The Healing Party

by Micheline Lee

  In the bedroom, Patsy was pulling a dress over Mum’s head. ‘Soon you’ll be doing this yourself,’ she said. ‘You won’t need me!’

  ‘Praise the Lord,’ mumbled Mum.

  I helped her lean to one side while Patsy pulled the dress under her bottom and arranged it around her legs. It was the ankle-length blue silk cheongsam that Dad always said made her look like the glamorous Hong Kong star Nancy Kwan. Dad had insisted that the family wear Chinese garb for the healing party. ‘Our guests will think it very cute and Asian,’ he had said.

  Patsy struggled with the zip of the dress. Mum’s eyes slid away from the image of herself in the mirror. The dress had always cinched, slinked and slid in all the right places, but now it strained over her bloated belly and sagged everywhere else. Patsy draped a shawl over Mum and knotted it at the front.

  ‘It’s going to be difficult using the toilet with that long dress,’ I said.

  ‘That’s all right. Mum’s going to be healed,’ Patsy said, lifting her voice at ‘healed’ and smiling. Patsy had her ascetic look on, which was usually reserved for singing. Mum nodded and forced a smile. I started to arrange her shawl as an excuse to stroke her shoulders.

  She pulled away. ‘You haven’t dressed yet?’ Mum said to me. ‘Go on. Wear something nice. And wake up Dad now.’

  Dad was already showered and dressed in a bright Confucian-style shirt. He was gleaming with freshness and the Brylcreem in his hair. Geoff had arrived and was in the studio with him. They were in deep conversation about some further messages God had given Geoff about the healing party. Geoff craned his thick neck forward, droning on. Dad nodded at everything he said. ‘I rang Father Lachlan,’ Geoff was saying. ‘He said he’s gonna be late tonight. Of all the bloody nights. He’s doubting. Satan is on the prowl. We’d better pray.’

  ‘While we pray, Natasha will go and get us an early dinner,’ said Dad. ‘I always eat before a party so I can focus on being the host. Natasha, bring up a plate of food for Geoff, with the lot. And one for me too.’

  After they had eaten, there was the blessing. Dad, Geoff and Mum proceeded through the house. Maria followed, carrying a bowl of holy water and sprinkling it to her left and right. Ed and the volunteers outside switched on the fairy lights and laid down canvas sheets for guests to sit on. In the kitchen, Anita, Charles and the helpful ladies administered the final touches. Patsy and her group started to sing the beautiful ‘Come to the Water’ song: ‘I know you are thirsty/ You won’t be denied …’ The drama group, who had finished rehearsing, were the first to join in, and then came the busy people in the kitchen. Soon everyone inside and outside the house was singing. Over the weeks, I had come to know some of the Charismatics who helped us prepare for the party. We had never connected before; it had always seemed to me that they didn’t really see who you were or who they themselves were, and that they only did things because they thought God told them to, or to resist the devil. But now I felt gratitude, warmth and the bond of shared effort.

  What a beautiful ending to our weeks of toil and preparation, I thought as I sang. From the back window, I saw Mum, Dad, Geoff and Maria continuing the tour, making their way to the ramp. Dad pointed out to Geoff his handiwork in constructing the ramp. Maria positioned Mum at the base of the ramp and put the brakes on. She then stepped around Mum and ascended the ramp. At the top, she held the bowl of holy water high, turned it over and let the last drops fall. Mum sat there facing the ramp, as though she were about to roll up it. Suddenly the reality of the party hit me. Tonight, Mum was supposed to rise up out of that chair and walk up that ramp. Is that what we all believed? Her chair would be pushed back, she would stand tall, her dress rippling, her body erect, her head and shoulders held high, and she would walk, placing one foot after the other, up that ramp. Panic swept through me.

  Then I closed my eyes and sang with the others. I screwed my eyes shut tighter and shouted the words of the song. All will turn out well, I told myself. There was nothing else I needed to know. A warm, vague feeling returned. That’s all hope was.

  *

  Right on six o’clock, the first guests arrived – neighbours who warned us they could only stay for a few minutes, because they had a prior engagement. Next through the door were the Charismatic families, with their van-loads of children. Then Maria came back with three men and one woman she had picked up from a Catholic hostel for the homeless. At first the guests came in dribs and drabs and we had time to offer them a drink and somewhere to sit, but soon the door was left open as more and more people spilled through.

  Formally dressed churchgoers, young dating couples, Chinese and Italian Catholics, a family of shy, recently arrived Burmese refugees, brassy Pentecostals, the euphoric recently born-agains, hippies, goths, conservatives, the destitute, the glamorous or crazy-looking – all came through our door. Mum was seated in a corner of the lounge room next to an armchair. People waited to greet her, each sitting on the armchair in turn. She never stopped smiling and nodding, though her eyes often wandered.

  Every time I came back out of the kitchen with another tray of drinks, the house looked fuller and the noise was a notch louder. Of their own accord, people were flowing deeper into the house, the kitchen and the backyard, finding a space and helping themselves to food and drink from the tables set up here and there. The spring rolls, wontons and curry puffs were going fast. It was dark outside. When had that happened? The air was alive with chatter, laughter, enthusiastic greetings, high spirits and hilarity. ‘No alcohol needed,’ they boasted – ‘we have the holy spirit!’

  The tempo picked up again – Lara Morris and her boyfriend, both recovered heroin addicts, walked in the door with their followers. A further frisson ran through the crowd when the imposing Terry Morris and the rest of his family arrived, and, fifteen minutes later, Lou Mercier and his family. The two celebrity families of the Charismatic movement, in our house at the same time! It was a success: the leaders were here, and the young ex-heroin addicts too. People turned their heads, called out, greeted them and parted the way.

  Anita and Charles barely stepped out of the kitchen. Maria whirled around the house, seeming to know and love everyone. Patsy and her group played their guitars and sang their hearts out, but you could scarcely hear them above the throng. Dad joined the other Charismatic leaders, working the room like a politician – kissing the ladies, clapping the men on their backs, laughing uproariously. The people kept on coming. Dad led Terry Morris and Lou Mercier up to his studio. At the top of the staircase, the three of them turned around, and gazed down at the party. With a satisfied smile. Dad threw out his hand and grandly swept it across the scene spread out below him.

  For a while I sat with Mum in her corner, making sure she had something to eat and drink. She refused to leave her spot while people were waiting to talk to her. I tried to answer for Mum so that she would have a chance to chew or sip. ‘How are you, Irene,’ they said, kissing her cheek, holding her hand or squeezing her shoulders. ‘How lovely you look, what an inspiration to all of us, what a wonderful party, the Lord will bless you and your family, He will heal you tonight – yes, tonight!’ Mum nodded with a haggard smile. ‘Praise the Lord,’ she said, over and over again.

  Patsy and her music ministry moved outside, where it was less noisy and crowded and they could be heard. Ten or so single girls danced, waving their hands in the air. Couples held each other tight and swayed. Lara sat on the ramp at the back fence and held court before a large group including Ed and Maria. In the middle of the backyard, on the canvas sheets, about twenty young men and women stood in a circle, holding hands. Geoff Atkins, standing in the middle of the circle, the only old man among the young, stretched his hand heavenwards. ‘Jesus!’ he shouted, and babbled in tongues. He placed his hand on a woman’s head. She fell backwards. He touched the next person – he fell. One by one, Geoff felled them where they stood, so that in the end their bodies radiated from the inner circle like petals on a flower.

  Later
, while I was trapped in the lounge room talking to Kevin, an awkward middle-aged man who turned up at every prayer meeting and whom most people avoided, I noticed Dad on the other side of the room beckon to Ed and pull him aside. From the look on Dad’s face and his gesticulations, he had something urgent to say. At the end of his conversation with Dad, Ed signalled to me that he was going out. I guessed he was checking on the parking.

  When Ed had been gone for almost an hour, I went out to investigate. Our guests’ cars clogged the end of the court and spilled out onto the oval. I walked down the street and around the oval, but could not see Ed. The darkness and silence of the field drew me in deeper. It was colder the further I got from the warmth around our house. From the middle of the oval, the party’s noise was deadened to an even thrum. I gazed back at the house, which glowed and vibrated with light and verve, and looked like a magical living thing.

  Car lights turned into the court and stopped at the house. I ran back. It was Ed’s car. He double-parked and opened the door. ‘Anyone for chicken?’ he said, grinning. The spicy aroma hit me before I saw the red and white stripes. Buckets of KFC filled the car. His happy laughter grated on me.

  ‘Did my father tell you to do this?’

  ‘He asked me to,’ said Ed. His face tightened. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘We’ve slaved over the cooking for weeks, and then he sends you out to get a carload of chicken! Stay away from Anita. I’ll go and talk to her before you start bringing it in.’

  I ran inside and called Anita out of the kitchen. ‘That’s it!’ she cried. ‘No more! Unbelievable! Dad didn’t even have the decency to tell me!’ Her nostrils flared. She paced up and down, threw off her apron and gloves. ‘We might as well start chucking out the rest of the food we cooked, because it won’t get eaten now.’

  The guests, oblivious to what was happening in the kitchen, went for the KFC buckets as soon as they were laid out on the tables. Even the leaders dipped their hands into the buckets and could not wait to sink their teeth into the oily, battered pieces of chicken.

  Mum still sat in her corner next to the sofa. Her face was grey, her eyes bloodshot. By now her smile was so strained that it looked like a grimace. I tried to pull her away to rest, but she asked me to get her another codeine. ‘Must trust in Jesus,’ she said.

  Father Lachlan arrived. The crowd spontaneously broke into applause. He was loved for his rich, laughing voice, his melodious tongues and shining face. With a natural, understated charisma, he bent down gently and smiled and greeted people. Dad and Geoff immediately led him up the stairs to the studio.

  We gave up our plan of having the performances in the living area, as the 250 or more guests could not squeeze in there. Instead, the volunteers shepherded them outside. People crammed into the yard and driveway. ‘Sit down on the ground,’ they were told. The guests folded to the ground in a lovely synchronous moment. A pool of faces glowed in the dark.

  Maria and the drama group assembled against the back fence in front of the ramp. It was the perfect spot. The remaining cacti made for a monolithic backdrop, and the ramp, lined with fairy lights, looked like a runway to the night sky.

  Dad hopped up onto the ramp and welcomed the people. He had his stage face on – glittering, darting eyes, too-big mouth and too-loud laugh. ‘You were chosen to be here tonight, from the lowliest of you, like myself’ – he bowed and waited for the laughter to stop – ‘to our esteemed leaders’ – he pointed to Lara and the leaders, whom he had insisted should sit at the front. Then he paused dramatically. ‘The Lord has put it on my heart that I must share with you this song, “I Believe”, a song of profound wisdom and faith.’ Each verse began with the words ‘I believe’. The first declarations were of belief in nature and the life force. As the notes rose and the tempo quickened, the declarations turned to belief in goodness and a God who will show the way even in the darkest night. Each profession of belief became bolder than the next, until the climax, when a state of belief was all that mattered. The song finished with just the two words ‘I believe!’ Though I had heard Dad sing the song at least twenty times, I was still astounded by the emotion he poured into it. Starting in a throaty whisper, he built up the volume with each verse. His mouth opened wider, his head started to vibrate … then he was in the throes of passion, belting out the lyrics, throwing up his arms. With the final ‘I believe’, his voice broke and he was left gasping.

  An actress from CTJ came forward to hug him. When he had composed himself, he introduced the drama group with exuberant and emotional praise. They took their places. In Act 1, the characters stumbled in confusion, in Act 2 they howled with pain, and in the final act they danced and sang with joy. Their overacting was strangely apt and moving in the night air.

  Dad called Geoff, Father Lachlan and Mum to the stage. How Mum kept the smile on her face, I could not say. Though wrapped in a coat and a blanket, she was pale and cold. She could not move, wriggle and rouse up warmth like the rest of us. Not a shimmer of her blue cheongsam could be seen under the woollen layers. No trace remained, except for her over-bright smile, of the glamorous hostess who had stood next to Dad at earlier parties. She should not have been out in this cold night, below an uncaring sky, next to thoughtless men, in front of a waiting audience. I yearned to get up from where I sat, just three metres from her, take off the wheelchair brakes and whizz her away from there, into bed, and help her get warm.

  ‘This night was prophesied,’ Dad shouted. ‘Two months ago, Father Lachlan, Geoff and I gathered in His name to pray for a young lady with child – that she would choose life and not abortion. The young lady did not show up. For a reason. The Lord Jesus wanted to send us a message. Suddenly Geoff prophesied: it is Irene who must choose life. Everyone is given the choice of life over death. Not just to choose life for a baby, but to choose your own life. Irene has chosen life. Irene will be healed, so that we can proclaim this message.’

  And the guests cried out, ‘Alleluia, praise the Lord!’

  ‘Now if that wasn’t enough, the bountiful Lord sent Irene a dream to confirm the miracle. In the dream, a light shone upon her, causing her to rise up and walk, run out into this very backyard and jump over this fence. To meet Jesus halfway, I made this ramp, to see Irene across! We call it the ramp to salvation. Not bad carpentry, eh!’

  ‘Alleluia,’ they said, and laughed and clapped.

  ‘Tonight the might of Jesus will be on show. Irene will get up and walk, healed of cancer!’

  The crowd broke into tongues. Geoff jumped up and down on the spot, shouting out his tongues. Father Lachlan looked down and frowned. It was the first time I had seen him so serious.

  Dad called on him to lead the healing prayer. Father Lachlan walked over to Mum, turning his back to the audience to face her. Quietly, he asked if she was fine and wanted to be prayed for out here. I couldn’t hear Mum’s answer. Dad took hold of Father Lachlan’s arm and guided him to stand behind Mum. He and Geoff stood on either side of the priest so that the three of them faced the audience. Father Lachlan laid one hand upon Mum’s head and raised the other heavenwards.

  ‘God, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit,’ the priest said, his voice trembling. ‘Look upon your child, Irene. You are the alpha and the omega. You are the mover of mountains. Your ways are higher than our ways. You can bring good out of any situation. All diseases come at your call, and go at your bidding. Heal Irene, if it be Thy will.’

  Geoff, standing next to Father Lachlan, stared out at the audience and shook his head vehemently. ‘Give us a minute,’ he said, drawing Father Lachlan and Dad to one side. Terry Morris joined them, and the four men talked in a huddle. Tense mutterings rose from the audience. Dad got Patsy to start up a song. Then Father Lachlan shook hands with the other men, bid Mum farewell and was seen out by Dad.

  ‘Unfortunately Father Lachlan had to leave us for another commitment,’ Dad announced when the singing stopped.

  Geoff stretched out his hands towards the guests. ‘Blood
of Jesus, cover and protect your people. Satan get behind us. We choose life! Do you choose life?’

  ‘Yes! Amen!’ they shouted back.

  ‘Righty-o, let’s get down to business,’ said Geoff. He stood in front of Irene. ‘Irene, do you choose life?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, in as loud a voice as she could muster.

  ‘Diseases don’t come from God, and don’t let anybody tell you that. Diseases come from the devil. The Lord is perfect,’ said Geoff. He led the crowd into tongues, told them to go louder and higher. Dad, Geoff and the leaders encircled Mum and laid their hands upon her head and shoulders. I could no longer see her.

  Suddenly Geoff pushed the others aside and stood in front of Mum. He took her hands and tried to pull her up. Mum’s eyes darted from side to side in alarm. Looking uncertain, Dad crossed his arms but didn’t intervene. ‘Stand up and walk!’ Geoff shouted. ‘In the name of Jesus, stand up and walk!’ He yanked at her again.

  Anita got to Mum before I did. ‘Irene needs to go inside now,’ she said, in a loud, clear voice to the audience. ‘A small group of you can go inside to pray with her, and the rest of you keep on praying outside.’ Before Anita could finish speaking, I grabbed the wheelchair handles and pushed Mum towards the house.

  Mum wanted to go to the toilet. I pulled off the coat and blanket. Her skin was freezing cold. She was so stiff that I couldn’t lift her properly and had to set her back down on the wheelchair. Maria knocked on the door. I let her in and we lifted Mum together. Afterwards we quickly got her into the bedroom. I rubbed her numb feet and Maria brought her a hot cup of tea. Mum asked us to redo her make-up. We did not talk. It was as though we were between acts and getting ready to go back on.