘That's positive news,' Anita said, but her face was troubled. Seeing Dad's eyes on me, I nodded. I was amazed how easy it was to fall back into line.

For a while Dad was silent, holding his hand to his head and occasionally nodding as though listening to something. Suddenly he smacked his knee hard and shouted, ‘Yes! Yes, Lord!' Raising both hands, he looked heavenwards. ‘Yes, Lord, we will do your will.'