Hear Me

by Julia North

  I take Dad’s hand. ‘I don’t like this.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Mom says and glares at Dad.

  The gin memory’s so strong in my mind that I can smell it. The tears prick behind my eyes. I try and blink them away before Mom sees them. I know the pastor is talking about me. I know he is.

  ‘Nkosi is real,’ he shouts. ‘He’s the same yesterday, today and forever. He’s a Nkosi of salvation and a Nkosi of healing. Come to him for rest … come drink from the living water. Come and be healed. Have the courage to give your life to Jesus. Ask him into your heart … come now.’

  His voice fills the tent and rings in my ears. I want to run away but know I can’t. The band plays as the people sing, ‘Leave it there, Leave it there. Take your burden to the Lord and leave it there.’ Some people press out from the rows and into the aisle so that it looks like a long snake of squirming bodies. They push forward with small steps. Some of them are on crutches, and some are wearing dark glasses with people helping them walk forward. Some of them are crying.

  A young Indian girl steps onto the stage. Her hair falls in one long plait down her back. She looks about twelve and is wearing a dress covered with bright pink roses. The pastor puts his hands on her head. The tent is very quiet. I hold my breath.

  Then he shouts, ‘In the name of Jesus loose this child from the spirit of deafness. Go! Go now. In the name of Jesus, I command you.’

  The girl shakes, her legs shivering so that the pink roses on her dress dance around her. The pastor clicks his fingers close to both her ears.

  ‘Can you hear this?’ he says, bending towards her and staring straight into her brown eyes. ‘Can you hear?’

  He clicks his fingers again. Her eyes grow wide and her face lights up like our caravan gas lantern. She jumps up and down shouting, ‘Yes, I can hear, I can hear … Jesus has healed my ears! I can hear.’

  The tent grows noisy and everyone starts to shout, ‘Praise you, Jesus, praise you.’ My tummy does a tumble. An old African man, dressed in brown trousers full of holes and a dirty grey jersey, is next on the stage. He’s bent over and thin and walks with a stick. His hair is grey, like peppercorns. The pastor lays his hands on his head and the old man lifts his shaking hands high into the air. The pastor calls out to Jesus to heal him from his pain and the old man’s body shakes like it’s gone mad and he falls backwards. Two men catch him and help him onto the floor. Another man comes and covers him with a red blanket as he lies there, shivering like a jelly.

  I feel like the tent is falling in on me. Something strange is happening. This isn’t a pretend church, it’s real. Maybe God isn’t just a story; maybe this pastor is right and Jesus is real? He must be. I’ve just seen him heal these people. I can feel his power all around me. He is alive. Why haven’t we met him at our Methodist church?

  Pins and needles cover my whole body as the pastor shouts, ‘God is speaking to you … listen.’ Tears stream from his eyes. ‘Jesus is calling you. Don’t leave it too late. Softly and tenderly he is saying, “Come my child. Come let me help you. Let me cleanse you from your sin…” Please, don’t ignore his call.’

  The pastor’s words march through my mind. My heart’s beating so hard that I think it’s going to explode with bullet holes like Hector Peterson’s body. My breath comes out in short pants and I clench my fists so tight that my knuckles turn white. I can’t run away. God will know. He sees everything.

  ‘I’m going up,’ says Elsa.

  She pushes past Nat and joins the snake of people.

  ‘Me too,’ says Nat. ‘You coming, Liss?’

  I nod. I also want to be saved and meet with Jesus. I need him to forgive me for my sins. I take Nat’s hand and jiggle into the queue behind her and Elsa. I look back at Mom and Dad. They’re still sitting in their seats, but Dad gives me a small smile.

  My hand grows sweaty and I slip it out of Nat’s grip and wipe it on my white skirt, leaving a brown stain like the sin the pastor talked about. The queue shuffles forward. The people who had fallen on the stage are being helped off, and we’re halfway there. I swallow and wish that I’d stayed in my seat, but then I feel Nat squeeze my shoulder which helps. The pastor is commanding that cancer leave the liver of a woman in a bright pink sari. She screams and then falls backwards. The air grows hot around me and my head becomes dizzy. What will God do to me when I get there?

  ‘Nat, I think I need to go back and sit down.’

  ‘It’s okay, we’re nearly there. Just take a deep, slow breath.’

  I suck in some of the hot air and close my eyes. We move forward some more and before I can run away, it’s my turn.

  ‘Praise God,’ says the pastor as I go up the steps. He takes my hand and guides me to the middle of the stage. ‘Praise God that you have answered his call.’ He puts his hands on the middle of my head. I hold my breath and keep my eyes fixed onto the floor of the wooden stage. His hands press down onto me as if he is trying to push me into the stage. The air around me grows hot. The pins and needles grow stronger. They move up from my feet to my head so that my whole body is tingling and my mind is going round and round. My breath comes out short and fast as my heart whooshes in my ears.

  ‘Lord Jesus, come into this young life. Fill her with your cleansing power. Guide her life and make her whole.’

  I close my eyes tight and cry out silently to Jesus. ‘I’m sorry for getting drunk. I’m sorry for being so horrible to Mommy and my sisters. I’m sorry for all the things I’ve done wrong. Please take my sins away. Please save me from hell.’

  My ears buzz and then my whole body grows hot and for a minute I feel like I’m back in the Karoo. I can feel God’s power. It comes over me like the strong waves in the sea at North Beach. My head is going around and I feel like I’m drunk even though I haven’t stolen any gin today. My legs start to wobble. I try and make them stiff but I can’t. They’re wobbling so much now, I think I’ll fall. I lift up hands. They shake like the other peoples’ have.

  As I shout the words in my head I feel like God has suddenly put a big warm blanket around me and is hugging me tight. My legs stop wobbling and the horrible drunk feeling goes. I feel so happy I want to cry. I know that Jesus has come into my soul and is soaring through me like an eagle. His blood is washing me clean. I bend my head. ‘Thank you, Jesus,’ I whisper as the tears trickle down my cheeks. The blanket grows warmer and sobs ripple through my body like little waves. Then it is over. The pastor takes his hands from my jelly head. I feel so different inside, like I’ve been thrown into a giant washing-machine and come out clean. Jesus is real. He’s saved my soul and I won’t be going to hell any more.

  Chapter 22

  I blink out of the memory and look out at the darkening ward. I guess I can be grateful that at least I’m still alive. Although I don’t know if this living hell’s much of a life. Maybe I’d be better off dead and, as long as heaven’s real, I should head for it. My nose wrinkles. The air is rank with a mix of putrid infection and antiseptic. At least it didn’t stink this badly when Karlos was here. I hope the Shaloma meeting helps. I’m glad he’s gone there. He’ll have to keep strong and not take that first drink. A night light shines dimly near the nurse’s station at the end of the ward. The wall clock’s illuminated at ten past nine. It’s later than I thought. The stench assaults my nose again and my stomach contracts. I try to focus on the staccato rhythm of the patient next to me as she snores. I have to hang on to the hope of getting better. I have to. I turn my head towards the snoring woman. It must be her bandages that smell. They look yellow and rotten and are stained with brown blood. I shudder out a long sigh. A patient further down the ward lets out a long moan. How the hell can I sleep in this stink and suffering? I think back to that revival tent. We really did see miracles happen that night and many times afterwards. I close my eyes as the pain of my paralysed reality stabs me deep in the belly. Maybe God will grant me one now … maybe he will. I squeeze my eyes tight. ‘Please God, help me … please.’


  But no miracle comes. God’s obviously not listening, or maybe it’s that I don’t deserve one. I guess the only thing I can be thankful for is that hopefully I’ll be going to Hillcrest Hospital – even if it’s only for bloody geriatrics. Surely anywhere has to be better than this hell hole. Maybe God will help me there? Perhaps I’m going to be one of those slow-burn miracles you sometimes hear about.

  The stink of the ward grows worse. A nurse two beds away is unwrapping a foul bandage from an old man’s chest. She throws the dirty dressing on the floor. He groans and writhes on the blood-stained bed. The stench of rotting flesh grows worse. Nausea floods through me. Fuck, this is the reality of the third world. I think back to our teenage years when Elsa campaigned against forced removals to Lime Hill and we collected blankets for the poor Africans who’d been taken from their tribal land and stuck in a camp on a desolate hill. We were so proud of ourselves for helping. We thought we knew what racial suffering was all about, but in reality our liberal perspective was so narrow we knew nothing. How can the black hospitals be so different from the white ones? How could we have allowed people to be treated so differently? I think back to when I’d been in Parklands Hospital as an eight-year-old having my appendix out. It was like staying in a hotel with the menu brought round every day so that I could choose my meals. The nurses were lovely and constantly pandered to me. My bed-linen was changed daily with everything sterile, fresh and clean. I could even buy sweets from the trolley whenever I wanted and spent most of the time watching films. It was more like a holiday than a hospital stay. I look around at the humped, groaning bodies piled around the ward because there aren’t even enough beds for them all, let alone nurses, clean bed-linen and decent food. It’s hard to believe that others were going through this while I was in Parklands – and twenty years later it’s still so bad. I let out a long sigh. It’s going to be a long, hard road to achieve true equality in this new South Africa. I turn as footsteps approach and hope it’s Karlos.

  ‘Good evening, Melissa. How are you doing?’

  Why’s Dr Rajeet so late doing the rounds? He smiles down at me, but I can only glare back. How the hell does he think I’m doing? I can’t talk, can’t breathe, I’m hooked up like some kind of freak to a tube, about to be sent off to some geriatric hospital for possibly the rest of my days. ‘Oh fucking marvellous, thanks,’ I want to scream. I close my eyes to shut him out. I need God to heal me quickly, otherwise this well of bitterness and self-pity is going to suffocate me.

  ‘I have good news for you. I’ve had a look through your progress and I think you’re stable enough to go to Hillcrest Hospital tomorrow.’ He beams down at me. ‘So, this is your last night here. Karlos asked me to phone him if you were going tomorrow. I’ve done so and asked him to tell your sisters we’ll take you there around nine o’clock in the morning. Hopefully that tracheotomy can be closed in a week or so and then you should be able to speak. I’ve already sent your records to Hillcrest. You’ll have the best of care there. I’m sorry you’ve had to be down here at all.’

  Relief floods through me at the news. Thank God it’s only one night in this hell ward, but as I open my eyes I see Dr Rajeet pull up his nose in disgust as he scans the ward. What’s he sorry about? Does my white skin make me that different? Actually, now I really think about it, the rest of them have to stay here so why shouldn’t I see a bit of the real world? Dad’s face drifts back into my mind. I think in a strange way he’d be proud I came here instead of Parklands. You can’t profess equality for all and then want the best for yourself while the majority suffer. Dark despair rises up again and covers my soul, but I try and push it away. I felt God when I was young and I need to try and feel him again. There has to be a plan and purpose in all this somewhere. There has to be.

  ‘I’m going to give you a sedative. It’ll help you sleep and when you open your eyes, it’ll be morning and time to go.’ He gives me a smile. ‘You should live to a ripe old age.’ Dr Rajeet wraps a band around my arm and there’s the sharp prick of the needle while I feel mocking laughter at the thought of ripening to old age like some blackened banana. Dr Rajeet pats my arm. ‘Sleep well.’

  Chapter 23

  My head spins as a bright flash of white light flares up. I know this is no sedated sleep. That flash was the moment of my death. It was my crossing over. I’m certain of it. What the hell happened to my ripe old age prediction?

  I’m strangely calm, relieved even at the fact that I’m still conscious and that the spiritual life I’d always believed in is true. I look around expecting to see heaven in all its glory or at the very least see the welcoming light of an angel greet me. Instead I’m shrouded in mist and completely alone in the pulsating vastness of space. I have no answers for what’s just happened, only memories which flick through my mind like an old cine film. Oh God. How fast it’s all been. The only thing I can be grateful for is that at least I’m standing again and breathing on my own. Looks like I finally got my miracle.

  Someone whispers my name: ‘Lissa … Lissa …‘ the voice sighs and is joined by others until it grows into a chorus all calling out my name. A door of light opens to reveal my broken family huddled in mourning outside the cold stone entrance of St Martin’s Church.

  People sometimes imagine with a macabre sense of glee what it’s like to be shown your funeral and let the pain of others feed their ego. The process bears nothing positive. Elsa, Nat and Mom stand pale and hunched like broken puppets next to a tearful Aunty Yvonne and Eunice. My earthly life is over. I’m an ex-human now, just like Monty Python’s cold, stuffed parrot. Sadness covers me as this truth hits home. My pain deepens as a distraught Karlos joins Nat and Elsa. His hair is unbrushed and he looks so uncomfortable in his black suit and tie. He’s even wearing black patent shoes which I know he’ll hate. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are red-rimmed. My spirit aches. Life is so unfair.

  The hearse draws up. Six dovetailed men from the funeral parlour pace my mahogany coffin with its sprawl of red roses into the church. I glare at them. Why didn’t Karlos, Greg and Dave help with the carrying? Why do I have these anonymous, sombre penguins? The moment of watching my own funeral, knowing that in that polished box lies my own earthly body, is so surreal that I want to laugh out loud. Is this whole thing just an LSD hallucination; a mirage like the ribbons of water I thought I saw on that long Karoo road?

  But as I look at my broken family I can’t deny the reality. Mom’s eyes are shrouded by dark glasses. She’s hunched and sheathed in black, her face pale against the high-necked black lace blouse and her knuckles cemented white around her crumpled white linen handkerchief. Eunice is a picture of pain in her green and white uniform of the Zionist church with her wide black armband proclaiming the brutal fact of my passing. Guilt eats into me at the pain I’ve caused and grows as I watch Nat break down in tears. She turns to Aunty Yvonne and clutches her with clawed fingers as the sobs wrack through her body. Aunty Yvonne envelops her in strong, fat arms and pats her loudly as if she’s winding a baby.

  ‘I can’t … believe … she’s … gone.’ Nat’s words spill out staccato-like between her sobs.

  ‘Agh, Natalie, I can’t either. Neither can your poor Mom. I just wish I could have helped. I just wish I had been here for you all.’

  Nat pulls back and looks up at Aunty Yvonne with a tear-stained face. ‘It was so unexpected … we were taking her out to Hillcrest the next day … Dr Rajeet said she’d made good progress … I just don’t understand it … I really don’t.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ says Elsa, taking Nat’s hand. ‘Come, let’s get Mom inside.’

  Greg stubs out his cigarette and signals for Dave to follow. They stand behind Elsa as she puts her arm around Mom and guides her in to the church. Eunice takes Mom’s free hand and gives it a squeeze. Dave ushers Nat and Yvonne inside, his face thin and wan. He’s a good guy and I’m glad Nat’s got him at home with her. Karlos watches them as they pass through the wide doorway but he remains standing alone a
t the end of the paved church path. Why hasn’t my family included him? He shouldn’t be left all on his own. Poor Karlos, he must be so hurt by it all. Can’t they see it’ll help them all if they pull together rather than push him away? He was part of me, no matter how brief that time.

  Karlos looks at his watch and does up the button of his suit jacket before walking with slow steps and a downcast head into church. More people arrive: I see Thabo dressed in black with a black armband on his upper arm like Eunice. A sob of gratitude sighs out from me. I’m so touched he sees me as family. Another car arrives. I recognise Dr Pillay, Joshua, Amos and Mia from the lab. It feels like a lifetime ago that I worked there, even though it’s only a matter of months since I resigned. They walk into the church with serious faces. So, they’ve thought of me, but Mike obviously hasn’t. My spirit flinches. Bastard, after all the pain he caused me, he can’t even have the decency to come to my funeral. He obviously didn’t care for me at all.

  A white Mercedes pulls up to the curb. A serious faced Dr Brink sits behind the wheel with a grim-faced Helen next to him. Nic and George are in the back seat. The door opens and Nic gets out. He’s wearing a smart, black pinstripe suit and a white shirt, looking like the lawyer he said he’d been in his previous life, but he’s lost weight. I flinch as I look at his eyes; they’re red raw with pain. He waits for George to exit and then makes his way into the stone church with hunched shoulders. George follows behind with shuffled steps, looking as miserable as I remember him. I hardly had anything to do with him so why is he even here? No sign of pink bitch Hattie or the Aryan Wolf, but no surprise there – they’re the last people I want to be here. I’m surprised at the pain on Nic’s face. Perhaps I’ve misjudged him? He’s a good-looking guy and a probably a player, but maybe he wasn’t stalking me and genuinely cared for me? He looks even worse than Karlos.