“You poor thing,” she’d gushed for the tenth time that evening smearing Mum with her foundation. Mum was just trying to get her out the door. She left in a wave, whirling round at the last minute to get her coat.
“My coat!” she said, in that explaining laugh people do.
“Don’t want to forget that!” I laughed back, handing it to her. I closed the door in her laughing face and flopped onto the couch, dozing off to the sound of Mum washing cups in the kitchen. Dad had come over for an hour or so, but looked lost. It was the first time he’d been in the family house since he’d left. He’d spent most of the time walking around looking at all the photographs. Eighteenths, Twenty-firsts, graduations. All the stuff he’d missed out on with us and hadn’t gotten around to experiencing yet with Lauren and Jesse. I could see he wanted an out, so I’d offered it.
“Gracie and the kids okay?”
“Fine, fine, good.” There been a look of relief at me breaking the ice. We hadn’t talked about them since Charis had done what she did.
“Gotta be getting home soon I suppose,” he’d said gratefully.
“No problem Dad.”
“Gracie told me to take all the time I needed.”
“I’m sure she did Dad. She would.”
We paused as Mum walked past with an empty sandwich tray. She started clanking around in the kitchen.
“She’s a good woman,” Dad’d said suddenly, his eyes watering. I didn’t know if he’d meant Mum or Gracie, and I didn’t ask.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Take the next left.”
We were somewhere in the suburbs south of Fremantle, further south even than Charis’s. Nowhere I recognized. Old fibros and sixties Italian follies side by side; a corner deli past its use-by date; a couple of kids on a verge taking “speckies” in the gloom; the hint of light-industrial over the roof-tops.
We drove on past small-business factories, grey tilt-panels thrown up in rows like the housing projects of fifty years ago. “Mac’s Panel and Paint”, “Geoff’s Marine Upholstery”, “When only the best will do – call Pete and Sue”. Mac, and Geoff, and Pete and Sue were probably having family or friends around. Right now they were probably sitting at home with a few tinnies and relaxing.
A few cars were following us, which didn’t make much sense for a Sunday evening. I’d learned to drive on Sundays in light-industrial estates. Places where languid three-point-turns and effortless parallel parking lull you into a false sense of security.
“Right here.”
I turned right. The cars behind me turned right too.
“Who comes out here on a Sunday?” I asked. Charis didn’t say anything. She looked anxious.
“Here,” she said suddenly. I braked a bit too quickly. The car behind beeped.
One of the factories had its lights on. There were cars lining the verges of the other empty factories. Lots of people movers. Old Toyota Taragos and Mitsubishi Econovans. There was a blue sign painted where the business name should be: “Living Waters.” I sat there for a minute before it registered. I looked at Charis at the same time she looked at me.
“God comes here on a Sunday,” she said in a measured voice, as if she was holding it all in. A couple in their forties walked past the car. The giggles of two teenage girls followed close behind. Charis waited until the four of them had walked through the door.
“The Hainsworths,” she said softly, “That must be the twins then.” My face must have registered my confusion. “The Freemasons wanted their hall back three years ago,” she continued, speaking like a tour guide at a castle, “They moved here then ‘cos the rent’s cheap.”
“Your old church?” I could feel my heart thumping for no apparent reason.
“I’m scared. Hug me.”
I leaned over to her. She hugged me tight around the neck, holding on like a claw. I’d done my fair share of physical contact parked in light-industrial estates on weekends in my late teens, but this was about fear and comfort.
“Are we going in there?”
Charis didn’t say anything. She stayed there, just hugging for at least two minutes. I knew she wanted me to say nothing. It began to get uncomfortable. Couples and families walked by, the odd single person, either oblivious to us in the dark, or trying to ignore us.
“Why are we going in then if you’re scared?” It seemed to break the spell.
“Because we have to,” she said, letting go and sitting bolt up-right. She opened the door. “Because I have to.”
“Church isn’t really my thing.” It sounded pathetic. Charis closed the door again and swung around glaring at me.
“Am I your thing?” There was anger there now, dangerous anger.
“I’m just saying…”
“Just answer me. Am I your thing?”
“Yeah, but…”
“No buts. If I am your thing, then today church is your thing.”
The way she said it doused my fear and stoked my curiosity.
“Church isn’t my thing anymore either.” She held my hand as we walked to the door. Her anger was gone. Fear felt like it was back. “But I have to do this. Besides it’s been ten years and a lot of people from back then will have moved on.”
I wondered why that mattered. I wondered what we were doing here. Still, the whole episode had an upside. I hadn’t thought about Bevan since we’d driven into the industrial estate, and that was a first. It hit me as we were walking hand in hand to the door of the church. I’m not thinking about Bevan. Oh, now I am thinking about Bevan but at least I had to work at it.
I’ve read somewhere that grief works that way. It dominates you for a while, consuming every walking moment, and heaps of the sleeping ones too. Grief.com. After a while though other things impinge on your grief; pop-up ads, determined to lure your attention. They say you feel guilty about it for a while, so set are you to hold onto the constant memory. But you have to live your life. Soon you’re visiting other websites, although Grief.com is still bookmarked and you can get there pretty quickly if you need to. That’s how it should be. Eventually grief becomes a pop-up, jumping out at you when you least expect it, still there, but not dominating. If that process doesn’t happen, then they reckon you’re pretty screwed up and in need of some serious therapy.
“Welcome to Living Waters, I’m Steve. You guys new?” The guy at the front door handing out stuff was in his early forties and dressed in what I’ve come to understand is the Christian uniform: chino pants and short-sleeved floral shirt. It’s not compulsory, but heaps of them wear it.
“I’ve been before.” Charis said it quietly. She was scanning the room for something. Someone.
“Good to have you here. We’re expecting great things from God tonight.”
I was about to say that I’d given up expecting great things from God, but figured that would only confuse him, or put him off-side. I was already way out of my comfort zone and the only way I figured I’d get back there was to sit down, shut up and hope we made an early exit.
“Over here,” said Charis, still giving directions. We made our way over to a row of plastic seats where an old lady with tied up hair was sitting.
“Someone you know?”
“Granny Barlow. We still get a Christmas card from her every year.”
That was a relief to hear. Whatever went on between Charis’s family and this church hadn’t been enough to stop this Granny Barlow woman sending Christmas cards. Unless of course she did if out of spite: A self-righteous reminder of the past. Perhaps Granny Barlow’s Christmas card was her version of a pop-up, a way to keep the flame eternal. Lest we forget. Or forgive perhaps.
“Granny Barlow?” Charis’s voice was child-small. Quivery.
The old lady turned to us. She had a pale gentle face, spoiled by a milky eye.
“Yes dear?” She was searching.
“It’s me – Charis.”
“Charis?”
“Charis Sullivan.” It felt like she was announcing herself to
God.
I swear even Granny Barlow’s milky eye lit up. She gave a low cry and tried to get out of her seat, her hand searching for the cane next to her. Charis let go of my hand and sat down. The old lady sat there hugging Charis. I stood, looking around. People were glancing over at us midway through their conversations. Most turned back to their own thing, but a few kept looking. My neck felt hot. A few started to come over. Old people mostly: probably the ones who were around ten years ago when the Sullivans had left. I sat down next to Charis. Granny Barlow was doing the tongue-speaking thing, holding Charis and stroking her hair.
“It’s Charis, Charis Sullivan,” said Granny Barlow to those who’d come over, “Jesus’s special one,” she added before lapsing back into quiet tongues. The others murmured and started saying stuff like “Praise Jesus” or “Thank you Holy Spirit”. Charis’s head and shoulders disappeared under a sea of old peoples’ hands like a doomed extra in a zombie flick. The only difference is that she wasn’t struggling. In fact I could see her face melting into it. When they’d found a comfortable spot on her head they stood there murmuring quietly and rocking in unison.
I’d been the centre of attention for the past week or so because of Bevan, so it was a relief to have the spotlight shifted someplace else, but this was starting to freak me out. I was the extra here, not Charis. She was the A-list star with all the good lines. The few times I’d been to church I’d been hanging out for the service to finish. Now, as they were building up a head of steam, I was hanging out for it to start. I looked around. The place was filling up. Most people were ignoring us. Not the kind of ignoring you do when you walk past a crazy smelly guy in the Hay Street mall, but the kind of ignoring that suggested the strange liturgy unfolding in front of them was straight out of the Living Waters procedures manual:
“Step Six – Old people move across room and gather round young woman. They start touching her. Commence prayer in strange languages. Continue to do so until young woman’s guest starts to feel bloody uncomfortable.”
I was hoping like hell that Step Seven didn’t involve the guest. By now there were musicians on a stage getting sorted out; a keyboardist, a few guitarists, and a drummer. They were warming up, doing sections from songs that didn’t sound very churchy. Two girls around my age were standing at microphones, so I figured we were going to sing soon. I wasn’t even going to second guess what that would be like. Some unknown cue alerted the oldies, and they drifted off back to their seats. Whatever it was around Charis, subsided. Now Granny Barlow was alone with her sitting there holding her hand. Alone with her except for me. Charis turned to me and smiled. Her face was flushed and her hair, flattened by all the hands, was springing back.
“Granny Barlow, I’d like you to meet Rob.”
It was like the old lady only just noticed me, which is quite possible as I was sitting on the side of her bad eye.
“Hello dear,” she said, leaning over Charis and offering a fragile hand. I shook it gently. The skin was like tissue paper. Arthritis had white-anted her fingers.
“Good to meet you Granny Barlow,” I said. I figured with the performance we just had Granny Barlow wouldn’t mind strangers being overly familiar with her.
“Granny Barlow’s known me since I was born.”
“And born again of the Spirit.”
“And born again of the Spirit.” Charis laughed, but sounded embarrassed. “Rob and Mum get on really well, Granny Barlow.”
“She’s a woman of God, your mum.”
“She is, isn’t she Rob?”
“Pure like Jesus,” said Granny Barlow, rubbing Charis’s hand, “That’s what I used to say about your Mum. So many signs and wonders. So many!” The old lady looked like she was going to lapse into a senior moment, but she quickened again. “And do you love Jesus Rob?”
“Rob’s still figuring some of that stuff out,” said Charis smiling at me and raising an eyebrow. There was something deliberate about us being here, more than a whim of Charis’s. The music started. Salvation was at hand! Granny Barlow turned to the front, grabbing her cane and struggling to her feet. There didn’t seem to be any particular person telling us what to do, but as if on cue everyone got up and the two girls on the stage started singing. Well, they started something, whether it was singing or not I couldn’t tell. I soon realized that it was tongues too. Everything here was tongues. Soon everyone was sing-chanting to some common tune they all seemed to know. It rose and fell with the shimmer of the cymbals. Most people had their hands raised. Charis had one raised, but the other holding mine. I half-expected to feel something like a current running through me, but no.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
What can I say about what happened next? Try to imagine a church service where the whole congregation is on speed. I stole a few glances. Older people, who should have been in a Church of England parish in Devon getting tea and scones ready for some ruddy-faced vicar, swayed and rocked in ecstatic frenzy. Teenagers, who should have been sullen and sitting in the back row chatting, had hands out-stretched to the ceiling, twitching and tensing like they’d put their finger in a power-socket. Even the younger parents were into it. One woman was pushing a pram back and forwards to the flow; the Spirit rocking her child to sleep. Not that it was a free-for-all. When the music ebbed so did the congregation, and eventually, after half an hour or so, a tall man in his forties, dressed in the chino/floral shirt camouflage gear walked up the steps and took the microphone. That was the cue for the Spirit to subside, and with him, the congregation. I’d been standing there for the full time, but as others began to drop to their seats one by one, I sat down too.
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon us to preach good news to the poor, to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.”
“Amen,” said Granny Barlow loudly.
“Hallelujah,” came another voice from somewhere behind us.
“And why has God called us to do this?” he went on. I half-expected a few answers, but it actually was rhetorical this time. “He’s called us to do this because what hope is there in this world but for Jesus. But do people want Jesus?” Whether this one was rhetorical or not, a few “no’s” still rang out, with an “I do!” from towards the back.
“When Jesus read those words from the prophet Isaiah to the congregation of his day, what did they do to him? They ran him out of town. But he went out in the power of the Spirit, transforming, healing, and casting out demons.”
At this the keyboardist started up again, and the congregation lapsed into their ecstasies for a minute or so, dying down only when the cymbals shimmered again. I stole a glance at Charis. She had her eyes closed, swaying slightly. The wave dissipated, everyone dropping to their seats again. Was I supposed to be feeling something? I wasn’t sure? Was there anyone else here like me, maybe even faking it to keep up appearances?
They started to do some of the stuff you’re supposed to do in church; taking up an offering, praying, giving out notices. A young man came up to the front with a slip of paper. A prophetic word perhaps?
“The owner of a white Mitsubishi Magna, registration 9TR 129, you’ve left your lights on.”
There was the usual guffawing and an older woman got up and went out looking flustered and embarrassed. If this was a word from God, he’d stooped to reveal it to us; an effortless blending of the sacred and the profane.
The service picked up where it had left off. We all got to our feet. Most of us. Charis stayed seated. I’d gotten up before noticing this, but it felt too awkward and exposed to sit down again. Besides it seemed like something was going on within her. Or between her and something, perhaps. I didn’t want to disturb her.
Eventually the songs became quieter.
“We’re coming into a time of worship now,” said one of the girls leading the singing, “Let’s invite the Holy Spirit to come into our presence and prepare our hearts for the Word of God fr
om Pastor Glenn.”
There were a few more minutes of gradually softening murmurs, like the remnants of a strong wind, before the tall man who’d read the Bible to us earlier came up on the stage. That was the signal for the musicians and singers to leave the stage and find a seat. Pastor Glenn was standing there by himself, a spotlight directed at the Perspex podium. At least he isn’t wearing a white suit like the guy with the funny haircut on TV, I remember thinking. Charis was holding my hand. I couldn’t turn and look at her. I was the outsider here, the detached narrator of her experience, not a participant.
Pastor Glenn adjusted his lapel mike and began.
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
The lightning bolt that went up my abdomen and out my throat made my heart pound. I felt like I did whenever we’d run the hundred at school. The shock forced my head to jerk around and look at Charis. She had turned to look at me, in what I imagined was the same way I was looking at her.
“Lord, if you had been here,” Pastor Glenn repeated slowly and with building emphasis, “My brother would not have died.” He paused, turning deliberately to all parts of the room.
“It is the first thing Martha says to Jesus when he comes to visit the grave of her dead brother. It is the first thing her sister Mary says to Jesus when she sees him too. Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
Another pause. More electric out of my throat.
“And why did Mary and Martha, the grieving sisters of Jesus’ friend Lazarus, say this to him?”
“Yes, why?” called a voice from the back, more out of rhetorical engagement than curiosity.
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