The Healing Party (9 page)

Father Lachlan pursed his lips. ‘As you know, Paul, on the night of the party I have a seminarian training session and won't arrive until about 9 at the earliest.'

‘Not to worry,' said Dad. ‘You arrive, have something to eat, and then around 9.30 or so, when you are ready, we will ask everyone to gather round, and you will lead the healing and the laying of hands.'

‘Please don't wait for me to start praying over Irene.'

‘Oh, but we must, Father,' Dad said.

Father Lachlan stopped eating. ‘It would not do to place too much importance on the healing being conveyed through me, Paul.'

Dad smiled. ‘It was prophesied, Father, that it would be through your laying on of hands.'

‘Never mind, la, Paul. After all, Jesus is the one …' Mum, shy, trailed off.

Father Lachlan pushed his seat back into the Chinese landscape wall. We stopped eating and looked at him. ‘God's mystery and will transcends us,' he said. ‘We must be prepared for anything. Readiness is all.' In his black clerical gear, waving his long arms, he blended strangely with the black-ink brushwork of the wall behind him. For a moment, no one said anything. ‘Readiness is all,' Father Lachlan repeated, shooting his arm out, his face suddenly passionate. My thoughts jumped to the jungles surrounding Bogota, the drug wars, death and poverty that he had described at prayer meetings and I imagined what those words would have meant to him.

Dad broke the silence. ‘You are absolutely right, Father. You, like all men, are but a vessel for Christ. But it is through man, through humble and foolish man, that God performs his miracles!' Dad said.

‘Fools for Christ!' said Geoff. ‘That's what we are! One Corinthians four!' Geoff raised a hand heavenwards. ‘And by the stripes of Jesus, we shall have that miracle!'

*

After lunch the guests departed, as did Charles and Will, and the rest of us returned to Aquarius Court. Dad went straight up to his studio. Anita helped Mum into bed. Maria, Patsy and I put on old shirts and commenced work in the kitchen. The aim was to wrap 600 wontons and freeze them for the healing party.

It was a routine we knew well. Without talking, we dodged around each other, taking out ingredients from the fridge and choosing our implements from the cupboards. I gave a final stir to the basin of sticky pink pork mince mixed with chopped herbs and placed it in the centre of the round kitchen table. Scooping up a handful of flour, I swiped the section of table in front of me, then set out the small squares of wonton pastry in close rows. With thirty squares laid out, I proceeded to spoon a lump of pork mince into the centre of each one. When I looked up, Patsy had only started to flour her section of the table and Maria was still looking for implements.

I was determined to say something before Anita came back from helping Mum. ‘Father Lachlan seems to have cold feet about the miracle,' I began.

‘No, he doesn't,' Patsy said.

‘He said that it depends on God's will – whether Mum will be healed. He was basically saying it might not happen!'

‘No, he didn't say that,' Patsy shot back. ‘You don't understand. Yes, it depends on God's will and God has shown
it is His will
that Mum be healed. The Lord has promised it through the prophecy.' She paused and said more softly, ‘He put it on my heart too.'

Maria opened the fridge door and stood in front of it, frowning. She was building up to say something, I could tell.

‘Are you just going to stand there with the fridge open, Maria?' I said.

She closed the fridge and took a space at the table beside me. ‘Do you believe in miracles, Natasha?'

‘Do you?' I said.

‘Yes, I do,' said Maria.

‘As Dad says, miracles happen only to those who believe,' Patsy said.

I didn't like her righteous tone. ‘So you think that Mum will be completely healed of cancer,' I said, ‘that she will leap out of that wheelchair and live into old age, just because we believe it?'

‘Yes, I do,' Patsy said. She stuck her chin out but I saw her bottom lip tremble.

I tried to make my voice gentler. ‘In all those years we were going to prayer meetings together, I never saw a miracle. I mean a real miracle.'

‘Well, if you're looking for proof, you're taking the wrong approach. You either believe, or you don't.' Patsy's voice took on a stridency. ‘It's a gift. You could pray for the gift.'

‘Right,' I said, ‘so you're saying that's all there is to it – you're blessed and I'm not.'

‘You don't have to put it that way —' Patsy started to say.

‘Nat, I can tell you about real miracles,' Maria interrupted. ‘They happen all the time. What about Janice Samuels, who converted Dad? Didn't you read her book about being healed of cancer?'

‘She's dead now, isn't she? What did she die of?' I said.

‘Not cancer!' Maria said. ‘I witness miracles all the time. Just last week my housemates and I prayed over Bronwyn to be healed of cysts on her ovaries. The cysts disappeared! Dad prayed over Mei to become pregnant. She has a baby now! That meditation you do with Mum – you pray for healing.'

‘I'm doing it for Mum,' I said, but as soon as I said it I realised it wasn't true. Each day, the meditation was what I looked forward to.

My hands were busy all the time we talked. I dipped my index finger into the milky water and cornflour mixture and wet the sides of the tender pastry. It was like touching skin. With both hands I picked up the wonton package, folded the pastry over the meat and formed the wings in a simultaneous tuck and twist of thumb and fingers on each side. I placed the wonton on the tray. Without pause, I started on the next one.

Maria looked at me with her concerned counsellor face. She wasn't even pretending to work on the wontons. ‘We all have doubts sometimes,' she said. ‘It doesn't matter. Just by wanting to believe, you will believe. Sometimes you need to just say it and your heart will follow. Even if you don't feel it now, if you declare with your tongue, the rest will follow. That's what I do.'

Maria took a step closer to me. ‘You had faith, Nat. Remember when we were kids, when I made the picture of Jesus light up? You fell asleep during prayers in the family room. We woke you up and said, “Look, the face of Jesus is glowing! It's a miracle!” You believed it. I can't forget how your mouth and eyes opened so wide,' she said.

‘You got down on your knees, poor thing,' said Patsy.

Maria put a hand on my shoulder. ‘I've always felt bad about tricking you with that light. Have you forgiven me?' she said.

‘Don't be silly, Maria, that didn't mean a thing,' I said.

The phone rang. We heard Anita pick it up and call out to Dad in his studio that it was Geoff. She came into the kitchen and started counting the wontons.

‘Not Geoff again,' I said. ‘They just saw each other and he's already ringing. Dad and Geoff meet for breakfast, then keep on talking on the phone every day. Mum doesn't like it.'

‘He's funny,' said Patsy.

‘Funny strange, or funny ha ha?' I asked.

‘Maybe both,' said Patsy.

‘He's creepy,' I said.

‘Don't just come here and start criticising people,' said Anita.

‘Well, what do you think of him?' I said.

‘It's not about what we think of him. He is having a good effect on Mum and Dad. You should have seen how miserable Dad was before. Now they have hope,' Anita said.

I had nearly filled my tray with wontons, fifteen per row, twelve across. Patsy's was one-quarter full and Maria had barely started.

His phone call over, Dad came into the kitchen. ‘Wonderful girls. Praise the Lord. Your mother will be proud of you, keeping up the Chan hospitality. We will not only feed their souls at the healing party, we will fill their stomachs!' He picked up a wonton from Patsy's tray. ‘Look at these beautiful shapes. Classic Cantonese-style, with folds and crevasses like the craggy mountains of Huangshan! Which of you artistic girls crafted these?'

‘I did,' Patsy said, and meekly cast her eyes downwards. Her shoulders, however, pulled back in pride.

‘I should have known,' Dad said.

*

When we had made 440 wontons and there were no more pastry wrappers left, we cleaned up and went to Mum's room. She had woken up a few minutes earlier, but the room was still dark.

Mum lay on the bed, wrapped in the quilt. ‘Open the curtains,' she called out. Light flooded in through the glass panels that swept from one corner of the room to the other. ‘Hello, hello!' She looked happy to see us and tried to sit up on her elbows. I took one arm and Anita took the other to pull her up.

‘Open up the windows, Maria,' Mum said. ‘Wider. Let all the bad air out.' Her skin felt chilled, but still she wanted the window open. It was always the same. She liked it cold. Cold meant clean.

Anita pulled a chair up to the bed. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘Better and better. Praise the Lord,' said Mum. ‘How are the wontons?'

‘We made 440,' Patsy said, sitting cross-legged next to me at the foot of the bed.

‘So many,' Mum said. ‘I hope you didn't put too much meat in each, or else they burst open.'

Maria, leaning against the bed, kneaded Mum's shoulders. ‘The wontons are fine,' she said. ‘We would have made them quicker but were chatting too much.'

‘Nice to chat. Sisters are the closest thing. Was Natasha asking you her questions?' said Mum.

‘Mum and I have been talking about her childhood. I ask her questions,' I explained.

‘What kind of questions?' said Anita.

‘Last time we talked about school. Mum said she missed a lot of school because she was always sick or pretend-sick,' I said.

They laughed. This encouraged me. ‘We also talked about Mum and Dad's courtship. Next I was going to ask about motherhood – what it was like to be a mother.'

Anita raised her eyebrows and turned down her mouth. ‘Such deep questions!' she teased.

‘So silly,' said Mum. ‘A mother loves and looks after her children – that's it!'

‘You know Mum had to stay in bed at the Rowling Road house for two weeks after I was born because of Chinese tradition?' Anita said. ‘
Agnin
wouldn't even let her go to the toilet – she had to use a bed pan.'

Mum shook her head. ‘What a silly tradition,' she said

‘Was it two years later that you had Vincent?' I asked.

‘Yes. Such a perfect boy. Looked just like your dad. He is with Jesus.' She gave a wistful smile. ‘After Vincent I couldn't conceive for many years. I thought Anita will be an only child. Then I had three of you, one after another. No break!'

‘Wasn't I only one week old when we went to England?' said Patsy.

‘Something like that,' Mum said. We could never pin her down on these details – the little we knew we had pieced together from snippets collected over years of asking.

Anita said, ‘I was about eleven, and Patsy, you had just been born.'

So Maria would have been three and me one. After two years, we returned to Hong Kong. I was too young to remember anything about London, but I knew we'd gone because Dad had secured a residency at a photography institute there.

‘Anita was always the little mother,' Mum said. ‘Sometimes in England I couldn't stand being stuck in the small flat all day with three babies. I would put Anita in charge just to take a quick walk. Ten minutes only. When I came back I'd see her little face in the window, looking for me.'

Maria stopped massaging. ‘Didn't you have to put me into a children's home in London for a few months?' she said, averting her eyes.

Mum grimaced. ‘It wasn't that long. You were too difficult to control. The nurse brought you home some nights,' she said. ‘There was no one to help us in England, and your dad – always working!' Mum struck the bed with the flat of her hand. ‘It was only for a few weeks, la.'

‘Look at Maria now – such a saint! Right, who's next?' Anita interjected, glaring at Maria. Mum had had some kind of nervous breakdown then. That was all we knew. Maria wanted to know more about the time she spent in the children's home, but she was never going to find out. ‘Mum, tell us what Natasha was like as a baby.'

‘Sores. Natasha always had sores on her body, since she was a baby. And too much resentment. But now she's a good girl. Praise the Lord.' Mum said, looking tired.

Anita stood up. ‘Okay, enough talking. Let Mum rest now. Sing for her.'

Maria brought out the guitar and she and Patsy started to sing a duet.

Sores and resentment. When I was eight and living in the house on the hill in Hong Kong, a red sore appeared on my belly. Several times a day I checked to see whether it had become smaller or bigger. A blister grew on top of it. I accidentally popped it with my nails and clear pus oozed out. In the next few days more sores clustered around the original sore. After a few weeks there were dozens of sores covering my abdomen. I hid them from sight and made Patsy and Agnes promise not to say anything to Mum, but one day, home from school, I was careless with my schoolbag and it jabbed against my side. Blood soaked through my white shirt. I tried to run away, but Mum saw it. She caught me and lifted up my shirt. Next thing she was grabbing me and crying out, ‘Aiya!' and ‘My God, my God! How terrible!' and ‘What dirty children have you been playing with!' The sores that I had so carefully and gently tended and protected for weeks, she pinched with rough hands, pierced with a needle and wiped with stinking, burning red ointment. The sores dried up and left only scars, which faded away years later. I should have been grateful. Instead, every time I'd looked at the scars, I was furious at her.

My resentment, however, had not started then but a year earlier, in a taxi in Central Hong Kong on the way to a party. I must have been seven years old. The whole family was in the taxi except for Anita, who was old enough by now to go out with her own friends. Dad sat in the front passenger seat, and Mum, my sisters and I were in the back – Mum behind the taxi driver. Usually we younger sisters had to stay at home, so we were excited to be accompanying Mum and Dad to their party. Both of them were reeking of perfume and dressed to the nines. The air-conditioning in the taxi was exhilarating, and we glided along, special, cocooned from the noisy, traffic-jammed road and the crowds of busy, sweaty people.