‘I can’t believe it – Dad doing the gardening?’ Anita said.
‘No. Wait and see.’ I opened the door and windows as wide as they could go and stuck my head out. ‘We’re all here!’ I shouted.
Dad looked up and smiled. Using the saw like a walking stick, and putting on a Charlie Chaplin waddle, he approached the window. His voice projected loud and clear. ‘Your mother had a dream of the miracle. No, not a dream, but a vision the Lord has sent to us … She will rise from the wheelchair and jump over that fence.’ He pointed to her, then to the back fence.
‘But is it humanly possible to jump over such a high fence?’ he went on. ‘The Lord put it on my heart to build you a ramp, Irene. A ramp to help you jump over the fence. So we shall meet Jesus halfway! See these arms, see this saw, see this ramp!’ Lifting the saw high, he waved it at the wooden structure sitting on the pavers. ‘The ramp to salvation!’ he cried.
Mum pouted and giggled. ‘Sweia,’ she said.
‘Not silly,’ he said, emitting a mock-angry harrummph. ‘We are stepping out in faith!’
It was wonderful to see them like that.
*
My sisters, Charles, Will and I plonked ourselves onto couches in the family room, buzzing with the work we had done that morning and glad to rest. Mum looked happy. Dad sat next to her, holding her hand. On Saturdays my sisters had other engagements in the evenings, so on this day we gathered for family prayers before lunch. Gentle light filtered through the drawn curtains. ‘Come to me/ All who labour and are heavy burdened/ And I shall give you rest,’ we sang as one. Dad thanked Jesus for our family, this special, blessed family, and for the vision of Mum jumping over the fence. I shut my eyes and soaked up the feeling of our closeness and beauty.
Dad led us into tongues. I would usually speak in tongues only in private, not wanting them to know I still spoke this way. But now I opened my mouth and let the words flow. Unay unay astinor, umbala meshala …
They thought that I had rejected the gifts of the spirit, but it wasn’t true. I often spoke in tongues when I was alone. At night when I was scared, or at times when I was stressed; when I heard Mum had cancer and when I couldn’t sleep; when a sight was beautiful and my spirit rejoiced, I did it without thinking. It calmed me, made me feel lighter, in the same way that meditation did.
Maria, Patsy and I had learnt to speak in tongues soon after my twelfth birthday. At a prayer meeting in the Christian Life Centre in Ringwood, Dad led Maria, Patsy and me up to the front to receive the holy spirit. Anita was not there. The three of us stood side by side, while Dad and the preacher and his wife stood facing us. We needed only to open our mouths, to make any sounds we liked and the Lord would start to speak his heavenly language through us, the preacher said. They put their hands on our heads. I got the preacher’s wife. I peeped over at Maria and Patsy. Their eyes were closed. Suddenly a babble of words was coming out of Maria’s mouth, first softly, then louder and she flung her head back and be be be be be ne ne ne ne issued in a machine-gun rattle from her lips.
‘Out of the mouth of babes! Praise be to Jesus,’ said the preacher.
It was amazing the way Maria, whom we thought slow to pick up new things, took to tongues in an instant. The preacher’s wife intensified her prayer over me, vibrating her hands on my head and bringing her face closer to mine. I could still remember that thin, glamorous face almost touching mine, the suffocating sweetness of her perfume, her warm breath and its slight staleness overladen with mint. Worried about taking too long, I started to make sounds similar to hers – shemala, shemala. She praised Jesus. At first I was just copying, but after more prayer meetings, I was confident enough to open my mouth and say whatever came into my head, even if it sounded foolish. Soon the words and sounds flowed without thought or effort.
Now, as I joined my tongues to theirs, Mum looked at me, raised her eyebrows and smiled. I could have sat there in the dim light and the warm, candle-scented air with my family all day long. I knew the tongues of each of them. Dad’s were like no one else’s: a performance of sound and passion that told a story, travelling high then low, going from smooth to staccato, loud to soft, resembling Japanese then Russian. The Charismatic community knew his tongues well. Often, while the group was in silent prayer, he would break into tongues, as though overcome by the spirit. I knew Mum’s whispery tongues, usha, usha, sha, Patsy’s monosyllables drawn out into high, unearthly notes, and Maria’s fast flow of babble, ne ne ne ne be be be be.
After prayers, we warmed up the noodles and chicken curry, Dad’s favourites, that Anita had cooked. When we were seated, Maria called Dad to the table. He said grace. With a passive sadness, Mum gazed at the dishes of oily, condiment-heavy noodles and the fragrant yellow curry. Her eyes did not move from the glistening dishes when Patsy put a plate of steamed liver and vegetables in front of her.
‘Mum, take a day off the liver and have some noodles,’ I said.
‘No, no, I can’t eat it. You all enjoy,’ she said. She spooned a lump of the grey liver into her mouth, then checked what Patsy had served herself. Only a few pieces of raw carrot and steamed broccoli sat on Patsy’s plate. ‘You can’t eat just vegetables! Take the chicken!’ she said.
Anita put some chicken on Patsy’s plate. Patsy put it on my plate. I returned it to Patsy’s plate. Maria was on her feet, passing sauces around and serving drinks, and Charles was trying to stop Will from flinging noodles all over the table. Only Dad ate without interruption. He would not talk until he had finished his first serve, and relaxed with a second.
Today he had words of praise for everyone. ‘The Lord has chosen our family to lead and inspire His people,’ he said. He praised Mum’s vision of jumping the fence, my ability as his assistant in ramp-making, Anita’s leadership and cooking, Charles’s ingenuity in finding a freezer, Maria’s faith and her achievement of drawing twelve new guests to the party, and Patsy’s sensitive hands (she had given him a shoulder massage after his work on the ramp). ‘Can we, who have the privilege of being called by Jesus of the Holy Cross to serve Him and spread the Good News, give our all?’
Sitting back in his chair at the end of the meal, Dad said, ‘Oh yes, Natasha, a young Charismatic man rang. You need to ring him back.’
‘I don’t know any young Charismatic men,’ I said.
‘He said you met at the faith rally. I wrote down his name and number.’ Dad pulled out a scrap of paper from his trouser pocket and unfolded it. ‘His name is Ed.’
I thought of the long-haired, dark-eyed man on the stairs. ‘But I never gave him my number.’
‘Remember when Dad was on stage and announced his phone number and address to everyone?’ said Anita.
‘Why would he ring Natasha?’ Patsy demanded.
‘We met when he carried Mum’s wheelchair up the stairs and again when the preacher was casting out the devil from that woman and I went outside.’
‘What were you talking about?’ Patsy said.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
Anita looked amused. ‘Maybe he wants to ask Natasha out.’
Patsy gasped. ‘That man is not allowed to use the number to ask us out – Dad gave out the number for the healing party.’
Dad laughed. ‘You should all thank me, girls, if you single ones get boyfriends out of this!’
‘Natasha’s not single,’ said Maria.
I steeled myself to tell them. Now was as a good a time as any, in fact it was better – with Dad there, and the family together, the discussion would stay on the surface. ‘I am, actually,’ I said.
Maria’s eyes became sympathetic. ‘Did you break up with Jason?’
‘It was time,’ I said, starting to clear dishes from the table.
Anita gave me an appraising look. ‘No job and no boyfriend. You can come back to Melbourne now.’
Mum lifted her shoulders and smiled at me. ‘Maybe it is God’s will.’
‘Go and call Ed back now, Natasha,’ said Dad.
‘When di
d he ring?’ I asked.
‘It could have been a week ago,’ Dad said.
‘And you didn’t pass on the message?’ I said.
‘It was lost among my papers, but today Jesus led me to see it,’ Dad said. ‘The Lord put it on my heart that this man is the one who is going to clear the back garden for us. You must ring him now!’
‘Dad, Natasha can’t just say hi, Ed, by the way, come and do our gardening,’ said Anita.
‘He can only say no,’ said Dad. ‘But something tells me he won’t. He seemed a nice man on the phone and he said he was inspired by Mum and me on stage. Ring him. See if he can come right now. Ask if he has something to cut long tough grass, like a scythe, a powered scythe.’
‘You mean a brush cutter? I know where to get one,’ said Charles.
‘No, you are needed to set up the freezer. Let this young man get it,’ said Dad. ‘Now go and ring him, Natasha. Do it for the Lord. So I can put out the ramp and Mum can run through the garden and fulfil the miracle! You’ve finished your lunch. Go on, ring now. Have faith!’
*
‘Is Ed there?’ I asked, though I already knew it was him from his hello.
‘Natasha, how are you?’ he said. His voice sounded slow and nonchalant over the phone, uncannily like Jason’s. ‘Easygoing’ was how people who didn’t know Jason well described him, but they had no idea of the energy it took to maintain that drawl over his nervousness.
‘Sorry I didn’t ring back earlier. I only just got your message,’ I said.
‘I thought I might have offended you.’
‘Why?’
‘You know, using the number your father gave out for the healing party to ring you instead.’
‘No, I would have rung you back. My father’s rotten at passing on messages.’
‘There’s a Life in the Spirit seminar on at the Christian Ministry Centre. I thought you might be interested in going, or we could have coffee?’
‘Coffee would be good.’
‘Cool, when?’
‘Actually, were you thinking about coming to the healing party?’
‘Yes, I was, but I didn’t want it to be, like … I’ll explain later.’
‘Would you be interested in helping us prepare the backyard for the party – do some gardening? Some pretty heavy gardening, actually. It’s a jungle. My father suggested it. You can say no. He just wanted me to ask …’
‘Sure. When?’
‘Are you free this afternoon? You’ve probably got something else on —’
‘I can leave in about an hour.’
‘Also …’ Now to ask for the brush cutter.
‘Yep?’
‘Do you need our address?’ I couldn’t. I would get the brush cutter from Charles’s friend instead.
*
It didn’t take me long to pick up the cutter. I carried it to the backyard and laid it on top of the ramp. CTJ, singing ministry members and others were starting to arrive for practice. I made tea and coffee for the visitors and looked out for Ed. When he arrived at the front door, Dad, who was in the lounge room with his drama group, got there first. He was shaking Ed’s hand and patting him on the shoulder when I reached them.
‘Hi,’ I said, giving him a small wave. Urbane and good-looking, he smiled at me, and I suddenly felt nervous.
Dad led Ed into the lounge room, where Maria introduced herself with a big, welcoming smile and a hug. Watching her clenched hands, I thought how open she would appear to be to anyone who didn’t know that she couldn’t tolerate touch unless it was her hugging you or giving you a massage. She could give, but not receive.
‘Say hello to Ed, our wonderful new volunteer,’ said Dad, presenting him to the members of the drama group. Dad directed the actors to do scene two again, starting with Maria’s part. ‘Just watch for a few minutes,’ he said to Ed. ‘I am very proud of this group. They are performing a play I wrote specially for the healing party.’
The lounge furniture had been moved aside to create a stage area by the front window. The actors took their places. On Dad’s instruction, the actors in the background started shaking their heads and wagging their fingers at each other. Maria stepped forward with a cushion under her shirt. She fell on her knees and spoke to her padded tummy. ‘I can feel you; you are real, you are alive! But if I keep you, I will lose my husband … What can I do?’
Now the attractive young actor, Dad’s favourite, came out. She spread out her hands to the audience. ‘They tell me I have cancer, that I will never dance again … What can I do?’
The other actors filled the stage, all singing, ‘Choose life, give it a go, choose life …’
Ed watched with a polite half-smile on his face. Dad clapped his hands and shouted, ‘Marvellous! Carry on!’ to the cast, then opened the glass doors that led into the family room, guiding Ed through. I followed. Patsy on keyboard, a teenage boy on drums and two middle-aged women on guitar sang in rock-opera style. ‘Dare to believe. Dare to be filled. Dare to rise up …’ Patsy’s voice soared above the others. Her face, usually introverted and stiff, became flushed and even pretty when she sang.
When they finished, Dad applauded, and Ed and I joined in. ‘Splendid,’ Dad said, turning to Ed. ‘Like it? Lyrics by me. The song will make its debut at the healing party! Tune by Patsy, my youngest daughter. She has real talent. Patsy, this is Ed.’ Patsy gave a shy smile and shook Ed’s hand. ‘Carry on singing,’ he said, and led us towards the kitchen.
Dad walked slowly, looking with intent at his pictures lining the walls. He stopped in front of a recent favourite: a face of Jesus about three metres high in thick black outline. Inside the giant face of Jesus, myriad small faces were depicted, some prayerful, others evil and lascivious. Blood, represented by a writhing mass of red paint, spouted from Jesus’s head where a crown of thorns pierced it.
‘Is this too much, I asked, when I finished it – is this too … too … phenomenal for the Australian public to take? Tell me honestly, Ed, what do you think?’
‘I don’t know much about art, but this picture and the others – are they all yours? – seem very powerful to me,’ said Ed.
‘Yes, powerful. All my art is made to serve the Lord. Even the ones I do on commission, I will place the cross of Jesus in it somewhere so whether or not the buyer realises, it will witness to them!’
We entered the kitchen. The wives of the Missionaries for Christ community were here to help. Their busy hands chopped, washed up, stirred steaming pots. One husband crouched on the floor with Charles, setting up the wiring for the extra freezers and ovens. Anita walked around, directing operations. Her voice was clear and confident: ‘Chop up twelve more onions, please … put the oven there to make more room … time to turn off the pan …’
‘We shall feed the masses at the healing party,’ Dad called out. ‘Not just food of the spirit, but also food for the stomach!’ He guffawed at his joke and ushered Ed over to Anita. ‘Meet our outstanding chef and master of ceremonies, my firstborn, Anita. She was recently made a manager, you know, at an international property development company!’ He started to introduce Charles, but was called to the other room by a drama group member.
Anita managed to make conversation with Ed while keeping an eye on everything in the kitchen and instructing the volunteers. In just a few minutes, she found out that he worked as an attendant in an old folks home, lived by himself in a rented flat in Collingwood and had finished a psychology degree about five years ago.
With the living areas overrun, Mum was confined to her room. I brought Ed in to say hello. Mum was propped up against pillows, talking and praying with Maureen and Liz from her cell group. She wore her day clothes and dainty slippers, with the bible open on her lap. Maureen and Liz sat on chairs pulled up to the bed. Maureen read from her bible: ‘“Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.”’
‘That’s a
great passage,’ Ed offered. He walked over, manly and well mannered, took each of their hands in turn and introduced himself. He asked after Mum’s health with warmth and concern, and reminded her that they had met at the faith rally.
‘You carried my wheelchair up the stairs, didn’t you? That was so nice of you,’ she said. She lifted her shoulders and smiled in that girly way she had. I felt proud that I had brought him home to the family.
In the backyard next to the Hills Hoist, Dad spoke to Ed like a prophet running out of time. He bounced on his feet, his eyes flashing, and spittle flying from his mobile mouth. He told the story of the dream, pointing to the ramp, the earth and the sky, and exhorted Ed to civilise the garden. Not only would the weeds need to be cleared, he said, the cactus would also need to be cut back to make way for the ramp. ‘Watch out for snakes and use the corridor I created through the grass.’ He grasped Ed’s shoulder. ‘We thank the Lord for sending you to us so we can bear witness to the world of His power and mercy.’ Dad rushed back inside, leaving us in silence.
‘Well, there you have it,’ I said. I searched Ed’s face for a reaction.
Turning away from me, Ed pulled off his leather jacket. He had a faded black T-shirt on underneath, and his long, thin, muscled back showed through. I had sensed a connection between us. Maybe I was wrong.
‘Ready to get started,’ he said, swinging his jacket over the Hills Hoist. Then he turned around and winked. It was one of those casual Aussie winks that involved cocking the face to one side. I didn’t know what it meant, but it felt conspiratorial and I liked it.
For the next three hours, we cleared away wood and debris, cut down the grass and weeds, and raked. I appreciated the way he made sure we took turns pulling on the cord of the brush cutter to get it started, although it was obvious that he had the longer arm and the stronger pull. When it blared into action in his hands, he invited me to go first. Initially I held it almost horizontal, scared of the rapacious blade. After a few minutes I found the right angle to carry and control it without it being too high or too close, and how to adjust the strap so that most of the weight was taken across the shoulders, not in the arms. At the blade’s touch, foliage flew in all directions. I held the cutter until my arms trembled, then Ed took over. He worked fast and fervently.
The Healing Party Page 14